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Hogwarts. Corridors.
The stone corridors of the castle were cold and drafty. Professor Snape walked with his usual billowing stride, his black cape snapping behind him like the wings of a giant bat. Hermione followed at a leisurely pace, looking more like a tourist than a student about to face an inquisition.
"Why is the Daily Prophet suddenly interviewing me?" Hermione asked, skipping a step to avoid a trick stair. "I thought the Ministry was trying to suppress news about me."
Snape didn't stop walking, nor did he look back. His voice was a low, silky drawl that echoed off the damp walls.
"You single-handedly dismantled the Auror office's defenses and threatened the Minister for Magic, Miss Granger," Snape sneered. "I hope you have a realistic grasp of your current reputation. You are not just a student; you are a political incident."
He turned his head slightly, his black eyes glinting. "When one chooses to become a celebrity, one must be prepared to be feasted upon by flies. And Rita Skeeter is the largest, most persistent bluebottle of them all."
Hermione smirked. "I brought a swatter."
As they approached the small classroom designated for the interview, the sound of an argument drifted into the hallway. It wasn't a duel of spells, but a duel of words. One voice was shrill and excited; the other was desperate and cracking with puberty.
Hermione tiptoed to the half-open door and peered inside.
A woman with elaborate blonde curls, jeweled spectacles, and a set of robes that were a violent shade of acid green sat perched on a chair like a large, poisonous insect. Her smile was wide, revealing too many teeth, and it didn't reach her eyes.
Harry Potter sat opposite her. The Boy Who Lived looked like he wanted to Die right now. His face was beet red, and he was practically vibrating with indignation.
Floating between them was a long, acid-green quill, dancing maniacally over a roll of parchment.
"Oh, don't be nervous, Mr. Potter," Rita Skeeter cooed, her voice dripping with false syrup. "We're just having a casual chat... girl talk, really. But the public is curious. Several witnesses saw you and young Mr. Malfoy meeting secretly in the Hogsmeade grove. Just the two of you. Alone. In the snow."
She leaned forward, her eyes hungry. "Can you tell us about that... tension? That secret relationship? Is it love across the barricades? A Romeo and Romeo story?"
Harry jumped up, knocking his chair over. "NO! It was a coincidence! We hate each other! I was just thanking him for saving me in Quidditch! He caught my Snitch!"
The Quick-Quotes Quill didn't pause. It scribbled furiously, the scratching sound loud in the tense room.
Rita's smile deepened. She glanced at the parchment with satisfaction.
"Beautiful," she murmured to the quill. "At the mere mention of Draco Malfoy's name, Harry Potter's cheeks flushed with a lover's passion. With tears in his eyes, he confessed that his heart beats only for the Slytherin Prince, and he is willing to sacrifice his reputation to repay Draco's 'saving grasp'..."
"THAT'S A LIE!" Harry roared. "I DIDN'T SAY THAT!"
He couldn't take it anymore. Harry stormed toward the door, shoving past Snape. He froze when he saw Hermione.
"Hermione!" Harry gasped, pointing a shaking finger back into the room. "That woman! Did you hear that?! She's writing complete nonsense! She's turning me into... into..."
He was too angry—and embarrassed—to finish the sentence.
Hermione looked at Harry's flustered state, then at the smirk on Snape's face. She patted Harry's shoulder calmly.
"Don't worry, Harry. Britain has its own national circumstances. Love is free."
"I'M NOT IN LOVE WITH MALFOY!" Harry screamed as he ran down the corridor.
Hermione shook her head. "Methinks the lady doth protest too much."
She pushed the door open and stepped inside.
The Lion's Den.
Upon seeing Hermione, Rita Skeeter immediately stood up. Her expression shifted from "predatory gossip" to "enthusiastic vulture."
"Miss Granger!" Rita exclaimed, extending a hand with long, red-painted nails. "I've heard so much about you! The 'Witch of New York,' isn't it? I'm Rita Skeeter, Daily Prophet. It is a profound honor to have this exclusive."
Her voice was sharp, deliberately piercing, designed to put people on edge.
Hermione shook the hand, noting the grip was surprisingly strong. She knew exactly who this woman was: an unregistered Animagus (beetle) who made a living destroying lives for galleons.
