Disclaimer I own nothing that you recognize. It is all JK Rowling's and from the musical Chicago, specifically "Cell Block Tango". The line "I bet you would have done the same!" is also from the song "Cell Block Tango". No copyright infringement is intended. Author's Note OMG I'm done with a WIP! Admittedly, an easy one to finish, but still. Whoot! The chapter title is the "name" of the sixth and final girl in the song "Cell Block Tango". Here's our last girl, Miss Astoria Malfoy! As told to Rita Skeeter.
I bet you would have done the same!
Oh, it's you. I was told you would come, though I'm hardly surprised at the state you're in. Did you really think it would be a walk in the park, interviewing murderess after murderess in this damned Azkaban prison? Course not. But you're that Skeeter woman, so you do whatever you want and don't care how it hurts other people.
But let me tell you something, honey. You won't be blowing smoke with this article. If you do - hah! if you do - I can have my father cut you from the Prophet for good. And that would never end well, darling, because the Prophet is your life. Apart from that book of yours. What was it called? Doesn't matter.
Ah, I suppose you want to know how I killed Draco Malfoy, then, isn't it? My dear, dear husband. Did he ever go around the block! Well, I fell for him, although it was originally an arranged marriage. Pity, because it really could have worked out a lot better had it had any ... romance. But that's exactly what lacks in the Malfoy family. Romance. They're skittish and nervous folk, the kind that waffles between decisions, that doesn't know right from wrong and left from right. It's maddening.
But, it seemed, Draco didn't much waffle about his dislike for me. Oh, he came home every night, like a good husband should, but it was his actions during the day that bothered me. Because, you see, Mrs. Skeeter, he always found himself a pretty temp or assistant, and, let's say ... screwed her? Oh, I'm not one for harsh words, Mrs. Skeeter, but it came to light fairly quickly. I'm a lot keener than I look. Do you really believe I didn't notice the strands of blonde, brunette, redhead hair that littered his jackets? The faint smudges of too-bright lipstick on his neck? His rumpled chemise, his tie so hastily redone?
No, I saw it all. And I had known of late, of course, that Ginny Weasley and Fleur Weasley both murdered their husbands because of infidelities. That's where my idea stemmed. Your own paper, imagine, Mrs. Skeeter, rather than eradicating sin, is sowing its seed into young women's brain.
So he came home one night, as usual, this time with black hair and pink (pink!) lipstick on his nape. I didn't say anything, I simply smiled, and served him dinner.
"So," I asked him, "what are their names?"
He looked shocked at first, the poor boy, but at my gaze saw that all efforts were futile. I smiled - it unsettled him. And I learned fairly rapidly. Diana. Vera. Ariela. Miriam. Laura. Five girls. I kept smiling.
And, well, what can I say, Mrs. Skeeter? The papers all told the truth. That night, he fell asleep in my bed. And I conjured up a shotgun and put a bullet through his clean marble head. Mrs. Skeeter, there is something you must see. I killed him, but I am not a criminal.
I'll even go so far as to bet you would have done the exact same thing, Mrs. Skeeter. Who knows? Perhaps you already have.