Introducing Viola

Viola Roosevelt was sitting on a high wooden stool in Diagon Alley. She was in one of the studios above the record store in Diagon Alley working on the finishing touches for her upcoming british single. Of course Viola had already released in the single in France, in fact she'd release an entire album that had been certified four times platinum but she was yet to become a household name in wizarding Britain.

The songstress had arrived in Britain four months ago and now was finally the time to start promoting herself and her music. She'd pretty much translated most of the songs into English so the rest of the work was down to her managers organising events, public appearances, publicity stunts, converting the music to vinyl so it could be sold in the record shop downstairs and in wizarding villages across the country. Viola would need to appear on the WWN station, perhaps sing an acoustic cover of her song before performing gigs across the country. However, before all of that she had an interview with a member of the Daily Prophet.

'Viola, it's time.' Her managed said, poking his head into the studio room. Knowing it was her queue to leave Viola, along with a bottle of water, left the studio and went across the corridor to a small conference room. 'Remember what we talked abo-'

'Yes!' Viola breathed to her manager. The two didn't get on, which perhaps, ironically, made them the perfect team. He was a good manager, he'd worked with artists all around the world, had even once managed The Weird Sisters for a time, and knew exactly what needed to be done to sell music and make the label company. Of course that came at a price. Viola didn't exactly agree with everything he told her, she didn't feel the need to hide her blood status or how she felt about the politic situation she'd walked into upon arriving to England, but nonetheless she couldn't deny her manager was right. If people knew she was muggle born then it could turn pure bloods away. If people knew she didn't agree with the marriage law it could cause a stir and cast a shadow on her music.

Viola didn't mind too much, she had other ways of expressing her feelings: The Order Of The Phoenix. A secret society that she'd heard about and joined a month or so after being in Britain. That was her biggest secret, even Rodolphe (her manager), wasn't aware.

'Bonjour!' Viola greeted cheerfully pushing open the door to a small conference room and making her way towards the man from the daily prophet extending a hand for him to shake.

There would come a time when some of the hard-hitting journalism that passed through the newsroom would cross the desk of Stewart Brian Harding first. Until that day, however, he was confined to introducing artists he was painfully jealous of and loathed as a result and the musicians who relied upon him heavily as, in order to make it in Wizarding Britain, they had to receive a glowing review or an interview with a positive stance from him: from the most wildly read and the most corrupted newspaper in the whole of the country. Stewart loved his job. It was through ruining the chances of budding young acts by letting his Quick Quotes quill take notes out of context that Stewart channelled his mother’s contribution to his gene pool: the evil bit.

It was an unpleasant Tuesday morning. An all-nighter in the office trying to make deadlines meant that, not for the first time, Stewart woke up face down in the copy of the newspaper and a sandwich, the former of which had gone out that morning, the latter having not even made it to his stomach. When his editor loomed over him, Stewart woke with a start in true comedic fashion and blinked himself into life, looking around, wondering whether he was alive and why he wasn’t in his apartment, where his cat was and why, crucially, his desk plant looked miserable. Then, when he finally lifted his head up to look at his editor he got an iPod thrown at him, earphones flying everywhere, and a sticky-note smoothed onto his forehead.

“Don’t be late,” he warned before sidling off, his bright purple robes swishing out behind him.

Home was the best place to go. Once in, after feeding Caravaggio the cat, Stewart showered. He dressed, donning a new suit for the day and after straightening his tie he poured out some cereal, scoffing it down as quickly as possible while staring at his portrait replica of Henry III of France which was very, very nearly finished. It irked him that he could have completed the piece, packed it up and gotten it out of his flat the night before but, nevertheless, it was a job for the evening ahead if he managed to get everything out on time and right, for once. Stewart didn’t know what was going to come first: him quitting or them sacking him. He hoped it was the former – for the sake of the satisfaction factor.

So, once Stewart was washed, dressed and fed he let out Caravaggio and, himself, departed, managing to remember his camera bag and his box of Quick Quotes quills. Then, he had to negotiate the trains and he managed to get up to Leicester Square in good time. Through the Leaky Cauldron he breezed and then back into Diagon Alley. He popped briefly into Sparks for a hot cup of coffee before stepping into Fleurish and then it was up to the record store where, already there were reporters from all over the show buzzing around as though they had some purpose in being there. Stewart, the only one supposed to be there, was let in through a side door and then it was the waiting game in a room with a table of brioches. He’d wait all day. Well, not quite.

The tube journeys had given him plenty of time to listen to some of this woman’s songs. Stewart wasn’t entirely sure what he thought but it wasn’t up to him this time. It was about public relations this interview – the sticky-note had laid it all out for him. He had to give a good swing on things – even if he didn’t like her or she didn’t like him. Apparently it was in the interest of the Prophet if she did well in the British charts. In Stewart’s opinion it needed some work but, hey, they didn’t pay him for his opinion – not his real one, anyway.