However, Hermione didn't care. She found it quaint. After dealing with Hydra spies and alien warlords, a muckraking journalist was just... entertainment.
"Hello, Ms. Skeeter," Hermione smiled back—a sweet, innocent, 'Hogwarts Student' smile. "The honor is mine."
Rita ushered her into the chair Harry had just vacated. She sat down, crossing her legs, and the Quick-Quotes Quill hovered eagerly over a fresh roll of parchment.
"Well then, Miss Granger."
Rita adjusted her glasses, the jewels flashing. "Let's get right to it. Regarding your... astonishing actions at the Ministry of Magic a few days ago. Breaking and entering? Assaulting Aurors?"
She leaned in. "Many people are curious about your mindset. Did you feel that the Ministry's dusty old regulations were restricting the freedom of a 'genius' like you? Do you feel you are above the law?"
The trap was obvious. If Hermione denied it, she looked defensive. If she agreed, she looked arrogant.
Hermione tilted her head, tapping her chin as if deep in thought.
"Yeah..." she said casually. "I was a little angry at the time. They were being rude."
Scritch-scratch-scritch.
The quill moved at lightspeed.
Rita's eyes lit up. "Angry?" she pressed. "Is it because Minister Fudge doesn't believe your prophecy? You seem very confident in your judgment. Confident enough to declare war on the government?"
Hermione looked at her with wide, honest eyes.
"Pretty much. I think what I said is true. But they wouldn't listen. So, I had no choice but to make them 'listen.' Sometimes you have to break a few walls to make an omelet."
The quill wrote furiously:
[SHOCKING! Teenage Tyrant Confesses! A Hogwarts witch admits to unchecked arrogance, viewing the Ministry as an obstacle to her desires! "I make them listen," claims the violent prodigy...]
Rita glanced at the text, practically drooling. This was gold. She looked at Hermione with barely perceptible contempt. Just another arrogant child with too much power, she thought. Easy pickings.
She continued to throw out questions, digging for dirt.
"I heard you predicted the return of You-Know-Who? That's quite a sensational piece of news to spread. Where did you get this information? Or is it just a... guess? A plea for attention from a girl who feels overshadowed by Harry Potter?"
Hermione blinked. "I've only seen glimpses of the future. I felt it was necessary to remind everyone. Safety first."
The quill twitched:
[Claiming to be a "Prophet" or a Fraud? Miss Granger hints at mysterious powers, but sources suggest it is a desperate cry for attention...]
Rita's smile grew wider. This was too easy. Hermione Granger was walking right into every pitfall. The girl was powerful, yes, but politically naive.
With that confidence, Rita decided to stop testing the waters. It was time for the kill shot.
She leaned forward, her expression turning grave and conspiratorial.
"Miss Granger," Rita lowered her voice. "Before being imprisoned, Senior Undersecretary Dolores Umbridge publicly made an accusation..."
She dragged out the words, watching Hermione's pupils for fear.
"She accused you of colluding with You-Know-Who. Of being a Dark Witch working for the Dark Lord. What is your response to this?"
Rita watched intently. She expected panic. She expected an angry denial. She expected the girl to crack.
Outside the door, Harry (who had crept back) and Ron held their breath.
"Oh no," Ron whispered. "Hermione walked right into it. Skeeter is going to ruin her."
Only Snape, leaning against the wall, looked bored. He knew something the boys didn't.
Granger doesn't get cornered, Snape thought. She waits.
As expected, Hermione didn't panic. There was no anger on her face. There was no fear.
Instead, she leaned back in her chair, getting comfortable. A slow, chilling smile played on her lips—a smile that didn't reach her eyes. The air in the room suddenly felt heavier, colder.
"Collusion?"
Hermione repeated the word, rolling it around her mouth like a fine wine. Her voice dropped an octave, losing its innocent lilt.
"Ms. Skeeter," Hermione said softly, locking eyes with the reporter. "Your imagination is sometimes... pitifully limited."
She leaned forward, and for a split second, Rita felt like she was the one being interviewed. She felt like prey.
"Colluding with him?" Hermione laughed, a dark, melodic sound. "Working for him?"
"Why would I collude with a subordinate?"