...
Thieves Among Ink
... ... ...
Under his skin, his blood jitters as his heart stutters it around — it's all more heightened than ever. Meals in the Great Hall are the worst part... when he'd had the urge to sink his teeth into Pansy's shoulder, he skipped meals altogether, avoiding her questions, and inevitably Theo's ones, by snarling at her to piss off. Even if he wasn't keeping track of the calendar, Draco would've known that the full moon is looming much too close ahead. It's the thirteenth of November today: he has five more days before he gets the relief or panic of finding out whether his Wolfsbane potion will or won't be on his side this month.
But he's had something else to keep him preoccupied this past couple of weeks, including several fruitless hours scouring over useless books and watching for things he'd never thought to look for before.
"Well well, if it isn't Granger." The chatter outside the classroom is quieter than normal — but that's because the classroom belongs to Snape. Even so, it fades into silence as Draco strides forward, flanked by Crabbe and Goyle, with Pansy, Theo, Blaise and Daphne Greengrass following from behind. They all step to his sides to crowd over the Mudblood and the Boy Who Lived.
As Draco watches the flames spark behind her eyes, he smirks.
She was always an outcast, being a Mudblood; but now, the whole of Hogwarts sees her as one. Now, she's getting rightfully punished for trying to steal the glory of the Triwizard Tournament Champions… just like she's stealing his magic. And by Merlin, Draco would make sure he would help punish her.
Potter steps closer to her, eyes narrowing behind his spectacles. "Get lost, Malfoy."
"Oooh," Draco says, as his friends snicker unanimously. He looks past a grinning Goyle to meet the gleaming eyes of Theo. Nobody else can hear it, not even the apparent Saviour of the Wizarding World, but the gentle brush of Potter's fingers against some fabric, to the unmistakable glossy hilt of a wand, makes Draco's head twitch back into the Gryffindors' direction. He keeps his smirk in place as his eyes flicker over green, to firewhiskey brown.
Which dart over to the chest of his uniform. "D'you like them, Granger?" he jeers, raising his fingers to brush over the edge of the polished badge. They'd been inspired after another frustrating night trying to figure out how in Merlin's name she'd managed to trick the Goblet. From his right side, Pansy and Daphne are giggling. His ears prick at Potter's fingertips padding over his wand.
As her brows furrow, he knows she's taking in, 'Support Cedric Diggory — our Pure Champion.' For the briefest of moments, he can practically taste that satisfaction on the tip of his tongue, until she rolls her eyes and scoffs. Not even the sight of Potter, red-faced and furious, can console him.
"Real witty, Malfoy," she says, accompanied by a yawn. Draco sneers.
From behind her, Weasley is staring stony-faced at the lot of them, in between Finnegan and Thomas. Somehow, she can get all hot and bothered by a Weasley; it just shows how little she understands of Status.
"That's not the only thing they do," he taunts, more of a snarl than he intends. He stabs his finger onto the badge, pressing until his next message appears: 'Granger's a Thief'.
There it is.
A flicker of uncertainty. She shrinks slightly backwards, as her eyes swim over all of his friends; the message is facing her from all angles, reminding her of who she is. "Filthy little Mud—"
There's a flash of movement. Lupin did it. Mad-Eye managed it. But on Salazar's grave he won't let Potter touch him.
Everything goes black.
When Draco blinks himself back into consciousness, the first thing he's aware of is the heavy iron in the air. There's distant echoes that he can't make out, no matter how much he strains his ears. Heart thundering against his chest, he shoves himself off of the floor — he winces at the sharp throb at the back of his head. When he raises his palm to reach for it, he pauses at the sight of scarlet smudges against it.
That's when sound slams back, unforgiving, making him dizzy beyond comprehension.
"Draco!" Pansy's voice is shrill, piercing into his skull. He would scream at her if he wasn't afraid of it worsening the pain. "He's awake!"
There's a scuffle, followed by Pansy's screech and a heavy thump. Draco winces again, and this time he does reach for the back of his head. "Nobody cares," somebody snarls, and it only takes a few seconds to recognise the voice belongs to Weasley.
