Chapter Six: Vulnerable
Disclaimer: I own none of the material written by J. K. Rowling, or her publishing company.
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Magnolia flowers symbolized purity and nobility. Each harsh, guttural breath which ripped through Hermione's windpipe left her feeling dizzier, but still she stared at those damned petals. Softer than silk, whiter than milk, and haughtily defiant against the summer breeze which pushed it back and forth. The girl knew that she probably looked insane, glaring at a flowerbed so intensely, but something about exercise left her feeling raw. In that moment every last feeling of inferiority and inadequacy was out in the open. Hermione was trapped in an impossible position where survival meant becoming something she most certainly was not. Tears began to prick at her brown eyes yet they were easily quelled with several, rapid blinks.
Regaining her breath the muggleborn witch finally limped towards home lest Cordelia look out the window and catch a glimpse of the bizarre trance. Pushing her back ramrod straight Hermione unlocked the door, and bypassed the kitchen entirely in favour of a shower. Running was proving to be a very difficult challenge with the accompanying abdominal cramps leaving her unable to contend with her grandmother. Besides, she knew better than to ever show up to breakfast with tears in her eyes. She could almost imagine Cordelia sneering, 'If pureblood tears are a weakness, then mudblood tears are a death sentence.' Warm water always did the trick though, and Hermione was sitting at the dining table in almost no time at all.
Hair sleekened by magical pommade, clad in an Oxford shirt and beige Louis Vuitton skirt. She might have been forced to change everything about her appearance, but there was one comfort Cordelia could not take away. Over the past five days they had fallen into a clumsy routine where Hermione would retreat into her books while her grandmother drank lots of black coffee and read the newspapers. That transition from wine to coffee was a development which greatly interested the twelve year old. It showed that Cordelia was working on something big, so important that all of her wits were required. Fortunately these plans were left undiscussed.
Until that morning of course. Hermione was quite engrossed in Possession and Damnation, so much so that she failed to notice that Cordelia had folded her newspaper back into a neat, little rectangle. Eventually, however, she felt the mocking stare being sent in her direction. "You will be having an interview with Rita Skeeter this morning," The woman stated firmly, "During which you will be charming, engaging, and likeable." She shivered, not only at the idea of an interview with Rita Skeeter, but at the idea of having to be those three, heavily-emphasized adjectives. "Now, if I were to ask you," Her grandmother paused thoughtfully, "Why do you deserve to inherit the entire Pyrite estate, you would respond with?"
Breathing deeply, for this aforementioned estate was the crux of her grandmother's plans, Hermione contemplated various approaches. She could be defiant, humble, or even cunning, yet there was an obvious option lying just within her grasp. "Pyrite blood runs through my veins," She answered determinedly, "And I will do more for the House than those Death Eaters who are rotting away in Azkaban." The muggleborn was a know-it-all, something that would never completely change, and Rita Skeeter would get answers to all of her questions. Cordelia gave a grudging nod at the response given. Feeling somewhat annoyed at being forced into another situation without warning, or permission, Hermione asked coolly, "Where will you be during my interview?"
"While you are at the Daily Prophet, complying with everything they ask of you," Snapped the witch, "I shall be meeting with an old... Friend." A hand swept across the desk to grab tightly onto Hermione's own. "We both have jobs to do today, sway the public to your side, and I will do the rest." Nodding reluctantly, while wishing that Dumbledore and Voldemort would just leave her the hell alone, the girl steeled herself for what would be quite the political endeavor. She was a mudblood after all, and a lack of confidence would only make half the wizarding population hate her more. Unable to start reading her book again Hermione patiently waited until Cordelia finished drinking the revolting cup of something. She wondered if the old woman had finally upgraded from black coffee to slurping liquid heroin.
They then locked hands tightly with little communication, or warning, and apparated away from the Granger residence with a small pop.
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Barnabus Cuffe stood with tightly-clasped arms, left leather shoe tapping sharply against the marble floor. Soft clicks pierced his eardrums feeding further into an anxiety which he had thought was long gone. Confidence came with being editor of the Daily Prophet, and the sixty year old man felt himself feeling like a fledgling reporter again. Sinking his teeth tightly into a juicy story so that no one else could steal it from him. "Where are they?" He snapped viciously at his personal assistant who stood next to him, quavering in her strappy heels. The young woman probably realized that should the Grangers fail to arrive it would somehow be blamed on her. Pity, the editor decided, for she had a rather nice rump he enjoyed looking at.
