"You do not get to make up your own rules. Put on your big boy pants and face reality." — Kim Wexler, Better Call Saul.
Chapter III
Cold sweat is beading on his forehead, the reek of the Great Hall is overwhelming, and Draco has the simultaneous urges to stumble off his seat and rush out of the Hall, and to pounce across the table and sink his teeth into Parkinson's bobbing throat. He clenches his jaw. Nothing has changed, really. Parkinson always did natter on about Witch Weekly, or hair products Draco pretended not to take mental notes on, or her anarchic relationship with Daphne Greengrass (of whom she is currently not friends with), on and on and on again. It's just now that it feels like her powdery cloud will smother him alive and if he has to keep listening to her shrill voice he might snap.
"I think Greengrass is in the right, here," Nott interjects, and Draco averts his stare as her throat stops bobbing. He winces as he awaits the inevitable outburst.
"You think what?"
From beside him, Nott shifts on his seat and chuckles cockily. But Draco can smell the growing sweat in his pine-scented hair. So Parkinson scares him. It begs the question as to why he continues to engage her in arguments like this one. "Well, you did point out the rather ravishing spot on her nose."
"And it gave her the right to make fun of my mole?" Draco's eyes inadvertently jump to the thumb-sized mole just above the corner of her right eyebrow. Of all the arguments he hasn't been able to forget about, this has got to be the stupidest between the two he's been unfortunate enough to learn. His blood boils and he starts gritting his teeth as she exclaims, "She knows how sensitive I am about my mole!" He has not been suffering for the better part of half an hour because Greengrass made fun of Parkinson's mole.
"But she might've been sensitive about her spot. Nobody likes waking up to a massive red bloomer on their nose, right?" Nott argues, as Draco forces bile down his throat under the evolving noise of the Great Hall.
Parkinson crosses her arms. "Spots go away."
"Sure. But she still has to deal with it for a few days. Weeks, even, if none of the stuff Pomfrey gives her works." Parkinson rolls her eyes; Nott sighs; Draco wipes sweat from his wet brow with the back of his hand. "Zabini, back me up here."
All eyes move to the brooding boy, who had been stuffing his mouth with what Draco recognises, with a subtle sniff, as chocolate cinnamon rolls. Zabini's eyes dart between Nott and Parkinson, then to the roll in his hand that's poised halfway toward his mouth. Draco smirks, realizing his internal dilemma. It must've caught Zabini's attention, because he looks towards him and narrows his eyes. And then his next words kill his smirk.
"Wow, Malfoy, are you alright? You look ill." The roles have been reversed — Draco narrows his eyes at him, and Zabini smirks. The unfortunate truth is that he has lost a bit of weight, has gotten paler than usual and has some lovely shadows to compliment his sunken eyes. For once in his life, Draco was hoping people wouldn't notice. Both Nott and Parkinson whip their heads in his direction, eyes scrutinizing, but it's the latter that he dreads the most.
"Oh, Drakey!" she coos, looking herself like she might pounce over the table and fuss over him. He scowls as Nott snickers in his ear. Parkinson's eyes land on the table in front of him, and he knows she's processing his empty plate. "Aren't you hungry, either? What's wrong?" she demands shrilly. Draco flinches. Even if he hadn't been keeping track of the calendar, he wouldn't need one to figure out the full moon is five days away.
He snaps.
Accio'ing an apple from the far end of the Slytherin table towards him — not even minding when it knocks Viktor Krum's goblet of pumpkin juice onto his plate of bacon and eggs, despite the dramatic gasps from Nott and Parkinson — Draco catches the fruit, eyeing his reflection in its shiny red exterior. He takes a hunking bite out of it that draws another, more offended gasp from Parkinson.
Then he stuffs his wand back into his pocket, hauls his bag onto his shoulder, gets up from the bench and turns his back on his ogling friends as he stalks towards the Great Hall's entrance.
"I'll see you lot in potions, then," he calls without looking back.
"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 Parkinson, Nott, Zabini and Greengrass following from behind. When Gryffindors have disputes, the whole world has to know about it… That's why Granger is standing with Potter at the front of the gaggle of lions, while Weaselbee, who is normally joined to them by the hip, is leaning on the wall with Thomas and Finnegan. Slytherins don't let outsiders know about their internal problems, because a gap in their ranks is a weakness. They all step to his sides, Parkinson and Greengrass side by side, to crowd over the Mudblood and the Boy Who Lived.
As Draco watches her eyes flash, he smirks. 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 Nott. Draco abruptly stiffens. It's the whisper of fingers rustling in fabric and kissing the wood of a wand that makes his blood simmer. He doubts even Potter could hear it. Keeping his smirk in place, his head swivels forwards as his eyes flicker over green, to firewhiskey brown.
