The next day Ginny announces that she hasn't annoyed her favourite brother enough recently (Ginny's code for 'I'm worried about you'), so they organise an impromptu Sunday meal at George and Angelina's apartment. They all bring a dish, inviting everyone who is free out of their revolving circle of friends.
At lunch Angelina and George joke and smile and perform their role of the happy-go-lucky couple so well Hermione almost believes it. But on her way to the toilet she walks past their bedroom and inside there's a sleeping bag, at a distance from the bed. The floor is littered with objects and clothes, as if thrown during a fight. When she returns to the loud, laughing group in the kitchen, she starts paying attention to how George snaps at Ron and the way his face pulls when Ginny leads him aside and asks him if he's doing okay. Hermione had told Harry he needn't apologise to George – it wasn't his fault – but she watches Harry say sorry to George and then later quietly to a tired-looking Angelina, his face struck with guilt.
So the Sunday Prophet has done its work, it seems.
As plates are cleared away, her stomach satisfied for the next week, she announces she has to leave. Work. It causes a series of groans, and Ron claims that she's just too chicken to play Wizards Against Humanity, but she threatens to transfigure him into a chicken and he backtracks remarkably quickly.
She almost invites him to come with her. She has a meeting with a (hopefully) sympathetic top Prophet journalist to outline her plan for a set of basic press regulations. It's in muggle London, because the newspaper would blow this up in her face if they knew.
It's also Lavender Bloody Brown, but Hermione's an adult enough to work around that.
She knows bringing Ron would be the smarter move. He and Lavender are still ridiculously close for exes, and he has an eye for good strategy.
But Hermione can't stomach the awkwardness of it. He had chosen the warmer, lovelier, smiling woman over her the instant they broke up six years ago, and however definite his and Lavender's subsequent split was, she couldn't bear the three of them sitting in a muggle cafe, two exes and the man they once loved. She wants, desperately, to ask Lavender if anything happened between them while she and Ron were still together, to watch Ron's face while she asks it, and finally know.
But because she has some healthy boundaries, somewhere, she goes to face Lavender alone. She tries to stay quiet and polite, taking a resentful sip of hipster coffee as the Prophet's Miss Fortune (yes, that's a section) writer explains that her regulations will never work.
"It's not that I disagree. The Prophet takes things too far - they did it in the war and they've done it since. But it'll never pass the Wizegamot, because you're forgetting something important." Lavender's blonde curls bounce so perfectly that it must be magical.
"I'm breaking wizarding tradition, I know."
"It's not that. Look, why do you think my horoscope section is so popular?"
Because the magical world is full of superstitious idiots, she doesn't say.
"Wizards are bored, Hermione. Bored and nosy. You were our heroes, and none of you wanted to gossip about your public lives. So, we speculate. Not everyone is as practical as you."
Practical, that one bites. Practical was one of the words Ron had used, to say incapable of romance.
"Plus, you do get the benefits of fame."
The fame of dating war-hero Ron Weasley had been a great boost to Lavender's journalism career, but she is definitely not allowed to say that. Ron had jumped down her throat for even implying it, back then. She looks around the cafe idly to stop herself from snapping.
The woman at the next table is distractingly familiar, now she looks at her. Five foot nothing, sharp cheekbones, with edgy cropped black hair. Is that Pansy Parkinson? She has seen that face smirking at her from every floating billboard in Diagon Alley.
But how in Camelot did the Prophet's prominent gossip journalist and model find her here?
She glares at Lavender. Was this a set-up? Lavender speaking to her so Parkinson could report it and print in the Prophet tomorrow? She'd hadn't expected that from her old roommate. She wishes, again that she had brought Ron, if only to show him this. She stands up to leave.
"Thank you for the seat," Parkinson says, sitting herself in Hermione's now vacant chair. Right, so clearly they weren't pretending anymore, now she had been spotted. Hermione grabs her folders and turns away. "Really Granger," Parkinson drawls. "Fame is much less of a price for the war than the one you were expecting, isn't it? It's certainly less than others paid." She turns back to see Parkinson's eyes flicker to Lavender.