Not much longer, however, a young witch with a very recognizable face strode determinedly through the front doors. She was dressed well in fashionable muggle attire, Barnabus supposed, yet good enough was far from extraordinary. His assistant slumped in relief only to remember that her employer did not like to see his workers so uncomposed. "Miss Granger," He smiled politely down at the Wizarding World's newest hero, wondering silently how many copies would sell the next evening. "I was under the impression that your grandmother would be joining us today as well."
"She had another engagement which needed seeing to," The muggleborn clasped both hands together forcing her back to go even straighter. "I am more than capable of watching after myself." The older man sized up the celebrity. He found himself unnerved by the intelligence in those brown eyes, yet he supposed it was nice that Cordelia Morrigan would not be present. That old bat had been a force to be reckoned with back in Hogwarts, now would certainly be no different. Hopefully her granddaughter would prove a little more…malleable. "Thank you for helping to arrange my interview with Miss Skeeter today," Smiled the girl somewhat forcedly, "I am eager to get started."
"This is Priscilla Fawley," Barnabas gestured towards the secretary in response, not bothering to return any false pleasantries. "She will be helping you to Miss Skeeter's office, and then will assist with your photoshoot. I will be meeting momentarily with Miss Skeeter to ensure that her questions take your grandmother's…Considerations into account." By considerations he meant the long list of demands which the old hag sent to him during their earliest phase of correspondences. This was clearly part of an ambitious plot which Cordelia was pushing to fruition, and he would keep his nose clean of it so long as the muggleborn before him answered the questions.
She simply nodded at him with a flawless mask of indifference. Barnabas found himself unsurprised by how different Hermione Granger looked from that first picture he had published in the Prophet two weeks prior. Her light-brown hair was no longer a hedge of bushy frizz having been sleekened with Sleakeazy. Those buck teeth, which were truly an eyesore, had been shrunken down to a much more flattering size. Cordelia never would have tolerated her progeny to have such an unacceptable appearance, especially with how fixated the public eye was on her granddaughter. Pretty faces were more likeable faces.
He watched them step into one of the elevator lifts then waited until they were hefted out of sight. With a pleasant smile spread across his no longer anxious face Barnabus made his way through the Prophet headquarters at a brisk pace. The brown nosers complimented his snappy suit as he passed them by while those who still maintained a shred of dignity simply nodded. Eventually the editor came to a stop at his top reporter's office door, desperately trying to steel himself for what was about to come. Everyone knew that Rita Skeeter wanted the position of editor very badly. So badly that she would stop at nothing short of, perhaps, murder. Cuffe knocked firmly against the wood causing a voice from within to snap, "Enter."
Rolling both eyes he watched as the the door swung inwards of it its own volition. Rita Skeeter stood with both arms raised high above her head of curled platinum hair. She was gazing out of the open window at the second best view the Daily Prophet offices could offer. "Hermione Granger has arrived for your interview," He announced, "I will be taking a look at the questions while she is being prepared."
"They are on the desk, Cuffe," Rita snarled with what most of her coworkers referred to as the 'private voice'. Barnabus reached over to snatch up the packet of papers into his hand. Several loud, obnoxious page turns later he slapped it back down on the firm surface. "I plan to eviscerate that girl," She cackled, dropping both arms so that her immodest dress fell back to where it belonged, "By the time I am through with 'the-muggleborn-who-survived' Cordelia Granger will regret having placed limitations on my interview." The reporter turned to sneer up at him, "Besides. Why would I dare choose to drag Albus Dumbledore through the coals when Hermione Granger would do just as well? Not only would his coalition be pleased, but so would the blood purists as well."
"Half of Wizarding Britain already hates you," Cuffe bit back easily, "What difference would it make if you added a few more names to that list?" She slipped closer to him in response. Reaching a taloned hand up to grasp at the silver clasp of his summer cloak. He held his breakfast in despite the immense repulsion that went with standing so close to the detestable hack.
"Why would I help admirable heroines, such as Hermione Granger, vanquish political foes like Albus Dumbledore and Lucius Malfoy?" She wondered aloud in mockingly dumbfounded amazement. "If I used my influence to get rid of all the nasties of our world, Cuffe," Rita smiled wickedly, "Then there wouldn't be anything left to write about." Carefully the short woman stepped back to rearrange her audacious outfit. "Now, I have a juicy interview waiting," She announced tauntingly, stepping out of the office with the usual amount of swagger. Barnabus shook his head at the realization that he would one day be dead, and Rita Skeeter was the most likely candidate for editor.
