Disclaimer: I do not own any of the Harry Potter series or any of its characters or plot.

AN:Yeah, I should really get back to my WiP... you know, I almost felt sorry for Rita - almost... I just barely proofread this before putting it up, by the way, so tell me if there are any grammar errors...

Vitriol

The quill is not simply a sword. It is a double-edged blade.

Rita Skeeter woke to a rapping at her window.

Well, it wasn't simply a rapping, really, or at least not just a rapping. It was instead what seemed to be a stampede of thunderclaps and ruthlessly impatient squawks. In fact, it was a mercy that the windows weren't broken.

Rita blinked, pushing only slightly messy blonde hair out of her eyes, and sat up; it seemed she'd slept in. Then, she broke into a wide grin, staring at the truly impressive parliament of owls flocking by her house in the sun. She leapt out, ignoring her unmade bed for the moment, and slid the window open, allowing the owls to sweep in. Really, how could she even be annoyed at being woken up this early when her readers were only trying to express their gratitude? And even more incredible; she hadn't had as much positive feedback as from today's article in months—

She recoiled when she realized most of the letters were scarlet red, and couldn't hold back a shriek when an explosion of noise rocked the house. It was a thousand times worse than the rapping.

"—OOD LORD, I HAVE HAD IT WITH YOU MAKING UP THESE STORIES, AS THAT'S ALL THEY CLEARLY ARE—"

"—STER PADFOOT WISHES TO ADVISE YOU TO KEEP YOUR MOUTH SHUT AND YOUR QUILL DOWN BEFORE MR. PADFOOT DOES IT FOR Y—"

"—HAD QUITE ENOUGH OF YOUR DRIVEL—"

Rita screamed as her head board caught fire as the Howlers all burst at the same time. She scrambled for her wand.

"—AM HARRY POTTER'S HEAD OF HOUSE, AND I WILL STAND NO LONGER FOR YOUR BLASTED EXCUSE FOR LIT—"

"No! Aguamenti! Aguamenti!"

"—NOT EVEN WRITING, JUST DESTROYING THE LIVES OF PEOPLE WHO WANT SOME GODDAMN PEACE—"

"—NO RIGHT IN THE SLIGHTEST! GIVE THE POOR KID A BREAK—"

"—INGS I'VE HEARD, I THINK THE STUPIDEST IS THAT HARRY POTTER'S 'TOUCHED IN THE HEAD' OR WHATEVER YOU'RE—"

There was a whoosh of hot air as her desk caught fire as well, the owls dropping the rest of the letters and snapping out the window. Her parchments! Her articles!

"—EALLY HOPING YOU GET A LIFE SO YOU WON'T HAVE TO RUIN ANYONE ELSE'S—"

"AQUA ERUPTO!"

She breathed heavily as a torrent of water blasted out of her wand, swamping the desk and effectively drowning the Howlers and near flooding the floor. Her pending writings were soaked, but at least they weren't ash. She sat down shakily onto her bed. The owls had dropped more letters there, the ones that weren't Howlers, just plain letters, though that didn't mean they weren't hate mail with a curse thrown in them.

She swallowed. So Potter had quite a few steadfast followers, then. She could deal with that. It was part of the work of being a writer, a reporter: You got good feedback, fans, readers, but then you also got people who would buy copies of your work just to burn them.

She'd been having rather... wilder... reactions like this from the articles she'd written about Potter, actually. Not many had minded the first one, where she'd focused almost solely on him for the announcement of the great Triwizard Tournament, and not many had complained when she'd written about his 'secret heartache'—but she supposed his little fanclub hadn't liked it when she'd made it sound like he was insane or an attention-seeker or even a Dark wizard, or all three.

She scowled. It was true, anyway, mostly. She had seen Potter while she was in her spying form up at the Astronomy Tower, collapsing and shaking with both hands clutching his head... well, maybe she had done a bit of guesswork, but she wouldn't be surprised if her poor lovely little article was right after all!

Rita picked up the stacks of envelopes she had gotten in response to the article.

Now, all these were probably positive. She was glad some people had the sense not to be barbaric and send letters that screamed at you or tried to burn your house down. She'd bet her Quill these were all from her dear loyal readers, praising her for enlightening them about the truth of Harry Potter. Yes, that was more likely. Of course. Must be. She could just open them and bask in the metaphorical limelight of her fans right now.

But she glanced at her slightly blackened bed, and her ash-and-water-covered desk, and her now terribly slippery floor, and she decided with an uneasy grimace that maybe she would leave the letters for after breakfast, just for once.