By the end of the day Hermione had received no less than 650 purple memos, only about 15 that had anything to do with her job. Malfoy had been right. Over half of them were from pureblooded males who wanted to date or marry her. The rest had been divided between people telling her they had known all along who she would turn out to be, and the other half saying that she was lying or crazy or worse.
She sighed, laying her head down on her desk. There was a knock at the door for about the 100th time that day. "Come in," Hermione groaned wearily, not bothering to lift her head.
"Not napping on the job, are we?" a sharp voice said from the doorway. Hermione knew that voice…
"Rita Skeeter," she said in disgust. Sure enough, there was the disreputable reporter herself, looking very much improved in station than the last time Hermione had seen her. Rita had been out of work for almost a year then.
Now her shock-blonde hair was again laid in elaborate curls, a new set of rhinestone glasses shining on the bridge of her nose, and what looked like an acid-green dragon skin jacket over her robes. She made a grand flourish with her hands, indicating herself.
"Yes, I know," she said airily, as if Hermione had just given her a large compliment. "But you know why I'm here, of course! Everyone is talking about you," Rita said, sitting down and giving Hermione a big wink. She pulled out a notebook and a quill that matched her jacket. The quill began scribbling away of its own accord.
"I know you don't mind me using a Quick-Quotes quill," she added, flashing Hermione what she apparently thought was a kind smile. "I know they told you I'd wait for your owl, but I'm sure you understand; I mean, this story must have out! The readers want to know!"
"You wrote that story in the Prophet, then," Hermione said softly, realization dawning on her face as she spoke. "But how did you…"
"Oh, my dear, a journalist has her ways, you know, sources, anonymous tips, leads…" but Rita trailed off at the fiery look on Hermione's face. "Oh all right," she blustered after a moment, all drama and flair gone immediately from her voice.
"I was in a Muggle café yesterday, grabbing a cup of coffee; just like I do every Sunday," she added, after a sharp look from Hermione. "No, Miss Granger, I was not following you. Anyway, I heard a group of young people laughing, and imagine my surprise when I saw the 'Golden Trio' sitting at a corner table! Naturally, I was curious, so I got a bit closer…and of course I overheard some things…"
"You mean you transformed into you Animagus form and deliberately eavesdropped!" Hermione fumed, rising from her seat. Rita looked a bit intimidated, but stood up as well.
"My dear, I am a journalist. I do whatever it takes to get the story, even if I have to resort to…unconventional methods."
"Well you can just take your 'unconventional methods' and get out of my office," Hermione answered, her voice dangerously low. Rita "humphed" and swept her robes in what was apparently supposed to be a grand way as she spun around and flounced toward the door.
"And take your bloody Quick-Quotes quill with you!" Hermione called after her, snatching the still-scribbling quill and paper out of the air and hurling it out the door after its owner.
"Scratch that last," she heard Rita mutter to the quill as Hermione raised her wand and the door slammed shut.
When Hermione got back to her apartment building that evening, she saw that her letter box was filled to bursting. There were several more marriage proposals, which Hermione promptly threw into the fire when she reached her flat. She was left with a large pink envelope.
She grabbed an apple from the bowl on her kitchen counter, and sat at the table, still holding the envelope. She opened it with her free hand and almost choked on her bite of apple.
It was a late payment notice from her landlord, saying she had until the end of the week to make not only this month's rent, but the last two months as well. If she didn't, she would be evicted, effective Friday morning at 8:00.
Perfect, thought Hermione, rubbing the bridge of her nose wearily. She knew she was behind on rent, but she really hadn't thought they'd actually chuck her out.
Maybe I should help Malfoy. The thought formed before she could stop herself.
"I must be really tired to actually be considering helping Malfoy," she said aloud, throwing her half-eaten apple in the garbage bin and heading straight to bed.
Try as she might, though, sleep wouldn't come for Hermione. She signed and finally gave up, knowing that her brain wouldn't stop until she had reasoned her way through this problem and found a suitable solution.
The sane part of her brain was saying that she should stay far, far away from Draco Malfoy. Even though she hardly considered him dangerous anymore, he wasn't exactly the kind of person she usually associated herself with. And the deal he was offering her! Protection in exchange for a lie! He wanted her to help him deceive his loved ones, all so he wouldn't have to get married. No, he deserved what he got; served him right for being a prat all these years. Besides, he couldn't be trusted.
But all this nonsense she was having to deal with! Malfoy had said he could make it all go away. Somehow she didn't care what he did as long as she never had to open another unwarranted marriage proposal. Or speak to Rita Skeeter ever again. Besides, he's said he would pay her, and right now, couldn't she use the extra money?
