Panned
Notes: You guys rock! Thanks to the following for reviewing: SamarKanda, DArk 16EtErnIty z8, Annevader, smos, Lady Riddle-Black, Shan84, HMK, A. Deca, wingedmercury, moor, cocoartist, MeriLynelle, Kissable-Luxury, unknownkyitty, le-femme-cavalier, Chamilia Lutien Tinuviel, BananaDrama, Cellar, BeNeRe, Kissing Dementors, Anon, Irony, Mimo-Sene, BookishBrains, LittleHellCat, FiOnAFiO, and SAVAGEGRACEx.
Responses to unsigned reviews:
LittleHellCat: thanks!
Irony: thanks! Yes, Bad Romance will be updated soon. I had a burst of inspiration tonight and have made quite a bit of progress on it.
Anon: the final chapter of Lacrimosa is in the works, and it should be updated soon. Also, yes — I went to high school with a lot of those types, haha. Realizing that for herself will be a key point to Hermione's development, for sure — like you said, she doesn't realize it at the moment.
BananaDrama: thanks!
Disclaimer: the HP universe does not belong to me; I am just borrowing.
Lesson Two: Damning with Faint Praise
Exhausted by her own overpowering humiliation, Hermione had stumbled into her bed, ready and willing for the sweet oblivion of sleep to claim her. But alas she tossed and turned all night. She woke up repeatedly from jumbled nightmares involving trolls drowning in boxes of sugar; Voldemort's sensuous laughter echoing from all points surrounding her; and Viktor proposing — only, his head had been replaced by a toilet.
By the next morning, she was even more tired than she might have been had she never gone to bed at all. She was also admittedly a little bit afraid of her toilet. Hermione woke to Crookshanks pouncing on her loudly buzzing phone.
"Crookshanks, no," she groaned absently, and tumbled out of bed to rescue her phone. Crookshanks gave a disgusted hiss and sashayed off to terrorize her favorite shoes. Rubbing at her eyes blearily, Hermione grasped her phone and made her way to the kitchen, mechanically going through the motions of making coffee without paying attention as she flipped open her phone.
You have:
39 Missed Call(s)
92 Unread Msg(s)
"What the— oh, shit!" The coffeemaker began to hiss and spew its disapproval as Hermione belatedly realized the coffeepot was still in her sink, bearing a dozen rather wilted-looking red roses.
Viktor's proposal and the evidence of her own ignorance stared her in the face in shades of lurid, unnatural red with baby's breath mixed at appropriately artistic intervals. The feeling was like missing a step on your way up the stairs — again she desperately wondered how she could have possibly been blindsided by something that now seemed glaringly obvious. She had never been particularly skilled with human interaction — especially when it came to men — but this was just sad.
After she had stuck the roses in a large glass and the coffee was on its way to being made properly, Hermione confronted her phone with a sense of dread. Normally, her phone was likely to go days without so much as a single text message, unless Ginny was feeling particularly chatty. Ron was also a frequent culprit of derriere-dialing. To go from nothing to so many messages was a little bit intimidating.
Half of the missed calls were from Ginny, and at least two-thirds of the text messages were from her as well. The rest were a mixture of her parents, Harry, and a few of her other friends...notably, none of them were from Ron.
Have u seen the prophet? :O This was from Neville.
HERMIONE JEAN GRANGER YOU ARE NOT ALLOWED TO GET MARRIED! luv u sweetie! Make sure you floss twice a day! This, of course, was from her parents.
HERM! WTF IS GOING ON! This was a variant of Ginny's messages.
...Hermione, please return Ginny's calls, because she is getting on my nerves.
Poor Harry, Hermione thought with a snigger at that last text message. She supposed that they had seen the article that Voldemort had shown her before he had shut the door in her face. She came to the end of the texts; there was a single text from Viktor.
Do not read the prophet. was all it said.
"Handsome football superstar Viktor Krum's surprising fiancee," Ginny read aloud while stifling a smirk before a very sour Hermione clawed at the newspaper, ripping it in half in the process. "Hey, I was reading that!" Ginny whined. Hermione glowered at her.
"Glad you find this entertaining," she said acidly. Ginny's mouth twisted into a wry grin before she patted Hermione's hand condescendingly.
"Oh, come on Hermione. It's funny. Besides, I think in real life you're actually better-looking than Viktor anyway."