Three brioches later and a quick perusal of the morning Prophet, Stewart had finished his coffee and in through the door walked the woman herself whose songs were still roaming around his head. Unhelpful, he decided, but at least he could forge a genuine interest in the woman’s music. He had never been a fan of pop, really. He was more of a country kind of guy with a bit of blues mixed in. Not to mention classic Italian songs. He’d become quite the connoisseur of those out-of-tune guitar ditties. This woman was different. She was a professional, she was looking for her big English break and she was… well, pretty hot, too.

“Enchanté,” he expressed genuinely, turning her hand over after shaking it and pressing his lips to his knuckles. He released her hand after a moment and out from behind his back, having grabbed it off of the table upon rising when the door opened, he produced a bouquet of deep, red roses that had a few pink ones streaked through the grouping. Even if he was a bit of an insatiable flirt, he believed in good first impressions.

“Welcome to this rainy little island,” he declared with a chuckle after handing over the bouquet. “Let us all pray you brought the continental sunshine with you, hm? I’m Stewart Harding.”

Viola was used to receiving gifts from avid fans, whether it be flowers, photos, letters or even items that she mentioned liking during an interview. Last year Viola had received a giant box of gobstones when she mentioned that she 'once played a game at school.' Her French fans were hardcore and the woman found it rather refreshing not being as well known in Britain, but clearly she had been misled unless of course the reporter was simply looking for some brownie points. Depending on how well the article was depended on how well she'd treat him.

'There's nothing more attractive than a British man attempting french.' Viola replied, her tone charismatic, whilst taking the roses and giving them and holding them beneath her nose. 'Although you really shouldn't have gotten me anything, Stewart.'

That was one thing Viola aimed to do. Address people by her name. It wasn't something her managers had pushed on her to get into the habit of doing, she felt it was common curtsy. Throughout her time in the music world she'd met fans, many fans, who were under the impression she was a Goddess, an unreachable idol. Viola on the other hand thought different. The witch was no different to them apart from she made music, but was that really enough a reason to be treated anymore worthy? Not in Miss Roosevelt's eyes.

Placing the roses down on a coffee table Viola returned her attention to Stewart. He did have a point, the weather was awful. Not that France was much better, in fact she'd spent a huge bulk of her past years in paris rather than the southern town on Narbonne where she'd spent her teenage years.

'I wouldn't bet on anything. I've been here four months nearly and there's been no sunshine. I'm Viola.' She added with an awkward wave before sitting herself down in one of the armchairs and crossing one leg over the other. Had Stewart not been there then Viola would have probably swung her legs over one of the arms but this was business not the time to chill out.

'Feel free to sit down.'

A charming smile littered its way across Stewart’s face as he digested what was not, he was sure, intended to be a slight but settled in his gut the way those little pokes often did. She was pleasant, that he had to remember, and he also had to recall the fact that with a name as pleasantly British as his it meant that, well, he was. Still, he wanted to gripe that he wasn’t British – that he wanted to be in the country a lot less than she did – but he remained quiet, letting it wash within him like a restless tide. He was British, technically. Dio mio.

“I can do Russian, too,” he assured her, “I’m not a one-trick-pony.” He chuckled, showing he meant no harm by it. He watched her as she took in the flowers, assuming she liked them and he shrugged a shoulder, the cynical part of him quipping in the back of his mind that Italians always made sure that they impressed ladies. The British, by comparison, were much more careless. He smiled again, taking a seat as directed before glancing over at his Quick Quotes quill which was poised, waiting, doodling while it did so at the top of the parchment its feather held.

“It’s just good manners,” he promised, reaching with a flick of his wand to the coffee pot which poured out a fresh cup. He set his wand down and lifted the cup to his lips briefly before setting it against his leg, revelling quietly in the warmth of it. The day was bitter, despite the month.

“So,” Stewart began, hearing the faint scribbles of the quill begin. “Here we are in Diagon Alley on a vaguely pleasant morning, talking about the new single, are we? But for the sake of our British readers here, can you tell me a bit about how you came to this – this being the music career, of course. Then we’ll go from there, shall we? Is that alright?”

The new single. That was why she was here, to talk about her new single and promote it's release but really Viola was almost an alien to the british public. Sure a few people may have heard of her songs, especially any international wizards or those with french connections but the majority of people were going to be surprised, pleasantly surprised Viola hoped, when she erupted into the spotlight.

Viola thought for a moment about her answer. There wasn't really much to say besides the fact that she had a love and gift for music, it was what she wanted to do. The thing the witch never truly understood was why her managers and other professionals insisted on having a backstory into what she did, it was just a job after all. Her dream job, but nonetheless, a job like any other. Although that isn't what people wanted to hear for they could hear it from their neighbors. Music artists needed to stand out, make people understand and relate to them in some way.

'Music isn't something I knew I always wanted to do like for some artists.' Viola began honestly, receiving a narrowing leer from her manager who was somewhere behind Stewart. 'But I always loved music.' Great. This was going absolutely fantastic. Here she was supposed to be making an incredible first impression and she went with the slump answer. Perhaps it was better just to speak from her heart.