This was the barking mad part of her brain. All thoughts from this bit of her brain should be locked in a small box and buried at the bottom of a deep lake until she was able to think more clearly.
Hermione finally fell asleep well after midnight, her mind firmly made up that she would never make any sort of deal with Draco Malfoy, that her newfound popularity would surely fade with time, and that tomorrow, she would look into that whole inheritance-theory of Ron's. Couldn't hurt.
Draco sat in Hermione's office Tuesday morning feeling decidedly less than sure about his plan to get her to pose as his fiancé. He had been so sure that he had her yesterday morning, but as the day wore on, he had actually begun to doubt himself.
Draco Malfoy was not used to doubting himself. He always got what he wanted. But as he had dressed that morning to go to the Ministry, he had a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.
She was late this morning, Draco mused, glancing at the small clock on Hermione's desk for the sixth time. It was twenty past eight when she finally stumbled in, looking disheveled and breathless, carrying a tall stack of paper.
"You took your time today, didn't you, Granger?" Draco sneered, examining his fingernails. "Some people have places to be, but I suppose you think you're above the rest of us now?"
Hermione looked for a moment as thought she was going to burst into tears. Then, much to Draco's horror, she did.
"Don't you pretend to know what I've been through this morning, Draco Malfoy!" she sobbed, throwing the papers wildly into the air. In the snowstorm of paper that followed, Hermione began to pace her office furiously.
"I can't even walk to work without being mobbed with people, everywhere I go they won't leave me alone; if I get one more marriage proposal I'm going to scream; and I suppose you already know what that horrible Rita Skeeter woman wrote about me this morning," she finished, dropping into the wooden chair in front of her desk.
Draco glanced down at the Daily Prophet on the desk in front of him, grateful for an excuse to tear his eyes away from this disgusting display of emotion. Why hadn't he noticed the paper before? He skimmed through the story, mostly a bunch of rubbish about how discovering her pureblood status had turned Hermione into a self-indulged snob who thought it was below her station to give interviews and who now enjoyed chucking things at innocent reporters who only wanted to publish the truth. Draco chuckled.
"I suppose you think it's funny," Hermione sniffed, wiping her eyes on the sleeve of her robe. At least she had stopped crying for the time being.
"You know, Granger," he said, feeling slightly more cheerful, "if you agreed to help me, I could have this Skeeter woman drawn and quartered, if you like."
"Could you just make her stop writing bad things about me?" Hermione said softly, looking for all the world like a small little girl.
"Only if you agree to help me, pet," Draco replied, his voice low. Hermione looked as if she were deep in thought for a few moments. Then she sighed deeply.
"If I were to help you…and that's a big if…what would I have to do?"
"Well, you would come on a few make-believe dates with me, just enough for the papers to have a little field day about our 'affair,'" Draco began, watching her face for any signs that she might be changing her mind. He almost had her now, and he couldn't risk loosing the little bit of ground he had just gained.
"Then, just before my birthday, you would come with me to my parents' house, where I would announce that you were my choice," he continued. "My parents would, of course, hate you, and the rest would fall into place."
"How would I make them hate me?" Hermione asked curiously. Draco chuckled softly.
"Just be yourself, love," he answered. Hermione's back stiffened and Draco almost regretted saying it. Almost.
"You sure know how to charm a girl, Malfoy," she said, the coners of her mouth twitching.
"Will you do it?" he asked.
"Say 'please,'" Hermione said coyly.
"Malfoys don't say 'please,'" he responded, slightly annoyed now. She was teasing him, the witch.
"I know," she sighed, standing up. "You mentioned something yesterday about payment?"
Draco was momentarily caught off guard. Yes, he had said that, hadn't he? He hadn't thought he would actually call his bluff, though; after all, wasn't that stooping a little low for her?
"What, you thought I would be above accepting your money?" she asked smugly, as if she had read his thoughts. "Did you actually think I'd do it for free?"
"I guess Potter's saintliness hasn't rubbed off on you after all," Draco replied, slightly amused. "Name your price."
A/N – So. I've been busy and I haven't been able to personally reply to all of your lovely reviews this week. But thank you just the same! Thank you thank you thank you. It's reviews that keep me going, I think.
Anyway, so I asked a couple of chapters ago for some suggestions on a name, and I've got nada. NOBODY has given me any suggestions. So I'm going to hold a bit of a contest. Whoever gives me the best name, not only will I keep it as the title for this story, but I will also email you the next chapter in advance. As in, you'll be the first to read it. Is that a good enough incentive? I certainly hope so.
So everybody put on their thinking caps and come up with a name for this poor untitled story!