The two halves of the Daily Prophet fell to the surface of the table, split down the middle of a blown-up image of Hermione. It was a photograph that Hermione had had no idea had been taken; it was from the night before. In the photograph, she was clutching the box of sugar, eyes wide, hair wild, expression manic. The lighting was atrocious; it looked like she had a triple chin due to the way her hair was falling round her face, and her thighs looked nebulous.
Directly next to that picture was probably the best photograph of Viktor that Hermione had ever seen. It was one of him on the football field, mid-kick. Viktor had grown into his strong features and so he was certainly much handsomer than he had been when she had first met him, but he was still no Gilderoy Lockhart.
But on the field, everything changed. His wiry, vaguely duck-footed stature suddenly became elegant, athletic, and sleek, like a jaguar waiting to pounce. His sinewed muscles were pulling against his jersey and sweat was flicking off his face and catching the sunlight.
Hermione let out a loud groan and let her head fall onto the little table as she listened to Ginny point out all of the many ways in which the picture of her was horrible.
"Y-you're not actually marrying him, though, right?"
Hermione looked up; it was the first time Ron had spoken all afternoon. Harry and Ginny exchanged worried glances as Hermione felt her stomach dropping out at the look on Ron's face.
"Well..." she began slowly, "I'm...really not sure. I told him I'd think about it."
Ron turned puce.
"Right," he said immediately before clearing his throat. "Reasonable of you. No need to rush into things."
Part of her was surprised at how maturely Ron was handling this, and the other part felt a strange, weighty combination of pity and regret. That last bit was especially stupid — she and Ron had given it a fair chance; they were utterly wrong for each other — but all the same, sometimes she felt sort of like she had ruined something that might've been wonderful. That feeling was especially powerful now as Ron looked away, his blue eyes cast down to the floor of the coffee shop, his red hair falling over his forehead. Her heart had never really stopped tightening at the sight of him and, as they had been friends for so very long, she shared a connection with him that told her he was suffering in just the same way.
But if they couldn't be together, and they couldn't be apart, then what could they be?
"Also, just out of curiosity...where exactly was this taken, Hermione? That's a black Avada Kedavra seven point oh..." Harry was practically salivating at the background of her unfortunate photograph, and at the mention of the fine car, Ron abruptly forgot his melancholy and choked on his spit in shock.
"Avada Kedavra?" he sputtered, snatching it from Harry's grasp. Ginny rolled her eyes broadly, mouthing 'boys' to Hermione with a knowing nod. The lovely redhead's eyes narrowed shrewdly suddenly.
"And why do you look like you're screaming?" she asked, studying the photograph. "And what is that box of sugar?"
Hermione snorted.
"You've been dissecting the multitude of ways in which that is the worst picture of me for the last hour and those are the last things you notice?"
Ginny shrugged.
"There are so many bad pictures of you looking psychotic that I've learned to stop questioning," she said simply.
"Yeah, you never look normal in pictures," Harry agreed vaguely. "But why the Avada Kedavra?" He looked up to Hermione with eyes shining with envy and admiration, which was nothing compared to the look on Ron's face which was not wholly interpretable. She had never seen that sort of expression before — oh, wait, she had. And it was usually preceded by a grunt and found in bed. Hermione looked away abruptly. Only Ron could look orgasmic over the mention of a stupid car.
"Well," she began, unsure of whether to divulge, "Last night, when Viktor took me to the Three Broomsticks, I sort of lost my temper..."
"Uh oh," said Ron and Harry together emphatically.
"Uh oh is right," Hermione said with a grimace. She recounted the story for the trio of friends (and was a bit annoyed to see all three of them stifle sniggers when she told them about Voldemort's tweet regarding S.P.E.W., but decided to let it slide). When it was over, Ginny was the first to recover.
"So let me get this straight. You're telling me that you — Hermione Granger, the most annoyingly law-abiding person the world besides Percy — threatened to dump sugar in this man's gas tank?"
Ginny thrashed through the Prophet until she had found Voldemort's usual column, with yet another devastatingly sexy photograph similar to the one he had in the Hogsmeade Times. She jabbed a manicured finger at it, her mouth hanging open in pure shock. "This man? One of the sexiest but douchiest men in Hogsmeade?"
