Chapter Text
CAMERA BULBS EXPLODED into flashes of light, reflecting off the dark wood floors of the atrium. Their shoes squeaked against the ground with their frantic movements. Reporters and paparazzi alike fought with their shoulders to get closer to the Head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation, who was attempting to cover his impressively mustached face with that morning’s edition of The Daily Prophet (June 29th, 1997; MINISTRY SOURCES HINT AT MAJOR STAFFING CHANGES THIS WEEK).
Mona Foxglove, new hire at The Starlight Sentinel, shouted after him:
“Mr. Ganders — Mr. Ganders! Any comment on last week’s walkout at the trade summit? What is the plan to repair relations with the Ukrainian delegates?”
Behind her, her partner, Herschel, fired away on his camera. She squinted in an odd manner to block out the flashes in her periphery, but when Ganders gave her a quick glance, his eyes widened at the twisted look on her face. He ducked back behind his paper and continued walking, his aid by his side shouting for the crowd to move away with a scowl on his freckled features.
The third fireplace erupted with a brief spurt of orange and yellow flames, leaving a fresh layer of soot on the mantle above. The camera shuttering around her picked up at the simple sight of a single loafered foot emerging from the cloud of smoke. The sound was oddly akin to the flapping of a thousand wings.
Out stepped one adult wizard dressed in a nice, if worn, brown robe set that left the cuffs and collar of his white shirt showing underneath. His deep brown eyes swept the fast-ambushing crowd of photographers with a wary gleam, and the downward quirk of his mouth made one of the many scars on his cheek wiggle a bit. From certain angles, it almost worked as a dimple.
Yes, the reporters and the paparazzi rushed all at once, wholly abandoning the Head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation (though anyone still observing him would note his relief) and having no eyes — or camera lenses — for any of the other arrivals flanking either side of that particular fireplace. Mona was in the lead, dragging Herschel behind her with a tight grasp on his shirt.
(“Hurry, Herschel! Ow! You’re stepping on me, you stupid oaf!”)
There was nothing remarkably interesting about this arrival. She’d written about him when Dumbledore offered him tenure as the professor of Defense Against the Dark Arts at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. But that was four years ago. Scandal tended to be buried by scandal.
So, no, she wasn’t running at full speed in four-inch heels for a werewolf. That was so 1993.
He turned away from the crowd and extended a hand into the smoke. Behind her, Herschel’s camera lens extended so far that the whirring made her ear crick.
The werewolf was interesting because of his company.
A tan, slender hand, uncalloused despite years of Quidditch, finished with modest-length burgundy-painted nails. Then a single heel, short in height, pointed at the toe, and the hem of a floor-length gown in that same deep reddish shade.
The seventeen-year-old household name emerged from the fireplace with a light layer of soot on her shoulders. Her werewolf chaperone made quick work of dusting it away with his handkerchief before using the same cloth to clean the face of his watch. She turned to sneeze into her arm, eliciting another chorus of flashes and shutters. When she turned back around, she blinded the crowd back with her own dazzling, practiced smile. Perhaps she was feeling generous that evening, for she even threw in a wink and wave.
“Over here, Jasmine, over here!”
It could be easily argued that even if the attack that killed James Potter and Lilly Potter née Evans had not occurred, she still would have become the subject of media attention. She was indignantly confident, charming even when disorderly, and bolder than the daringly thin straps of her dress. She would have won the world’s affection one way or another.
“Jasmine! Any comment on the rumors you’re considering a Professional League career?”
“How do you respond to critics calling you ‘the Ministry’s favorite distraction,’ Ms. Potter?”
“Is it true — This way, Jasmine! Is it true you flew over the London Eye without clearance?”
If she heard the questions through the jumble of noise, she didn’t show it.
She had a face crafted for the cameras: a warm quality to tan skin that did not reflect back the flash, a strong jawline and haughty tilt to her chin, high cheekbones setting the heart-shape to her face, full lips that could form a persuasive pout, breathtaking beam, or sinister scowl, and devious green eyes that were perfectly expressive.
Long ago, she cut her wavy black tresses into messy layers and a sweeping fringe that covered her distinguishing scar. Still, no mask, hood, or costume could hide Potter from a watchful world. She was so heavily documented that even her silhouette was recognizable.
As Mona stepped closer, though, she could still see the end of that jagged, forking, lightning strike scar cutting across the arch of one thick brow, veering close to the girl’s eyelid.
If she was being truthful, she would have to admit that she did not care too much for Potter. The girl herself was alright, by all means, but as a concept: she didn’t care. What was left to report on there? The Girl Who Lived certainly made for a catchy headline, but seeing it over, and over, and over made for an even catchier headache.
Yes, she survived an attack by You-Know-Who as a baby, and, yes, in her six finished years at Hogwarts, she became the youngest Seeker on a house team, the youngest Triwizard Tournament champion, the one to finally defeat You-Know-Who in that graveyard, and the cheeky, quotable wildcard whose face was plastered on gossip columns and political op-eds alike.
But that was old news.
“Ms. Potter!” she called, just as the two began turning away to walk down the hall.
To her disbelief, Potter actually stopped in her tracks and looked over her shoulder with a strong, inquisitive brow quirked.
Mona cleared her throat. “Any truth to the rumor you refused the Ministry’s offer to be the Youth Ambassador for the second year in a row? Why turn it down?”
Potter’s grin took over her face slowly. A sneaky, mischievous smile that crinkled the bridge of her nose. She then gave the cameras one last wave before turning back around to strut away.
Mona had to remind herself that being on Potter-watch at The Starlight Sentinel, a paper made primarily for hotel lobbies and train stations, was still far, far better than writing hyperbolic clickbait for The Enchanted Ear. Perhaps her editor would let her stray away from puff pieces on who designed Potter’s latest gown, or what shenanigan Potter recently got into, and perhaps she could take a more creative angle on Potter’s position as the Ministry’s youthful would-be mascot.
If she did well enough, maybe her editor would even let her finally publish something real.