She had thought Lavender had some operation, because her face is perfect now, pristine and untouched, but something in Lavender's flinch suggests… Well, scars from werewolf claws never truly fade, she should have remembered that. It must take up a lot of energy, to apply an underlying glamour every single day.
But that's not what's important here. "Is this you trying to catch me out, Parkinson?"
"It's a noble effort Granger, your whole press regulation thing. But it's undoubtedly doomed. And no, I won't be reporting your conversation tomorrow."
"Thank you." She has no way of telling if Parkinson is speaking truth, but there's no harm in being polite.
"Oh, it's not altruism. No one really cares that you're trying to save the world, Grangey, they only care who we can pretend you're fucking." Parkinson raises Hermione's half-drunk coffee cup to toast her sarcastically.
Lavender glares at Parkinson and Parkinson lessens her aggressive posture minutely, returning the cup to its saucer with a delicate tinkle of crockery.
"There is a way to do it," Lavender says, into the awkward silence of two school-yard enemies. "That's why Pansy is here. It was her idea, really, once I told her about-"
"You told her I contacted you?"
"I trust her," Lavender says simply. There's something in Parkinson's face at that, that suggests it means more than she would have guessed Lavender's trust would mean, to someone like Parkinson.
"You could buy the Prophet out," Lavender continues, clearly oblivious to whatever Parkinson's face was doing.
"Is it for sale?"
Lavender gives a dainty shrug. "Not officially, but it's struggling. Harry has enough money to tempt them. And honestly you could make a fortune if you did a few publicity stunts. Use the cash to shake the editors' boots a little."
The possibility of it is… amazing. Nothing more printed about Angelina's potential affair, no more vicious articles about "Loony Lovebad's" wacky opinions. Keep werewolf-baiting out the press, and finally silence the rumours that Bill would rip them all to shreds on a full-moon night. She wouldn't have to hear Ministry colleagues complain that they'd read that Fleur's veela magic was seducing the Minister for Magic.
They would be able to walk through magical London without cameramen stalking them. Harry could lessen some of the extreme protections on his house, whose address was outed by the Prophet each time he moved.
And yet…
Hermione sighs. "That would be amazing. But it would also be the exact opposite of what these regulations mean." The Prophet had been independent since the war ended, had developed a reputation for hounding the rich and influential, not kowtowing to them. They'd be setting the precedent that money controls the media. That the rich own public opinion. It would be a shitty thing to do, just to ease their lives.
"That's what I thought you'd think," Lavender says agreeably. Why is she being so nice, when Hermione is still so awkward? "If you come up with a better plan, or get more support, I'm willing to listen. I think you're right in principle. As does Pansy, though she'll never tell you that."
Parkinson stretches out her legs and places her heels on Lavender's chair. "Principles are pesky things. But do stay in touch, Granger," she says, dismissively. "And give Ginny the option to buy us all. She has all Potter's cash, and I reckon she'd do it, for George."
Parkinson shouldn't know that this is about George. Hermione forces her face to remain unbothered.
"And, Hermione?" Lavender says. "I've heard some rumours about other buyers. And from their surnames, they wouldn't treat you well. Just – be careful, okay?"
She feels terrible for suspecting Lavender, when it's clear now that she cares. Hermione nods at her, and leaves money to pay for her coffee. As she walks out the cafe she looks back at the two women. Lavender huffily lifts up Parkinson's feet and drops them off her chair and Parkinson throws her head to smirk at Lavender. The blonde-haired girl giggles and Parkinson…
There's something about how the Slytherin angles herself towards Lavender's smiles.
Oh, Hermione thinks, a little blankly. Huh. It makes her feel almost sympathetic to Parkinson, because although she'd heard Lavender talking about girls as well as guys back at school, Lavender was never subtle about expressing affection, and there was definitely no Pan-Pan necklace.
She does end up heading to the office, walking through the empty corridors of her department (it is a Sunday after all, most people have lives). She hurries past the Malfoy poster still pinned to the receptionist's desk. She'd always wondered how much Parkinson knew about her then-friendship with Malfoy. Parkinson had graduated on time, so she hadn't repeated the year with them, but her and Malfoy had stayed close, as far as she could tell. The Prophet paired the two of them together in some recurring on-off relationship, which, from the pictures, had been sexual for a couple of years after the war and then filtered off.