"He humiliated me in front of the entire world. What was I supposed to do?" Hermione sputtered, becoming embarrassed. "Look, I've suffered enough, and I've finished talking about this."
"Well, you still have to decide what you're doing about Viktor," said Ginny matter-of-factly. Hermione glowered at her.
"Which I will do, on my own time," she replied testily. Ginny snorted and gave a blase wave of her hand.
"I'm not talking about the proposal. None of my business —"
"Rightly so—"
"However," Ginny continued loudly, pretending Hermione hadn't interrupted her, "You're something of a celebrity now, aren't you?" An odd gleam was forming in Ginny's eye which Hermione was, admittedly, a bit intimidated by. In spite of propbably weighing less than Hermione had in third grade, Ginny could be quite the force to be reckoned with when she felt like it, which turned out to be quite often.
Ginny's intent registered in Hermione's sharp mind far sooner than it would have for anyone else, and Hermione immediately shot to her feet and backed away from Ginny.
"No. I won't. It's a waste of money — money that I really don't have, mind you — and it's just not who I am. We've been over this," she said firmly. Ginny was giving her puppy eyes, which was rather effective given how large, innocent, and sparkly her brown eyes were.
"But Hermione, remember how pleased you were at the Yule Ball after my work?" Ginny cajoled her. "Actually, you sort of have me to thank for Viktor's proposal. I don't think anyone knew what you were hiding under those baggy eco-friendly sweatshirts before that night," she added thoughtfully before letting out a squeal of pain. The warning look from Harry told Hermione that he must have just trod on Ginny's foot.
Mentioning the Yule Ball — a rather archaic tradition of her undergrad, Hogwarts — meant treading on thin ice...or, more accurately, treading on thin ice laced with explosives while wearing snowshoes and carrying a squalling elephant.
In short, it was dangerous — for reasons that Hermione preferred to not revisit, actually, especially not with Ron in the vicinity. Those were some awkward memories.
"I'm still not understanding," admitted Ron, who was apparently working very hard to hide his own discomfort at this whole situation. Ginny sighed in exasperation.
"We're going shopping so that Hermione doesn't look like an electrocuted molerat," she said impatiently. "She's a celebrity now and there will be all kinds of photographs of her in the tabloids. And as her best friend, I refuse to allow her to be subjected to the cruel public," she continued valiantly.
With the bemused boys and an extremely unhappy Hermione in tow, Ginny set sail for Gladrags, a department store with all of the most hifalutin clothing that money could possibly buy. The idea of spending any money at all was laughable for Hermione, and it was this thought that acted as a candle, a rare beacon of hope in such times of darkness. Even if Ginny literally stole her bankcard and forced it to be swiped, it would be declined, because Hermione remembered the last statement she'd received, and she was positive that it wouldn't be enough to buy a damn sock in this store.
They entered Gladrag's gleaming front. Its store windows were crowded with avant garde mannequins wearing scraps of cloth that made absolutely no sense to Hermione. Before she had grown accustomed to this strange thing called 'fashion' she had often studied the mannequins carefully, in search of some clue as to why people were willing to throw their money away for these absurd garments.
Being friends with Ginny, whose career revolved around these things, had forced Hermione to learn to take it in stride. Now she followed Ginny through the store, no longer remotely cowed by the stares of the snooty salespeople. The third floor was reserved exclusively for only the most hoity-toity designers, and in resignation, Hermione followed Ginny to the escalator. They'd lost the boys somewhere in the makeup section, and from their elevated position, Hermione and Ginny observed in amusement as a very flamboyant young man cornered Harry, rather irresponsibly wielding an artist's palette of eyeshadows.
"He's so cute and innocent sometimes," Ginny sighed as she gazed down at her boyfriend. "Well, anyway — let's get you looking fabulous!"
Hermione rolled her eyes and followed Ginny around the third floor, conceding to have Ginny hold up one ridiculous item after another, shrieking proclamations of how 'perfect' it would be. Luckily, Ginny had a rather sharp sense of humor that made the whole experience bearable, and soon she was beginning to actually have some fun.
Then, something strange occurred.
One of the salespeople had realized that Ginny had been in one of the glossy ads for M. Malkin dresses, and now Ginny was wrapped up in being admired by everyone in the vicinity. Awkward and bored, Hermione slipped away and began wandering about the store. This was going to take a while — Ginny had many fans, being one of the few fashion models who was naturally redheaded.
