November 18th
Hermione's second night in the Dower House was marginally better than the first. At least she was able to get more sleep than she had the night before. Rodolphus seemed sincere in his assurance that he would only want her in his bed at her desire. Never before had he forced her to do anything that she didn't want to, but that was a long time ago. Another lifetime, really. She wasn't the same person that she used to be and she got the impression that neither was he.
After she was showered and dressed for the day, she descended the stairs to the small dining room where Rodolphus had all of his meals served to him by his family's house-elves. Though it was never going to be something that she was comfortable with, she didn't make any fuss about the rights of the creatures his family kept enslaved for dozens of generations. He wouldn't be persuaded and she wanted him happy and relaxed. Breakfast was always served promptly at eight unless the master was recovering from his exertions the night before.
He was already seated at the table when she entered. At the sound of her footsteps, Rodolphus folded down the morning edition of the Daily Prophet he was reading to smile and wish her a good morning. When he asked her how she slept she was able to give him a truthful answer. Plates appeared in front of her the moment she sat down in the chair to his left. As grateful as she was for a warm, free meal, she worried that the churning of her stomach wouldn't allow her to enjoy it or even to swallow much. Too much stress brought on a number of digestive issues that she didn't want to contemplate. The only cure for many of those ailments was for the reduction of stress. Until she was dead or everyone else was dead, she didn't expect there to be much opportunity for that.
"Anything interesting in there this morning?"
She wasn't sure why she was so quick to try to engage him in conversation. The blessed silence of the morning meal was something that she could've gotten used to. When she spoke, Rodolphus politely folded the newspaper and set it down next to his plate.
"Not particularly, no. The quality of journalism has gone way down in recent years. Especially since the best reporters keep mysteriously dying."
Rodolphus seemed to be amused by the reminder of the murders. Even with his smile Hermione still worried that he was angry about what happened to Alecto. She didn't understand the extent of their relationship or their partnership. Clearly they'd been working together for years. Was he just pretending to be unbothered so he could catch her off-guard later? Once again she felt the desire to start asking questions, but she stopped herself out of fear of appearing too eager.
"Marcus and his lovely wife were murdered. Rabastan found them last night."
"How awful."
He laughed at her unconvincing response. At some point in the past she'd made it perfectly clear how she felt about Marietta Flint neé Edgecombe. The bitch could rot in Hell for all she cared. She wouldn't shed a single tear or have a moment of regret for what she did. More than once Rodolphus mentioned the scarring of the horrible woman's face that she was responsible for to see if she felt any remorse. She didn't. The terms of the parchment that all members of Dumbledore's Army signed had been clear. It wasn't Hermione's fault that the witch thought she was above them.
"Albert printed a story about it. So many suspicious murders lately. He has a theory."
"Don't tell me. He thinks I'm responsible."
His renewed laughter was the only answer she needed. Not that she was surprised. Of course Albert would automatically assume that she was responsible. He'd been boosting his newspaper sales for months with the the drivel that she was crazy and unhinged. Curious to know just how disgusting his article was, Hermione ripped the paper away from Rodolphus to read for herself.
The wizard was a fool not to recognize that he was making a dangerous enemy. She'd already told him that she was tired of the lies that were printed about her because they were upsetting her son. What could Oliver think of his mother if every time he opened the newspaper he had to read about her being a suspect in a heinous crime? Considering the Flint children went to school at Hogwarts with her son, it was entirely possible that one of them might try to retaliate by harming Oliver. That was unacceptable. She would not allow that horrible man the opportunity to print another word about her.
Offering no explanation, Hermione rose to her feet and stormed out of the Dower House. No one tried to stop her even as she headed for the gates. Rodolphus knew her well enough to understand when she could not be deterred. When she was free to Apparate, she thought about the London offices of the Daily Prophet in Diagon Alley. She was there only seconds later.
Though it was a Sunday morning, she had little doubt that Albert would already be in the office. Because he was so understaffed he had to be there longer hours to make certain that the newspaper continued to run smoothly. Besides, Sundays were the busiest days. Not only was the morning edition the largest volume all week, there was always an evening edition as well.
As she stood outside of the office willing herself to remain calm, she knew what she had to do. The newspaper had long ago served its usefulness. She never wanted to see another Daily Prophet for as long as she lived. Diagon Alley was quiet that early in the morning. Anyone who crossed her path was wise enough to pass quickly. None of them dared to look her in the eye. Perhaps she had the look of madness that the paper was so quick to report on.