Blearily, he blinks upwards to their direction. Like him, Pansy is sprawled on the floor; she's watching as Theo shoves Weasley in her defense, but Draco's already drinking in the sight of Crabbe and Goyle also seeming to be lying unconscious on the ground, Daphne hiding in the shadows with some late-comers and Blaise nowhere in sight. The Gryffindors are now, for the first time in weeks, united with Granger as they circle, hunched on the floor, around something.
Groaning at the pain that shoots up his back, Draco manages to lift himself up. He leans against the wall that he suspects he was smacked against, craning his aching neck over the crouching Gryffindors. When he catches sight of spiky hawthorn hair, he feels sweat mingling with the blood on his palms.
Weasley manages to heave Theo onto his backside, too, before his attention returns to Draco. His face goes puce while he points his wand at him; then Pansy barrels into his lanky legs, so the pair go crashing down onto the dungeon floor. The commotion raises some heads… including Granger's.
From Pansy and Weasley, her eyes dart to where Draco is leaning heavily on the wall. They're wide, almost apprehensive. She's never looked at him like that before. He wonders if he should consider that a victory.
The potions classroom door slams open, and Snape emerges from the shadows. His black eyes do one swoop of the scene beyond him, before he hovers towards the Gryffindors. Some of them scatter, but the rest stay firmly beside what Draco confirms is Potter.
What he can glimpse sends him sprinting away.
Apart from one or two straggling students, he passes only portraits basking in the rare November sunlight. Draco crashes into the closest bathroom, gripping the sink. If his knuckles weren't covered in Potter's blood, he would see how they are turning white from how hard he clutches the porcelain. Potter being injured doesn't bother him — it's the fact that he doesn't remember doing it that makes his breathing jagged. This creature Lupin infected him with? It's crawling its way into his mind, as tauntingly slow as it can possibly do it.
It wants the body that he's been denying it for so long.
Savagely, he glares into the dirty bathroom mirror. "You want me, huh?" he growls at his reflection, watching his eyes glint in the dim bathroom candlelight. "Yeah?" Then, he bashes his forehead against the mirror. Ignoring the stinging, he does it again. There's the crackling fracture of glass. And again. And again. He watches as his blood seeps from his broken skin, one drop landing on the 'Granger's a Thief' badge.
As he draws his head back once more, a large black beetle scuttles across the top of the mirror, drawing his eyes up from the cracks he's indented into it. It's probably come from the greenhouses, because it reeks of mandrakes and dying orchids. Draco sneers at it, before looking back at his cracked reflection.
Draco Malfoy is a broken wizard, and he's the only person cursed with this knowledge.
When some more blood trickles down his skin, he narrows his eyes, which look like fractured Sickles in the mirror. It wants people to know… because he keeps forcing it away. For a few seconds, his finger taps against the sink, syncing in a rhythm with the gentle pats of the beetle. There's a swishing of a cloak that's only getting closer, the distant tang of potions ingredients with parchment grease getting stronger. He grips the sink harder than ever.
"An explanation?" Clenching his jaw, he looks back down at the sink. "Even if you won't provide one for me, you certainly will have to for the likes of Dumbledore."
Sneering faintly, Draco shakes his head. His godfather is right, but he's not the type of person to admit that. "Dumbledore has had Merlin knows how many Weasleys in this school, I'm sure he's well accustomed to school fights."
"This wasn't a fight, Draco," Snape says silkily, swooping further into the bathroom. "It looks more like an attempted murder."
"Potter attacked me first."
Snape hums, "I have no doubt. But how many people do you think will believe you?"
Then, the secret is there. It trembles at his lips. He wants to unravel this burden, to share it with his godfather — the problem is, the Malfoy name would be forever ruined. Snape is bound to tell his parents; who will be ashamed of what their son has become. Their only heir.
So he purses his lips, and says nothing.
Snape sighs impatiently; nonetheless, he places a gentle hand on Draco's shoulder without further questions. There's an intake of breath, but whatever he was about to say fades in his throat.
Then: "Is that your blood?" Draco's gaze snaps back up to the mirror, and he inwardly curses himself at the unmistakable stains etched into the mirror's fractures. Snape's hand on his shoulder tightens, forcing him to turn around. There's a brief flicker of shock, before his godfather's face ripples back into its signature sour sneer. In silence, he raises his wand to Draco's head; there's a burning, from extremely hot to extremely cold, across the length of his forehead, and Draco feels it sealing over.