The men's section was on the other side of the third floor, and Hermione was attracted by an entire wall of colorful pure silk ties. In vague interest, she began examining them, until a familiar voice caught her attention and she froze.
"...funny how Granger of all people is marrying Krum, don't you think, father?"
Her blood boiled at the slow drawl of Draco's voice, and she gripped a pink paisley tie in rage, seething silently.
"You should have seen her last evening, Draco. She made an absolute fool of herself when she attacked Tom Riddle, insisting that he'd ruined her life." Lucius' voice was a slightly deeper version of Draco's and did nothing to calm Hermione down. All those times Draco bullied me and he did nothing. Sometimes, looking back, Hermione was amazed that she had survived high school, as it seemed Draco had done everything in his power to make her life a living hell. She was nearly twenty-six now and really ought to have put the past away, and for the most part, she had. But some wounds never completely healed, and so she would never completely forgive Draco.
Draco was laughing as his father continued. "But, interestingly enough, I was talking to Riddle today and he said he admires the girl, so maybe there's more to her than we're seeing."
Hermione dropped the paisley tie in shock. It was wrinkled now due to being gripped by her hands, which were sweaty from her rage.
"Riddle?" Draco sounded thoughtful. "That's odd. He doesn't admire anyone."
"I know. But he said he found her an intriguing young woman and could understand why Krum might prefer her to his other suitors."
"Well, one does have to wonder how she got her hair like that. That is certainly intriguing. Do you think she electrocutes herself every morning?"
Out of curiosity, Hermione poked her head round a display of belts, the heavy scent of leather filling her nose and mixing with a sudden, overpowering burst of French cologne. There was an archway leading to an enormous dressing room, with a gilded three-way mirror in between the banks of rooms. Draco was seated on a plush cream armchair, observing while a short woman with a pincushion taped to her arm was fitting a luxurious pale grey suit on Lucius Malfoy.
Her mind snagged on something Lucius had said: Krum might prefer her to his other suitors. Viktor had other suitors? She blinked in surprise and ducked back behind the belt display.
Why should it have surprised her? Viktor was famous all over the world. Children in every country had posters of him taped to their walls. Everywhere he went, he was constantly being asked to sign soccer balls and tee shirts and jerseys. And, as this morning's Prophet had demonstrated, he could be quite handsome in the right lighting.
This gave her a lot to think about. With a sigh and a last glower back in the general direction of the two Malfoy men, Hermione began searching for where Ginny might've gotten to.
"Viktor?" Hermione said tentatively as she hurried down the icy street. There was a lot of background noise; he was probably in the airport by now.
"Hermione. You read the Prophet?" Viktor asked, agitation leaking into his normally flat voice. He sounded tired. In spite of everything, she found herself smiling.
"Yes. I did. I don't mind though, really," she admitted. "I was just wondering how you were feeling."
"I am alvays fine, Hermy. But have you thought more about vat I said last night?" His voice returned to its usual seriousness, and she sighed.
"Of course I have," she admitted hoarsely. "I've thought of nothing else. I just..." Her words were interrupted by a cool female voice; apparently his plane was boarding.
"I haff to go now. I vill call you ven I land, okay?"
In classic Viktor style, he hung up immediately, leaving Hermione a little confused as she stood on the busy city street.
Hogsmeade in January was no treat, really — the snow by now was always grey and slushy, and frozen into hard little clumps that made driving or walking anywhere a nightmare. The sky was an unpleasant grey no matter what, and the only cheer one might find was in the store windows, with their obnoxious Valentine's Day displays. Hermione shoved her hands further into the pockets of her worn coat as she wove in and out of the crowds on the sidewalk, her breath clouding in the air in front of her, and squinted into each store window.
She was hit with the usual pang of melancholy that she always felt as Valentine's Day approached, even though it was nearly a month away. Every time she saw the lacy hearts, or the artificially dyed flowers, or the advertising of couple's specials for schmaltzy restaurants, she always outwardly denounced the holiday in all of its artificiality. But deep down, there was an ache for that kind of romance. And even though she told herself, staring at the little cardboard cutouts of cupid, that Viktor obviously wanted to give her that kind of romance...it just felt sort of hollow. Was this how one was supposed to feel after being proposed to? She didn't even feel old enough to get married. She was still relying on her parents, for the most part — it didn't seem right to go from that to marriage, with no interim in which to teach herself to really become independent. And she wanted to be independent, but being an activist turned out to not pay too much.
