Disclaimer: If I owned Harry Potter . . . I wouldn't have done nearly as brilliant of a job. JK Rowling is my queen. 3

A/N: OK, guys – you see that genre category up there on the top? See how it says parody? This is just my way of reacting to the JK Rowling bombshell/subsequent Internet explosion that happened last weekend. It is not meant to be taken seriously and I don't want anyone biting my head off for writing this.

Hope you enjoy!

Allons-y!

. . .

The Brightest Witch of Her Age

Hermione Granger had long been called the brightest witch of her age but she never could have predicted how beneficial her arrangement with Rita Skeeter would grow to be. Divination had never been her best subject.

Those first articles were a joke, something to laugh at over her morning pumpkin juice. Let them speculate on the objects of her affection – who she was meeting for romantic rendezvouses, who she was cheating on, who was the true love of her fourteen-year-old life. (They had only gotten one right so far. She wondered how long it would take for someone to discover the photos in Colin Creevey's dresser drawer.) As long as it distracted the student body from her true intentions Rita could go on as long as she wanted. Hell, she would give them a list of her conquests if it meant that her nightly ventures went unquestioned, only mentioned in a giggly whisper in a corner of the library or the girls' lavatory, swearing that they saw her swapping saliva with Viktor/Harry/Ron/any other number of shadowy male figures (it was too dark to see properly but I know it was Dumbledore).

Of course, she had to play the Goody Two-Shoes when her 'friends' got involved; she had a reputation to live up to, after all. She played it well and, when she blackmailed a member of the press (Rita's little secret a boon she never expected to come across), no one suspected she had any but the best of intentions.

Rita challenged her, of course she did; Hermione would have expected nothing less of a woman who profited off the shameful secrets of others. It didn't end well. Hermione's secrets were buried too deeply, too thoroughly, under a mask of bushy brown hair and buck-teeth and a bagful of books, to ever be entirely unearthed. And to be believed – the very idea was laughable! If the worst name they could come up with was scarlet woman, then Hermione wasn't at all worried.

After that, Rita only came out to play when Hermione wanted her to. To plant articles in the Prophet under numerous pseudonyms about the Boy-Who-Lived's deteriorating mental state. To interview Harry for the Quibbler when she needed to reel him in again, looking like good old reliable Hermione all the while. To write the novel about Dumbledore – sated by all the skeletons she got to pull out of that closet – and spur Harry onward in his quest for Hallows, not Horcruxes.

Every article was sent to Hermione before publication, a rough first draft upon which she would scribble notations, dotting the parchment with ink in her fervor. No one peeked; the few times Harry or Ron had asked what she was doing, she would babble about Arithmancy or History of Magic or extra credit and they would back off, hands raised as if to ward off her academic attack. These were always close calls, when all they would have to do was look down: see that she never wrote in emerald-green ink, never signed her name Rita. Still, people believed what they wanted to believe and Hermione supposed it was easier to hold her in their minds as that same eleven-year-old girl – it's Leviosa not Leviosa – her worst transgression a late-night kiss with Viktor Krum, than anything more nefarious.

Hermione ensured Rita survived the war. Her hold was unbreakable. How could Rita possibly speak out now, when she had been transformed from dedicated student to heroine of the Second War, honored with a first class Order of Merlin?

The articles were fluffier things this time around, more for Hermione's amusement than for any underlying agenda. They spoke of what she wore to Ministry of Magic events on the arm of long-term boyfriend (and soon-to-be fiance? the tabloids, headed by Rita, demanded) Ronald Weasley. They gushed over the proposal (a goblin-crafted setting, been in the family for centuries!). There was an entire issue of Witch Weekly dedicated to their wedding (only a month after that of fellow war heroes Harry Potter and Ginny Weasley – this lot certainly doesn't waste any time) and Hermione smiled shyly in her custom-made wedding gown, declaring to the assembled reporters – Rita among them, sucking on her quill with an exceedingly sour expression – that this was the "happiest day of my life." Hanging on her new husband's arm, she smiled radiantly into the cameras, unable to resist a quick, coy (and was that regret? Did the new Mrs. Weasley choose wrong?) glance in Harry's direction. Just for old time's sake. Just to see if they would run for it or if she would have to put Rita on the scent first.

It was a fun game to play. To see the concern in Ron's expression as he read the glaring headlines on the magazines she brought home, leaving them tossed carelessly across the coffee table for just such a purpose, and to see it leave his eyes – at least momentarily, always momentarily – as she consoled him that "it was only you, Ron, only ever you, for Merlin's sake, he's like a brother to me." To see the shy, surreptitious glances Harry would shoot her way and she looked up at him through her lashes – their locked gaze holding the memories of those nights spent in the tent, just the two of them, when he would crawl into bed next to her (ostensibly to share body warmth but his true reason pressed insistently against her thigh) and make the heartache of losing Ron "just a little bit easier" – always blushing becomingly when Ginny clamped a hand possessively around his arm.