"Go to your dormitory and don't come out. I'll get you an excuse."
He's not talking about an excuse for skipping classes today. As Snape guides him out of the bathroom, Draco glances once over his shoulder at the rim of the mirror to see that the beetle has gone.
...
The Hospital Wing is relatively busy at this time of year. For the most part, it's students scuffling in and out to get pepper-up potions from Madam Pomfrey. In slightly less common circumstances, visits here don't include catching a cold. Crabbe and Goyle each have their own bed in the opposite corner of the Wing, curtains drawn around them.
They had been the easiest to take out — they were never the most deft with their wands. It was Malfoy who had an almost inhuman strength as he thrashed at Harry with his bare hands. Hermione had never seen anything like it… and she had, after all, lived in a Muggle world where magical violence simply doesn't exist.
The Slytherin had been making feral noises as Harry punched back at him, while Ron, Seamus and Dean had tried to pry him off her best friend. In the end, Hermione pointed her wand and thanked her lucky stars that her practice of such an advanced spell paid off, not accidentally blowing up Harry, Ron, Dean, Seamus or even Malfoy like it had all of her test dummies (apples). It sent Malfoy hurtling into a wall with a crack that made her flinch.
When she first looked down at Harry, she almost lost her balance on her feet. He was drenched in blood, gashes in his skin that she could easily put her finger into. Even as Lavender screamed and Parvati ran to get help with Blaise Zabini, of all people, Hermione was the first to crouch down and start covering his wounds with fabrics conjured from the end of her shaking wand. Somehow, he was still awake; he gave a bloody grin, spluttering something along the lines of, "I thought you were the one who was supposed to get into Gladiator fights."
That was the moment she knew for a fact that he would be alright.
It doesn't stop the twisting nerves in her stomach as she sits beside his bed, watching the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest under his hospital gown. Snape was the first there, healing up some of Harry's wound and staunching some bleeding; then Madam Pomfrey came bustling in with Professor McGonagall, Parvati and Zabini in tow. She whisked Harry to the Hospital Wing, and Hermione decided not to stay behind long enough to eavesdrop the urgent conversation between McGonagall and Snape. Madam Pomfrey sewed up the wounds like smoothing tape over a ripped painting, so from an outsider's eye it would look like Harry is just another pepper-up student. Not that there's many outsiders. She glances at his bedside table, his spectacles nearly drowning with get-well cards, chocolate frogs and Bernie Bott's Every Flavour Beans packets. In spite of herself, she finds herself rolling her eyes; it's only been a few hours.
A lot of the students that had come in to visit him had been female Beauxbatons ones, just to get a good look at the famous Boy Who Lived. Well, she can't speak French but tone is everything, and pointing at a person in a hospital bed, one even snapping a photo (she scowls at the thought of that one), pretty much says it all. She decides for the sake of saving him from embarrassment she won't tell Harry — after all, a simple, quick locomotor charm out of an excited jabbering French girl's hands destroys a camera and sends them on their merry way.
The curtain draws closed — she takes her time before turning around, because she's been keeping track of Harry's conventional visitors — and she swivels her head around. Ron's standing sheepishly there in all his towering glory, a box of chocolate frogs in his fists. When he refuses to meet her eye, she scoffs and turns back to the sleeping Harry.
Gradually, Ron shuffles to the other side of the bed. She stares at Harry's twitching fingers as she listens to her other so-called friend making room for another get well gift. Some more shuffling, the heavy groan of the other hospital chair, and then the bustling of hospital life resumes to fill the silence of a trio, now.
It's unbearable; she's wringing her hands on her lap.
"I think Malfoy's lost his mind," she mutters.
There's a puff of air from Ron's direction. "He was always a nutter."
"Hmm." That's an exaggeration. Mean-spirited, cruel, yes. But she'd never seen him lose himself to a burst of violence before. Perhaps the Death Eater parents are really taking their toll on him. But she's talking to Ron, not Sherlock Holmes. He's not likely to have noticed any difference in Malfoy at all.
They watch Harry sleep some more.
"He really likes to get his arse kicked by you," Ron adds, causing a small smile to play on her lips. She chances a glance to catch his hesitant grin, scattering his freckles. It's almost like it always was.