Which dart over 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 when he realized Gryffindor's Golden Girl isn't so golden with Hogwarts; especially not with the Hufflepuffs. Parkinson and Greengrass are giggling at his right ear, which almost makes him miss it… his ears prick at the faint echo of Potter's fingertips padding over his wand. Draco's eyes flicker to where his hand is buried in his robe.
Granger's reaction catches his attention: the faint furrow of her brow, the slight parting of her lips. 'Support Cedric Diggory — our Pure Champion.' For a brief moment, he tastes victory. Finally he has gotten to the girl who has been tormenting him with her eye rolls and upturned noses and scoffs, as if he means nothing, as if he is lesser than her. That is, until she rolls her eyes, turns her nose up and scoffs. A trio combo. Not even the sight of Potter, red-faced and furious, can console him.
"Real witty, Malfoy," she says, accompanied by a yawn. Oh good, a new one, Draco thinks, sneering. Potter's Sterquil body spray is mingling with his sweat, but Scarhead is the only one getting hot and bothered here because she still smells agonizingly like green apples. Weasley bothers her. He's been witness to, or heard of, many of their rows over the years, and she always looks like she's on the verge of tears when he is a witness. Who gets worked up by a lanky boy from a poor family that breeds and eats like pigs?
"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 who are copying his movement; the message is facing her from all angles, reminding her of who she is. She is lesser than him. No eye rolls; no upturned nose; no scoffs; no yawns. Something inside him stirs as he notices her going pale as her chest starts rising up and down faster; something that makes his growing smirk falter.
Hesitation is weakness. That's what his father always says.
"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.
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 blood, he would see how they are turning white from how hard he clutches the porcelain. Hurting Potter doesn't bother him — it's the fact that he doesn't remember doing it that throttles his breathing. This creature Lupin infected him with? It's crawling its way into his mind, as torturously 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 has probably come from the greenhouses, because it reeks of mandrakes and dying orchids. Draco sneers at it, before looking back at his cracked reflection. As some more blood trickles down his skin, he narrows his eyes, which look like fractured sickles in the mirror. 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, his eyes drop back down to 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 has never been the lecturing type, so why start now? "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 the shame, the fear, the rage. His godfather may not judge. In fact, he could even help — to teach him how to brew Wolfsbane, and to provide him with the ingredients for it. But even if Snape promised not to say a word, Draco's father is a natural Legilimens. Just imagining the dawning realization, the curdle of his lips into a sneer that glints disgust in his eyes makes his stomach twist. 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 on his godfather's face, before it 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. His godfather attempts to draw him towards the bathroom's exit, but Draco's fingers scrabble over the rims of the sink behind him and grip it tightly. Two fathomless black eyes watch him expectantly.
"Don't tell my parents." His face twitches, as if he's about to argue. Draco has already conjured several counter-arguments in his mind, including a guilt-hexing one where 'it would make Mother worried'. But his breath is saved when his godfather exhales through his nose, and nods.
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.
x.x
x.x
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 inhuman or perhaps a superhuman 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, a cursing Seamus and even the gentle-natured 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 had 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 — while Dean tried the door to Snape's locked classroom, and Seamus snapped that "the bloody old snake wouldn't help anyway" — 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 wounds and staunching some bleeding; then Madam Pomfrey came bustling in with Professor McGonagall and Parvati in tow. She whisked Harry to the Hospital Wing, and Hermione decided not to stay behind long enough to eavesdrop on the urgent conversation between McGonagall and Snape.
Madam Pomfrey sewed up the wounds like smoothing wallpaper over a cracked wall, 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 females from Beauxbatons, 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 swishes open, and then, after a pause, draws closed. She takes her time by counting the number of chocolate frogs on Harry's bedside table (twenty-seven) before turning around, because she's been keeping track of Harry's conventional visitors. Ron's standing sheepishly there in all his towering glory, a box of chocolate frogs in his fists. Twenty-eight. 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.
She's wringing her hands on her lap. Watching the gentle rise and fall of Harry's chest. The amount of times she's seen him in a hospital gown really is abnormal. But normally it's just because of Quidditch, probably the most insane sport she's ever heard of — and in the Muggle world, there's a sport called unicycle hockey, which looks just like it sounds.
"I think Malfoy's lost his mind," she mutters, her brief amusement lost when the image of his snarling face flashes in her head.
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 an outburst of violence from him before. Normally that's Crabbe and Goyle's job, and those two dolts can't even swing their fists accurately. He usually doesn't get his hands dirty, not in that sense anyway. 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. Why would you need to pretend? Are you afraid of losing your, uh, golden reputation or something?" Hermione scoffs at him, her fingernails digging into her palms.