But these adolescent games grew boring and, by the time the honeymoon period had passed, Hermione had set her priorities straight again. She was not the brightest witch of her age for nothing.

Poor Rita, still clutching at that last shred of hope, asked timidly – or as timid as one could ever be with magenta robes and horn-rimmed glasses – if she planned to end their arrangement. After all, said Rita, an air of desperation about her, the war was over, she was married with the most famed witches and wizards in Britain wrapped around her little finger, she was rising rapidly in the Ministry's ranks and already people were whispering, whispering about her becoming the next Minister of Magic. Did she really needanything else to cement her reputation as Little Miss Perfect?

Hermione only laughed. On the contrary, she needed Rita more than ever if she was to succeed in her goals. Just like that fourteen-year-old who had read of Harry Potter's Secret Heartache and Viktor Krum's incredible infatuation with tears in her eyes – not of misery but of mirth, for the excuses they offered for her late-night excursions – she now had the power to orchestrate what filled those same ridiculous rags.

The clandestine play-dates she brought Rose on with little Scorpius Malfoy were not, as Rita suggested a turn to the dark side of the sheets – at least not more than few times, but Astoria had been frigid for years and what else could Draco be expected to do? - but a chance to arrange still-more-clandestine interviews with little Scorpius's grandparents, still reeling from the Second War and eager to do anything that would put them back on top again.

The troupe of house-elves she hired – with fair wages and vacation time despite her husband's protestations – was not a move to garner attention in her bid for the top spot in Magical Law Enforcement but an opportunity to ally these cunning creatures to her side. Dobby and Kreacher may originally have united the troops under Harry but they and their compatriots were long-since dead. The therapist's office she and Ron were spotted leaving a few months after Hugo's birth was not a last-ditch attempt to save their failing marriage – or was it past the point of no return, had Mrs. Weasley-nee-Granger's extramarital affairs grown too blatant to be overlooked? (Hermione was proud of that line had added it on if only to see Ron's reaction the next morning, freckles standing out starkly against his whey-colored face.) Hermione could care less about the weekly hour spent in that stuffy study, talking about spicing up their sex life and "falling in love all over again" - and while Ron nodded dumbly along, Hermione had to stifle her laughs with a cough – but if the tabloids were so busy worrying about the fall of Romione it meant they didn't have time to worry about Hermione in the singular. It meant no one questioned when she left Ron in a huff after those weekly sessions (the stress of a loving marriage falling apart before her eyes), meant everyone whispered and giggled behind their hands, children again, when she was seen entering a rundown tenement (going to meet her new lover – wonder how long this one will last?), meant everyone thought they knew what was going on when they branded her as the scarlet woman again.

Ron still wanted to make it work, still thought they could make it work – as if he'd had a snowball's chance in hell. Snorting derisively, Hermione fished the crumpled paper from the trash bin – where Ron had thrown it before storming out – eyes traveling over the blaring headline, complete with that wedding photo: Hermione beaming broadly, dressed in pure white, Harry barely able to meet her gaze.

Should Hermione Have Wed Harry Instead?

Maybe she should have. Maybe she would still. Sister, her arse. He remembered those nights in the tent as well as she did, knew he would do anything to bring those days back. He dwelt on the past, he and Ron both, hoping that if they just remembered enough (those good old days when they were all best buddies and stopping Voldemort's evil master-plan was an annual event), it would make their present better, would lend less uncertainty to their future because they were the Chosen One and Weasley Was Their King. And Hermione?

She was the Brightest Witch of Her Age.

The front door swung open, footsteps padded into the hall – maybe Ron, returning to grab his bags and run away to Mummy, maybe Harry, come to comfort his sister-in-law and make the heartache of losing Ron just a bit easier again – and Hermione went to greet the newcomer.

The paper dropped from her hand.

The man stood in the center of the hall. He held himself regally, a bearing only emphasized by his billowing black robe and chiseled features. His red eyes flashed as he caught sight of Hermione and his slit-like nostrils flared.

Hermione was frozen to the floor, unable to move, as the man glided toward her.

"Voldemort," she whispered and shuddered when he reached up to caress her face.

"My love," said the Dark Lord, and he captured her lips in a kiss.

. . .

Moral of the Story: Don't worry about who Hermione ended up with, whether it's Ron, Harry, Draco, or Colin Creevey. Respect others' opinions and just be happy she's not plotting with Voldemort to overthrow the wizarding world.