Until she remembers the way he treated her. Her smile fades; Ron's one falters, and his brows furrow. Hermione is the first to look away.
They sit, silent, once more. It's only when the tapping of Madam Pomfrey's boots accompanying her whisking students away becomes muffled in her office, that Ron breaks the unspoken no-speaking agreement between them. "C'mon, 'Mione. You don't need to lie to me." Her hands clench into fists on her lap.
"I'm not lying," she says through gritted teeth, "Harry believes me. Why can't you?" When her eyes shift back to him, he's scowling at her.
"You're smart. We all know that." Hermione scoffs at him, her fingernails digging into her palms.
"I'm flattered, really," she snaps hotly. "Yes, I've only had about three years of magical experience but I can totally outsmart this bloody ancient magical object!"
"I wouldn't put it past you!" Ron half-shouts, raising his arms wide. His freckles are disappearing by how red his face is going. Then, he makes his voice high-pitched, mocking, "Oh, look at me, I'm so clever, lemme go and beat Viktor Krum—" she shifts in her seat as her blood boils, mouth opening furiously "—and win a thousand Galleons and steal Harry's spot—"
"Steal Harry's spotlight?" she cries incredulously, shoving herself off her seat. Ron mirrors her, and even though he towers over her from across the bed, she's not remotely intimidated. That tends to happen, when you know a person… but, maybe she doesn't know him as well as she initially thought. She pushes the thought aside. "You think Harry likes all of the attention he gets?"
"Why wouldn't he?" Ron demands. In complete disbelief, she runs her hands through her untamable hair. She gets it. Ron's always in the shadow of someone, whether it be his six older brothers or his best friend; she wonders, though, if he'd thought that she was always cast in his own shadow. It's not like she's excited about making a complete prat of herself in front of the whole school. She should communicate all this to him, but she knows he's just going to turn his nose up at it all.
"You're more of a nutter than Malfoy." Ron rolls her eyes at her, opening his mouth to spew some more nonsense — but then the curtain is drawn back and their eyes travel to the broad-shouldered figure of Viktor Krum. It's strange not seeing him with a scowl; rather, he's watching them with a passive expression. From the corner of her eye, she can see Ron's jaw drop; under different circumstances, she would've laughed.
"You are needed for the Wand Weighing Ceremony, Hermy-own."
Involuntarily her lips twist into an amused smile, which then causes her cheeks to burn. From the way that Krum is looking at her face, she's definitely gone pink.
"It's Hermione," Ron corrects, uncharacteristically stiffly. She brushes it off as him still being annoyed by their recent row, or the mention of something tournament-related.
"That's what I said," Krum responds in his heavy Bulgarian accent, eyes flickering briefly to her left, then to Ron. "Hermy-own."
They leave a gloomy Ron alone with Harry in the Hospital Wing, Krum casting one more curious look at the bed before they do so. As soon as the Wing's door shuts with a click, her mind pushes away all frustration at Ron, all anxiety for Harry. All of her research of the Goblet that she's been doing the past couple of weeks is buzzing in her skull, so much so that she's wondering if Krum can hear it.
The 'Ceremony', so to speak, is just to test their wands to make sure that they are functioning properly. Champions in past tournaments never carried out their tasks without their wands; therefore, it would prove excruciatingly difficult if one was to find their own heaving out half-hearted sparks in the face whatever viscous creature they'll be thrown in front of.
For the most part of the journey, they walk in silence. However, at one point when they curve through a corridor and reach the stone staircases, Krum does grumble, "I cannot be bothered with this ceremony."
She quirks her brow, thinking that he'd be the way that Ron thinks she and Harry are. Except, Krum did volunteer for this type of lifestyle.
"Why not?" she finds herself asking, doing a mighty good job at pretending she's not struggling to keep up with Krum's brisk stride.
For a moment, he looks nonplussed — in the second where she detects that slight tinge of pink on his heavy cheekbones, she realizes that he hadn't meant to say that aloud. Krum's eyes shift in her direction, his brows raising higher than necessary even with the downturn of his lips. "These reporters," he murmurs, showing more emotion in his expression than she ever knew he was capable of, "They are worse than doxies."