"I'm flattered, really," she snaps hotly. "Yes I'm so smart I can outsmart an ancient magical object! And I, with three years of magical experience, can outsmart Albus Dumbledore's anti-aging line!" she drawls the last part sarcastically, watching his freckles disappearing into his redding face.
"I wouldn't put it past you!" Ron retorts, raising his arms wide. 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 pretend that I don't break the rules as much as my friends because I'm just too perfect for that—"
"Ron!" she practically squeaks, fury causing her to shake and making tears spring in her eyes.
"—And how about I 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. Sometimes Hermione herself had resented some of the attention Harry got. But moments like the French girl with the camera make her guilty for her moments of resentment. She wonders, though, if Ron had thought that she was always cast in his own shadow. If he couldn't be under the spotlight, then at least he could be second-best. It's not like she's excited about making a complete prat of herself in front of the whole school. Her mind's running circles about all the arguments she should make towards him, but she simply just opens and closes her mouth silently like some fish that has been hauled off a shore with a hook in its mouth.
Abruptly, 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. Whenever she's passed him in the hallways or glimpsed his face on the Slytherin table or sidling about in the library he's wearing the surliest of faces. Now, 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, so do the doors in her mind that concern either Harry or Ron. Her heart hammers in her chest as she recounts the useless books she'd managed to hunt out in the library. All of her best efforts at researching the Goblet the past couple of weeks are buzzing in her skull, so much so that she's wondering if Krum can hear it. She gets more information about the past Triwizard tournaments rather than how the actual Goblet itself works. If she could reverse-engineer it to think her name is not in the tournament before the twenty-fourth of November — which is, alarmingly, twelve days from now — then that would be brilliant.
She was always good at probability, and she knows that, chances are, she's competing in the first task.
Hermione sighs silently, thinking up a distraction. 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 when some giant creature with venomous fangs are facing them. Great job distracting yourself, Hermione.
She starts focusing instead on the rhythm of their footsteps, and the occasional skiving student that skitters past them. 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. It's just a wand-health checking procedure.
"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."
Hermione's stomach drops. 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 he would be more miserable than ever.
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'. After all, at eleven years old she walked into a world where giant spiders, werewolves and snakes that can paralyze people exist.
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."
She doesn't trust herself to speak, so she just nods and does as instructed. From behind her, Krum's heavy footsteps follow.
"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 featuring portraits 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 jeweled 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 continues addressing 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 into 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 she's been throwing during her lessons, she seems to be in the majority who believe Hermione 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. Quick-Quotes Quill… Where have I heard about that? "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. Fred and George, that's where she's heard about it. They said there was an incident involving Mr. Weasley and an aspiring reporter hoping to get into the Daily Prophet. Mr. Weasley only stated that he's interested in Muggle culture and has a family, but somehow the article that got printed involved the Weasley Patriarch's unhealthy obsession with Muggles and his plot to turn his entire family into an army of Muggles.
The reporter's name is Edward Limus and he did make it into the Daily Prophet. Apparently the staff rooms are very awkward when both Limus and Mr. Weasley is in it. The twins laugh about it regularly, even though it's been six years. She frowns.
"Lovely!" says Skeeter, jolting Hermione out of her thoughts. Ripping off the top part of the parchment and crumpling it in her heavily jeweled hand, Skeeter stuffs it in the pocket of her magenta robes.
"But that's not what you said at all," Hermione blurts before she can stop herself, her mind still on an army of Muggle Weasleys.
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, staring back at Skeeter's overlarge smile.
"Is there any point in me talking?"
Skeeter's heavy jaw clenches slightly. "You can start by telling me why you entered," she replies through her teeth.
"I didn't," Hermione deadpans.
Skeeter's talons start jabbing her crocodile skin bag. Tap, tap, tap, tap. "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 wouldn't be surprised that her connection to Harry is Skeeter's biggest motivation for this, uh, small piece for the Daily Prophet. "Do you think you were tempted to enter the tournament because you want your name to live up to his?"
"Well, it seems you and your quill are quite content with fabricating a story so I'll just—" With lightning speed, Skeeter's 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 jeweled spectacles, she's right to be confident in her assumption. For a fraction of a 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. The scratching against parchment has paused, and when Hermione glances at the quill she wonders if it's sentient enough to be shocked.
"He's not used to not being the center of attention." She stops, trying to envision something that would hurt. Something that would make up for Harry's blood that is still under her fingernails. "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 erupts back into life and 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. But he still shakes her hand firmly.
Looking unabashed, Skeeter drops her hand and 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 drag Malfoy in with her. To put a little spot on his name that his father wouldn't be able to clear away with money nor influence.