In fact, it didn't pay any money at all.
She should not have been spending any money, but Hermione went inside her favorite cafe anyway for a hot chocolate. The cafe was mostly empty at this time of day, which was her favorite. If only she had brought her laptop or a book! Tiny tables crowded in the middle, while a stage for poetry readings and small bands took up a larger portion. Off to the sides were built-in window seats, which were naturally the very best places to drink a cup of tea and read a book. After purchasing her overly expensive hot chocolate, Hermione was about to leave, when a familiar figure caught her eye.
So this was where Voldemort did his dirty work — he was sitting on one of the window seats in the very back of the cafe, on his laptop, concentrating. Lucius' words from that afternoon came back to her: Riddle said he admires the girl...found her an intriguing woman...
Was it true? It had to be; Lucius had no reason to lie to his son. So then, Voldemort had apparently not been too offended by her threat from the night before. Seeing him again caused a little jolt of anticipation to hit her stomach, though she wasn't quite sure why. Smiling, with her courage bolstered by this rumor of his good opinion, Hermione strode with forced confidence over to him.
"Good afternoon, Tom Riddle," she greeted pleasantly before sipping her hot chocolate. She noted he was wearing his glasses again; his dark eyes flicked up to her. Up close she was hit with a burst of that tantalizing scent of his skin. His cheeks were slightly flushed, presumably from the chilly air, and his dark waves still looked rumpled.
"Out and about during the day? I didn't think you'd have a job. Did mummy and daddy give the go-ahead on that hot chocolate? It is their money, after all," he replied, pulling off his dark horn-rimmed glasses and letting them dangle in his hand. Hermione's temper flared and she forgot about how handsome he was.
"My finances are none of your business," she snapped harshly. Tom sniggered and put his glasses on again, returning to his laptop. "So who are you trashing today?" Her voice was more of a sneer than she had intended, and she felt a bit guilty about it.
"Oh, so many people. There are hardly enough hours in the day," he said vaguely, waving his hand slightly.
Hermione stood there with her hot chocolate, momentarily debating whether she ought to leave or not. Voldemort was not giving her any indication either way of which one she should do, and even though she had been uproariously angry at him the night before, Lucius' hint at Tom Riddle not being totally averse to her had given her a warming to him. It was rare for people to like her; even rarer for them to be intrigued by her.
That made up her mind for her. Hermione plopped down into the chair across from him. He glanced up at her again, apparently amused. "You know, you may not have anything to do all day, but the rest of us do."
"I'm just sitting here," she said defensively. "I won't bother you, I promise."
Even as she said this, he was rolling his eyes.
"So is this how you occupy your time? Bothering more important, more intelligent people?" he queried as he returned to his typing.
"No. I volunteer at a number of organizations and work on my causes at night," she parried. As she said the words aloud, her face grew hot with embarrassment. It had always seemed noble before, but in front of Voldemort she saw her life from a new perspective, and the image was one she did not like. "Just for now," she added hastily. Voldemort arched an elegant brow at her, but Hermione had tired of embarrassing herself in front of him. He certainly didn't act like he found her so intriguing. "But what about you? What's it like being a critic?"
Voldemort glowered at her over the top of his screen.
"It was rather relaxing, actually, until I started getting harassed by spoiled little know-it-alls," he replied tartly. His words stung and Hermione's grip tightened on her hot chocolate before she rose from her seat.
"I'm not spoiled," she said hotly. Voldemort had apparently decided to ignore her, because he was quite transfixed by something on his screen. Out of curiosity, Hermione leaned in to see what was so entrancing.
It was a cat waterskiing.
"Now, this is true talent, Miss Troll," he was saying with a philosophical air, pointing to the screen. "Look at this cat. This is a cat who has learned a marketable skill — that's better than approximately ninety five percent of the human population!"
"You just found that just now to irritate me, didn't you?" she eyed him shrewdly, and Voldemort winked at her gamely. Even though he had meant to be rude, the overall effect was still rather sexy, and heat crept up into her neck and cheeks.
"Looks like you're not completely mentally handicapped after all. Good job!" he replied sarcastically. Hermione shook her head but found herself grinning as she left the cafe. She stopped in the doorway and waved to him.