As Hermione mulls over this — furrowing her brow and shifting her gaze to the floor — she reflects on how the wizarding and Muggle world, despite their staggering differences, have so many similarities. Reporters from the BBC, The Sun, the Daily Mail (and that's just the British ones), have a notorious reputation for their pest-like interference in people's private lives. If a Muggle reporter will stalk their subject of interest all the way into their £100000 gardens, then what lengths would a magical reporter go to to achieve their desired article?
She supposes she shouldn't be surprised there would be reporters. A tournament that Viktor Krum is involved in is bound to draw media attention. Biting her lip, she's extremely glad that Harry didn't get put in her situation. Reporters would be on him like flies on a carcass and she knows how much he hates attention.
But it does go to say, how odd this all is. Things always happen to Harry. They happened to him before he was even old enough to comprehend his world. The biggest thing that's ever happened to Hermione is when she found out she's a witch. Yes, it's all very odd indeed.
Why?
She's only vaguely aware of Krum slowing his pace.
Why would someone choose her? There is nothing she's been able to wrack her brains for that tells her what they could possibly gain from her posing as a Triwizard Champion.
For the past couple of weeks, she's been theorizing and just as quickly scrapping a who, what, when, where and why.
There is no logical reasoning.
Especially for who.
Hermione has to take a sharp turn so as not to bump right into Krum. She can feel the heat in her cheeks, but it's okay, he's not looking; his signature scowl is back, as he glowers at a door to his left. There's some muffled talking behind it, and Hermione wonders if the reporters are already at it.
Grumbling incomprehensibly, Krum grabs the door handle and shoves it open.
There's a bright flash of light, and Hermione barely has time to squint her eyes back into focus before a tiny voice makes her cross her arms irritably. "Did you know Viktor Krum offered to collect you, Hermione? Do you know what the Wand Weighing ceremony is? Can I see Harry now?" She glares down at the excitable Colin Creevey, clutching that camera that is larger than his head and bouncing on the balls of his feet like he's ready to sprint all the way back to the Hospital wing.
"No, Colin," she says firmly.
"I'll take that as an answer to all of them!" he squeaks brightly, jogging past them. Glancing over her shoulder, she scowls when she watches him practically bolt through the entrance hall and up the stone staircases.
"The ginger one can deal with that little doxy," Krum says. Hermione reluctantly snorts, turning her head back to Krum. There's a tiny twitch of his lips again, that almost indistinguishable smile, and she finds herself returning it. It's funny seeing Viktor Krum's cheeks go pink because of her. Hermione does like to call herself observant if nothing else, but even Ron would've noticed Krum blundering hopelessly around the library each day while a fan club mostly comprised of Hogwarts students (the shame) follows him around everywhere.
Krum nods his head in a door in front of them, in the small hallway they're standing in. The voices here are much less muffled. "Beware of the taloned woman," he advises. Hermione has no idea what to make of that, so she nods at him while her mind spirals into all possibilities of a 'taloned woman'.
As it turns out, Rita Skeeter's talons are her extremely long fingernails. Hermione's seen Muggle teenagers with shorter nails than that, and that's saying a lot. Along with this clawed woman and her crocodile skin bag, Fleur Delacour, Cedric Diggory, Ludo Bagman and a paunchy looking photographer are all in this fairly small classroom. Most of the desks have been pushed to the back of the room, leaving a large space in the middle. Only three desks have been placed end to end in front of the blackboard, covered in a long length of velvet. Five chairs have been set behind these desks.
"Ah! Our first and fourth Champion!" Bagman beams, turning his body around in one of the chairs and gesturing his arms wide. He had been talking to Skeeter, while Delacour and Diggory had been having an animated conversation. Now, with the way the other two Champions are eyeing her, and how Skeeter whips around to look at her like she's her prey, it's perhaps the most unwelcome sight she's ever experienced. "In you come, Hermione, in you come! It's nothing to worry about, it's just the wand weighing ceremony, the rest of the judges will be here in a moment."
Hermione shrugs. "I know," she responds, walking into the room in a way she hopes looks confident. From behind her, Krum's heavy footsteps follow. When she takes in the raised eyebrows, she does her best not to smirk.