Unless Malfoy had bribed the Prophet after that point.
Well, it's not like she'd have to see Parkinson again anytime soon. She tries to settle into getting some work done in her office, but finds herself moving from one task to another, checking through memos without dealing with any of them.
And it turns out, with a click of her door, that she spoke too soon.
Because just two hours after the awkward coffee with Lavender, Parkinson strides into Hermione's office like she owns it. Hermione considers chucking her out, but instead shuts the door behind her and casts three strong privacy charms. There was no way this conversation would be idle chit-chat.
"Two times in one day, Parkinson. Lovely."
The woman leans against Hermione's desk. "I just couldn't get enough of you." Then she spreads photos across the desk. Angelina kissing a man in a back alley, in an office straddling his lap, laughing with him in a kitchen Hermione recognises, one that her friends were still laughing in right now.
And the man…
Hermione collects the photos together and turns them over so she doesn't have to look.
"Disgusting, right?" Parkinson says. "And they accuse us old purebloods of incest."
"He isn't George's brother." But even as she denies it, she knows he's as close as. And that these photos in front of her would break George's marriage and his closest friendship. She stews in it, waiting for the blackmail demands.
"Three weeks," Parkinson finally says. "That should do it, don't you think? I'm sure you can scavenge around for enough galleons in that time."
"Is this a warning, Parkinson, or a threat?"
The woman tilts her head. "Yes."
Why hadn't they published these already? This was one hell of a scoop, and not even a lie for once.
"You're not the type to offer things for free," Hermione levels.
"There won't be much room for a gossip reporter in a Potter-owned Prophet. And this story offends the head of the only other decent wizarding media brand."
"So, you want me to assure your job in this hypothetical where I apparently buy out the Prophet?"
"Well, I'd take a binding contract over your assurances, thanks."
"I didn't realise you cared about decent, anyway. Why not Witch Weekly?"
A tiny blush of pink spreads on Parkinson's cheeks. "They don't want a horoscope writer."
"And you have some intense desire to fortune tell… oh. Lavender? You're doing this for Lavender?"
"Honestly, Granger, must you be so upfront? I'm doing you a favour."
She was still suspicious. Too much of this didn't make sense. "Why not Ginny, though? She has a lot more incentive to protect George."
"You came on recommendation."
"From Lavender?"
"Obviously not from Lavender, you idiot."
She and Pansy Parkinson didn't share any friends or connections. The most they had interacted was Parkinson insulting her in print for Merlin's sake! Unless…
Malfoy?
Something in her warms before she shuts down on it. Maybe he had recommended her to Parkinson as the gullible fool of the Golden Trio. The one inclined to sympathise with Slytherins, if they showed a little weakness. No doubt this whole interest in Lavender was fake, because Malfoy knew she would fall for the idea of a Slytherin in love.
Or, the younger Hermione would have fallen for it.
"Six weeks," she states. "Six weeks, and I'd like you to leave now, Parkinson."
"No way am I holding on that long. If my editor gets wind of this, I lose my scoop, my cut-throat reputation and my job."
"I can't rack up that money in twenty-one days." Really, she can't come up with a better plan in that time. Hermione needed one hell of a plan to defeat this.
"Fine!" Parkinson exclaims. "One month. One month, and then I expose Weasley and Johnson's marriage for the shambles it is."
One month, and George loses the two people he clung to after losing his twin.
Parkinson grabs some of Hermione's floo powder and chucks it in the office fireplace. She leaves the photos where they are; she must have numerous copies.
When she's gone, Hermione picks up each photo and throws it into the burning fireplace and watches them darken, and gradually reduce to black ash.
Then she picks up the floo powder, calls out the address of Malfoy's apartment and steps into the fire.
Authors Note:
So... today is not a Friday *hides behind an apologetic smile*
Thanks to everyone who has followed, favourited or reviewed! Posting on fanfiction sites for the first time properly is such a strange, lovely experience, and I really appreciate y'all. Let me know if you could/couldn't figure out who Angelina was cheating with - I hope I left enough clues.
I also started Tumblr this week, and if you want to help teach me how the hell to use it (I'm not as old as that makes me sound), I'm wolfram-matter on there :)