"Nice talking to you, Tom," she said pointedly.
"Of course, Miss Troll," he replied easily as he made a show of Accio'ing 'snakes on planes.'
Tom watched Hermione walk down the road from his cosy little nook in the cafe. In the throngs of drably dressed people, she looked remarkably small and vulnerable. A large truck barreled by her and sprayed a wall of filthy grey slush all over her. Tom smirked as Hermione apparently lost her temper, for she hurled her cup of hot chocolate at the retreating vehicle. She seemed to instantly regret it, however, for she hastily trotted after the cup to pick it back up. She would hate littering, Tom thought, shaking his head.
For all of his bashing of her play, he had to admit that Hermione Granger had a firmer grasp of political issues than her fellow spoiled-recent-graduates seemed to have. Even if the play had been horribly boring, it had contained quite a bit of accurate information. It seemed this young girl suffered from a potent combination of a love of knowledge and fact as well as a profound lack of understanding of what others found entertaining. At the very least, she didn't seem to be doing all of this for show — she did seem to have ideals.
Tom closed the window where a video of a boa constrictor — one of his favorite animals; not that anyone knew that — was wearing sunglasses and slithering along an airplane. Back to work. He perused the online editions of The Daily Prophet and the Hogsmeade Times, as usual. Today they were filled with speculations on Hermione Granger, complete with rather embarrassing photographs of her. He had to admit that he was a bit curious as well as to how a man like Krum — a total jock with very little intellectual leanings — might end up with a girl like Hermione Granger. But of course, he wasn't curious enough to actually ask around about it.
In Tom's opinion, his life was very much like an epic novel revolving around him, with just the right amount of action, adventure, drama, and suspense thrown in when it suited him. And, in a lot of ways, it had been as such. As a consequence, he spent little energy or interest in other people unless it directly benefitted him.
The next order of business was to check the Quibbler. Odd? Yes. Annoyingly left-wing and liberal? Certainly. Interesting? ...Not usually. But it was important for him to keep up on all possible fronts of information, and so in resignation he went to their page — right after he double-checked that his sound was set to mute. Oftentimes the Quibbler had some idiotic little jingle to accompany their front page on their website.
The Quibbler was a rather embarrassing case of a newspaper, and their online edition was no better. Most likely a toddler on drugs could have designed a less horrifying website, but that was actually a rather apt definition of its editor-in-chief, Xenophilius Lovegood. He once had been Philip Lovegood, but apparently found 'Philip' too common. Not that I can throw stones here, thought Tom with a grin. He too had taken issue with his common, boring first name, but that was a different story entirely — and one that no one would ever hear again, if he had any say in it. Which of course, he did.
The top headline was something about a rare strain of marijuana plant; Tom listlessly skimmed the article and then moved on, taking a gulp of his black coffee...
...which he promptly spit out in horror when his eyes landed on the next article. Through the splashes of coffee, he could just make out the headline:
Famed Critic Tom 'Voldemort' Riddle Implicated in Albus Dumbledore's Murder?
Tom hastily snatched a napkin and shot a look at a teenager that had been giggling at his embarrassing reaction; the glare promptly silenced the child. He wiped off his screen as his sharp mind began formulating a plan. It wasn't worth it to try to reason with Xenophilius; talking to the man was like trying to kill a butterfly with a safety pin. And besides, demanding to have the article removed was a moot point, as it had been published for some time now.
What am I worrying about? No one read the Quibbler anyway. And even if they did, they would dismiss the article as another one of Xenophilius' ridiculous notions. Had anyone paid an iota of attention when the deranged editor had proclaimed the previous Mayor, Kingsley Shacklebolt, was, in fact, a retired drag queen?
Although that actually had been true, so now Tom was a little bit worried. He forced himself to relax. He tried to get some work done, but he found he couldn't properly trash other people's works of art when he was so distracted by this annoyance. Where on earth had Xenophilius found out such secrets?
Could he have the Quibbler shut down? Tom tapped his lips in thought. No, it'd look suspicious — he'd never be able to hide that he had done it, no matter how well he covered his tracks.
He heaved a sigh. There was nothing he could do now. His hands were tied. The best he could hope for was that anyone who saw the article would find it laughable. His only comfort was that that was likely exactly how things would proceed. No one took the Quibbler seriously.
Right?