"Well," Bagman says, beam only widening, "the expert's upstairs now with Dumbledore, and then there's going to be a little photoshoot." She glances at the photographer, who she realizes is watching Delacour from the corner of his eye. Hermione scoffs faintly. "This is Rita Skeeter," Bagman adds unnecessarily. Hermione knows all too well. Lavender Brown aspires to be 'just like her', with newspaper pages of the heavy-jawed woman with her curiously rigid curls plastered all around her bed. "She will be doing a small piece on the tournament for the Daily Prophet."
"I wouldn't call it that small, Ludo," Skeeter's buttery voice says, the lenses of her jewelled spectacles flashing in the weak sunlight filtering through the windows. "I wonder if I could have a little word with Hermione before we start," she says to Bagman, but still gazing fixedly at Hermione. "The youngest Champion, you know—" Hermione scoffs a little louder, of course they know, the whole bloody school won't hesitate to remind her of where she shouldn't be, but the woman looks unfazed as she continues, "to add a little colour to my article."
"Certainly!" cries Bagman, "That is, if Hermione has no objection?"
Hermione's lips circle for a firm 'no', but Skeeter intercepts with "Lovely!", and then she's across the room quicker than Hermione has time to register, grabbing her arm and dragging her to a broom closet. Once the door shuts behind them, Hermione glowers in the dark.
"I still object," she snaps haughtily, turning back to the door; but then Skeeter's talons are digging into her arm and hauling her onto a cardboard box in the broom cupboard.
"Just a quick word, dear," Skeeter says silkily, flashing a set of pearly teeth from behind her crimson lipstick. As the doxy upturns a bucket and perches herself onto it, Hermione decides the effort to escape the cupboard is just not worth it. Besides, she'd be lying if she didn't find herself curious about being interviewed by a reporter. It's never even happened to her in the Muggle world, but it would be interesting to compare this one to any scenes in her favourite movies.
When she experiences no more resistance, Skeeter's smile expands. Hermione counts three gold teeth. She unclips her crocodile skin handbag and pulls out a handful of candles, waving her wand so that they light up and float around the pair of them.
In the small space of the broom cupboard, Skeeter's giving off this faint smell that reminds Hermione of Herbology lessons. The thought of Herbology lessons makes her furrow her brow slightly; Professor Sprout is the Head of Hufflepuff and judging from all the dirty looks during lessons, seems to be in the majority who believe she deliberately placed herself into the tournament.
"You won't mind, Hermione, if I use a Quick-Quotes Quill? It leaves me to talk to you freely."
Hermione narrows her eyes. Perhaps she should do more research on Wizarding stationary. "Yeah, sure thing," she says, brows drawing together when she watches the intricately patterned quill fly out of the crocodile skin bag, along with a long roll of parchment.
Skeeter whips the quill out of the air, sucking on the tip of it in apparent relish before placing it on the parchment, quivering as if it's anticipating her next words.
"Testing: my name is Rita Skeeter." Hermione watches the progress of the quill scribbling across the page, making out the sentence 'Attractive blonde, Rita Skeeter, forty-three, whose savage quill has punctured and inflated many reputations.' Unbelievable.
"Lovely!" says Skeeter, ripping off the top part of the parchment, crumpling it in her heavily jeweled hand and stuffing it in the pocket of her magenta robes.
"But that's not what you said at all," Hermione blurts before she can stop herself, undoubtedly drawing this interview much longer than it needs to be.
Skeeter waves her hand airly, "It's just an exaggeration, dear."
"It practically writes the article for you," she throws at her. Skeeter's smile twitches slightly, the only indication Hermione gets that she had been listening.
"So Hermione, what made you decide to enter the triwizard tournament?" She doesn't even get to open her mouth before the quill starts skidding across the parchment. Hermione makes out 'a scruffy looking Muggle-born who's still trying to fit into her new world, befriending the famous Boy Who Lived —'
"Ignore the quill, Hermione." She scowls, tearing her stare towards Skeeter's overlarge smile.
"Is there any point of me talking?" Skeeter's heavy jaw clenches slightly.
"You can start by telling me why you entered."
"I didn't," Hermione deadpans.
Skeeter's talons start tapping her crocodile skin bag. "Come on, Hermione, our readers love a rebel." Hermione simply raises an eyebrow in response.