She pointed her wand at the leftmost corner of the building and muttered a spell. Then she repeated the same with the right. Familiarity with the offices meant that she knew it was a detached building sharing no common walls with any of its neighbors. The owners of the nearby shops would be pleased to have that design feature before the day was over. She was able to slip between the Daily Prophet offices and its immediate neighbor to sneak around to the back of the building. Most of the deliveries were made in the back. All in all, perhaps five minutes passed before she had the entire office building coated in an invisible containment field. If her spell managed to break out of the field, she would be universally despised and hated even more than she already was. Countless innocents would be killed as well. She couldn't afford to have that on her conscience. Only when she was one hundred percent confident that the containment field Felix Travers taught her years earlier was up correctly and impenetrable did she circle back around to the front of the building.
The staff of the Daily Prophet had been printing lies in its newspaper since the publication's founding in 1743. It was time that something was done about it. She was able to push aside the nagging in the back of her mind that for once the paper was telling the truth. She did murder the Flints. Ignoring the reminder was easy because she knew there were plenty of other times that they'd printed nothing but codswallop and tosh.
No one stopped her when she entered the building. The full staff wasn't there, but plenty of offices had occupants. She only had eyes for one, however. Albert was in the process of bringing a coffee cup to his lips when she threw open the door. The dark liquid sloshed out of the cup, staining the front of his shirt. Realizing by the look in her face that she wasn't there to seduce him again or to have a friendly chat, the editor reached immediately for his wand. A short duel ensued before Hermione had him bound to his chair, his wand snapped in two at his feet.
"I told you that your lies were upsetting my son."
"Maybe your son needs to know what sort of crazy whore his mother really is."
She wouldn't allow him to get under her skin. His hatred for her went back many years. Nothing he said had the power to hurt her again. Focusing on the depth of darkness she had within herself, Hermione conjured a ball of fire into her hand. Not quite the bluebell flames of her youth, she'd graduated to something more sinister. Unable to move from his chair and recognizing the contained ball of Fiendfyre she held in her hand, Albert Runcorn was terrified.
"What do you think you're playing at?"
Already her concentration was wavering. Fiendfyre was a difficult Dark spell to cast in the first place, but to control it was even harder. Most died in their first attempt. She was grateful that she'd had a good teacher in Felix. Dropping the fireball on his desk, she knew that she would have to leave the building quickly lest she get caught in the inferno herself. The flames overtook his entire desk, jumping to the fabric of his robes. His screams were loud in her ears as she calmly walked out of his office.
The rest of the staff in the building worked themselves up into a panic at the first shouts of pain. Though very few of them had ever seen Fiendfyre in person, not a single one of them was unaware of what they were seeing. Albert's screams of torment mingled with the terrified shrieks from his employees. Hermione continued her calm walk to the front door while everyone else ran frantically for the front door or the back.
By the time she reached the exit, Albert's screams were over. She allowed a small smile to stretch across her lips. Maybe she should've gotten rid of him earlier when it was evident that he would be nothing but an enemy. No one even bothered to try to save the editor. It was every man for himself. How fitting for the chaos their world had descended into.
A terrified crowd of concerned shopkeepers and curious bystanders gathered round the escaped newspaper staff. Hermione allowed herself to be pleased that it seemed as if most of the staff, if not all, was able to get out of the building before it was fully engulfed in the flames. Collateral damage used to mean nothing to her, but that was no longer the case. She wanted to get rid of her enemies without killing anyone else she shouldn't. Her fractured soul could only take so much. When she had to atone for her sins in the mysterious afterlife, assuming that one even existed, she didn't want another innocent soul on her conscience.
The containment field kept the Fiendfyre from escaping the building. Without it, the unpredictable and dangerous spell could potentially take over all of Diagon Alley. She knew it was a risk when she cast the spell. Going down in history as the witch who singlehandedly destroyed Diagon Alley with a spell might've been amusing, but she was glad that she hadn't completely destroyed the iconic location. She'd had some wonderful memories there.
"What happened here?"
"I don't know. We were just inside working and then we heard screams."
Several of the rattled staff of the newspaper began giving their accounts to the crowd. When Hermione felt the faces begin to turn one by one in to her direction, she knew it was time to leave. The Fiendfyre would eventually die out on its own when there was nothing left within the containment field for it to consume or a competent member of the Ministry would be summoned to take care of it. Either way, the offices of the Daily Prophet and its editor were history.