'When I was eight years old we moved from England to France to live with my Grandma, she wasn't very well.' Viola began, starting to get lost in her own thoughts. 'She was frail and losing her mind but the one thing she could do was play the piano. She'd sit there and play. It was fascinating to watch her, to listen and feel what she was feeling when played. She was the one who taught me how to play. Then, whilst at Beauxbatons I joined the choir, began writing my own music and knew when I was sixteen after graduating that's all I wanted to do: To write my own music and share it with the world and now...' Viola paused, her eyes quiet bright and a smile on her face, 'And now I get to do that.'

In the corner of her eyes she could see her manager give a nod, not that she cared she'd gave her answer. Viola didn't know if that was why she entered a career in music, it's the reason the label came up with, it was true but whether it was that that had encouraged a music career in Viola she wasn't too sure.

Viola simply loved music. It was a way of expressing herself, looking at the world in different ways, understanding what was going on in her life. Music allowed her to be creative and fun and it was a hobby the witch had managed to transform into a career. Surely anybody who had the opportunity to make a living from what was once a hobby wouldn't shy away from that?

The Quick Quotes Quill scribbled down the answers eagerly and Stewart watched it carefully, paying attention to the parchment as the short hand account of Violet’s dialogue appeared. Swallowing a mouthful of coffee, Stewart nodded, listening to her wonderfully sincere reason for entering the music business. Stewart nodded again once she finished and he looked up, his dark gaze catching the glance between musician and manager. He felt his lips quirk into a slow smirk and he sat up a little, casting his hand in the direction of the quill which again furiously began to scribble at the parchment.

“And blessed we are for it,” Stewart enthused brightly, professional as ever. He tore up another brioche, popping a piece into his mouth and chewed at it briefly before swallowing and washing it down with another mouthful of coffee.  

“So,” Stewart began again, looping one leg over the other. “We can safely say your grandmother was your biggest influence, eh? Moving on from that, tell me about this single. What’s different about this one and what is going to make you the newest, hottest thing on the British market?”

Stewart would never be notorious for asking the big questions, he doubted. As the quill began to move again he, not for the first time, considered delving into the criminal underworld a little more fully. He loathed this job and everything associated with it. If he had his way he’d stay in bed with whoever he was with at the time forever, only rising to replace wine in their glasses and food on their plates. Unfortunately though, a real life beckoned and so he found himself here, asking inane questions.

“Also, can we look forward to a bit of a summer romance at all, do you reckon? Now that the Quidditch season is over, it’d be a prime opportunity to nab one of our national treasures. And, no doubt, a reason to stay here in Britain as well as good muse for song writing – you write your own, don’t you?”

The inspiration. The single. These questions were exactly the same ones that she'd had over in France a dozen times. No doubt she'd be answering them for witch weekly later in he week. None the less Viola smiled and delved right into regurgitating the answer she knew like the back of her hand.

'The new single's called Amortentia. It's pretty much what it say's on the bottle. It's about falling love, feeling as though you're under a spell, completely infatuated by someone. Although, mixed in with the theme of love the song has a dark, alluring quality as though you're begging to be bound by lust, it's something that you're craving.'

How was she going to impact the British market. That was a question she hadn't answered before. She'd answered it for Spain, Italy, Switzerland, Germany but Britain? This was an entirely new playing field and as ever Quidditch player knows a different field a different game.

Her eyes gazed upwards for a moment, a smile curling at the ends of her lips whilst she thought about her answer.

'Right now, in the British market, everybody is rather similar. You've got your group of bubblegum pop artists and you're very rock and roll like the Weird Sisters.' She paused, looking at Stewart. 'I'd say I'm somewhere in between. I've got the pop with a bit of alternative edge. Something fresh that the British market hasn't seen before.'

Viola could only hope that she answered it well. How else was she supposed to answer it besides saying she is unique and why it is she is unique. She wasn't a seer, the songstress didn't know how the audience would interpret her music, whether it is something they wanted - her label claimed they did need her, but then the label wanted money and Viola was their money maker.

Viola laughed, waving a hand at Stewart. 'I haven't got time for a summer romance although between you and me-' the witch leaned in, '-I wouldn't say no to a Quidditch player, you have a few hotties in this country.'

Taking a sip of water the next question was fired at her. A question she always loved to answer. Hopefully it was this question that would sway the British public, make them stop to take a listen to her music.

'I write all my own songs. I've co-wrote a few on the album, which is always fun to have other people's input to make them the best they can be. Whilst working on my own stuff I've wrote songs for other people. A few years back when I was first starting out in France I co-wrote 'I bet you fly well on a firebolt' with Merton Graves, which I'm sure you'll probably have heard.' Viola referenced, not feeling the need to mention that it was the lead single from The Weird Sister's latest album.

'I've also got plans to write with Colin Cornell.' Viola could already sense the excitement radiating from her manager for name dropping the biggest British pop star topping the charts the past few years.