"How do you feel about the tasks ahead? Excited? Nervous?"
The quill's still scribbling furiously. Hermione just shrugs, watching Skeeter's right eye twitch.
"Champions have died in the past, haven't they?" the reporter prompts.
At this, Hermione rolls her eyes, although butterflies erupt in her stomach. The worst one she had read about was the student who got decapitated in the fifteenth century in a goblin fight gone wrong.
"You're the friend of Harry Potter," Skeeter coos, and the mention of her best friend's name from this woman's mouth makes Hermione's hands ball into fists. "You've found yourself dragged into the face of death many times before, haven't you? How would you say that's affected you?" The talons are scraping scratch marks into the handbag. All things considered, Hermione's not surprised that her connection to Harry is Skeeter's biggest motivation for this small piece for the Daily Prophet. "Do you think you were tempted to enter the tournament because you aspire your name to live up to his?" What the hell is that even supposed to mean?
"Well, it seems you and your quill are quite content with fabricating a story so I'll just—" With lightning speed, Skeeter hand reaches for her shoulder and shoves her back down onto the box before she can fully lift herself. Hermione frowns, glancing over at the parchment and quill. 'It's no secret how competitive she must feel with the famous Harry Potter—
Hermione really wishes she could cast an incendio charm.
"Do you have many other friends, Hermione?" She scowls, until Skeeter's next words leave her completely perplexed. "Draco Malfoy, perhaps?"
"Malfoy?" she says aloud, in spite of herself. Then it dawns on her that reporters will do their best to keep their ears everywhere. There is no doubt that Skeeter has heard about Malfoy attacking Harry; judging from the way her beady eyes slant behind her jewelled spectacles, she's right to be confident in her assumption. For a fraction of the second, she glances at the parchment and glimpses 'fight for the girl' and she's gripped with the sudden urge to cackle like a witch in a Muggle fairy tale.
That's when a vindictive idea emerges.
"Oh, yeah," she responds, maliciously amused at the erect way Skeeter's curls bounce in her eagerness at words coming out of Hermione's mouth. "We were best buddies. He's just always jealous of Harry."
"And why is that?" Skeeter asks, staring intently at her, now. Her eyes are wide, as if she had expected a more conventional answer.
"He's not used to not being the centre of attention." She pauses, trying to envision something that would hurt. "You see, Malfoy's trying to steal Harry's fame. He's a thief and he just can't help it." Hermione's eyebrows raise when the quill literally rips into the parchment in its excitement. She tries to read what far-fetched and far more embarrassing tale the quill has scribbled for Malfoy, but then the door of the broom cupboard is pulled open. Blinking in the bright light, Hermione looks around to Professor Dumbledore standing tall in the doorway, looking down at the pair of them squashed in the broom cupboard.
"Dumbledore!" cries Rita Skeeter with the most delighted tone. When Hermione turns her eyes back to the doxy, she takes note of how the Quick-Quotes Quill and the parchment have vanished from sight; the reporter's talons are curled around her crocodile skin handbag, hastily snapping it shut. "How are you?" she asks, standing up and extending one of her large, heavily ringed hands to Dumbledore. "I hope you saw my piece over the summit about the National Confederation of Wizards Conference."
Hermione has. It stares at her every time she passes Lavender's bed. She's pretty sure Skeeter referred to Dumbledore as—
"—an obsolete dingbat," her Headmaster unknowingly finishes her recall, his eyes twinkling.
Looking unabashed, Skeeter says, "I was just making the point that some of your ideas are a little old-fashioned, Dumbledore, and that—"
"I would be delighted to hear the rude reasoning behind it, Rita," says Dumbledore, with a courteous bow and a smile, "but I'm afraid we will have to discuss this matter later. The Weighing of the Wands is about to start and it cannot take place if one of our champions is hidden in a broom cupboard." Giving one last lingering look at Skeeter's handbag, Hermione still gladly exits the broom cupboard. Even as she sees Ollivander the wandmaker seated with the three other champions, her mind is preoccupied with her little interview in the broom cupboard.
Undoubtedly, the reporter has a nasty article planned; the slight nod from Krum, as if a salute from a fellow soldier, tells her enough. But she does hope that, somehow, she managed to shove Malfoy right into the fray of the Daily Prophet.