"I wish you luck dealing with that bitch," He whispered to himself, "You are going to need it, Hermione Granger."
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Hermione found herself sitting in a metal chair outside of Rosa Lee Teabag. Sitting on the table before her was a cup of Moly tea. A photographer stood nearby waiting patiently for the moment when his own role in the process came to fulfillment. Passerby recognized who she was, and to a lesser extent who her interviewer was. Any attempts to get autographs were halted by the three attendants who stood posted nearby to ensure the meeting ran uninterrupted. "Hermione Granger," Rita Skeeter smiled wolfishly, "I have been corresponding with many people who know you? What can you tell me that they cannot?"
Smiling with slight timidity Hermione replied, "I love to read and study. My parents worked very hard to gain success in the muggle world. They have instilled in me what it takes to achieve great things, and I want nothing more than to prove myself to them."
"There is no need to be so humble, Miss. Granger," The reporter sounded slightly sardonic, "Your Charms professor, Filius Flitwick, told me you are one of the brightest students he has ever encountered. Likewise, Professor Minerva McGonagall boasted that you had the highest scores on the first year examinations out of the whole school."
"I was not being humble," Hermione corrected Skeeter firmly, noting that the woman looked shocked as a result. Sticking firmly to her know-it-all personality she continued, "I told you that I work hard and love to study. All of those academic achievements are a result of the effort that I displayed at Hogwarts this past year." Pausing for a calming sip of her iced tea Hermione waited calmly for the next question. Hopefully there would be no retribution for her decidedly sharp correction.
"Much of that talent must be innate, however," The woman prodded with surprising gentleness. Peering down her spectacles at Hermione expectantly. "So many great witches and wizards have been murdered by He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named after all. The majority of whom were much more skilled, and hardworking than yourself. Yet somehow you, a twelve year old, managed to destroy what many allege was the Dark Lord's bodily vessel, Quirinius Quirrell." The woman leaned in as though about to share some sort of secret, "What makes you so different. How are you sitting here, alive, while other targets of You-Know-Who are not?"
The muggleborn was intelligent enough to pick apart each of Skeeter's words for careful analysis. She understood that the notorious reporter wanted to make her into some sort of clueless muggleborn. A girl that only managed to stop a wizard twice her age from stealing the Sorcerer's Stone thanks to sheer, dumb luck. Such a thing would diminish what she had accomplished back in June, and transform her from a cardholder into a bumbling pawn of fate. "Quirrel and Voldemort both underestimated me greatly," Hermione spoke with artful precision, "They did not consider me important enough to warrant consideration until I stepped into that dungeon to face them. Even then they both assumed that I was a useless muggleborn."
Rita's rimmed glasses could have melted with intensity of her glare. "What did happen in that dungeon, if I might ask? We have heard so much speculation, yet very little in the way of concrete facts." Hermione shivered slightly at the idea of having to relive what happened, yet remembered Cordelia warning her to comply with every question. With trembling hands she verbalized everything regarding the Sorcerer's Stone from how she, Ron, and Harry discovered that it was hidden in the school to the moment of reckoning. There was one detail which she did not include, as the Wizarding World would not take kindly to hearing of Voldemort's failed attempt at possession.
"Albus Dumbledore claims that you have not earned the privilege of being awarded an Honor of Merlin, First Class, as proposed by Minister Fudge," Skeeter continued, "What is your response?"
"That he allowed an old friend to hide a coveted, magical artifact in the middle of Hogwarts. With such rudimentary defenses that three first years could stumble upon not only this object, but Lord Voldemort as well." The snappy reply came easily off of Hermione's lips. "It is entirely Dumbledore's own doing that I am being nominated to receive such an award." She brushed the sleek curtain of hair off of her shoulder before making a final point on the subject. "I feel that Albus Dumbledore should be put under investigation by Hogwarts' Board of Governors for exposing the students to such dangers." Her cup of tea was no longer full signalling that the back-and-forth interview had been going for some time.
"Tell me more about your upcoming appeal to the Wizengamot," The blonde changed subjects rapidly. "Why are you laying claim to the inheritance of House Pyrite?" Her eyes glimmered cruelly, "Many, including Albus Dumbledore, have claimed that your grandmother is using your newfound fame to gain political power. Do you understand what it means to be lawfully determined the heiress of House Pyrite?" Hermione's teeth gnashed violently at how Skeeter was ceaselessly attempting to question her understanding of the Wizarding World.
"I am laying claim to the estate of House Pyrite because it is my birthright," She spoke with confidence, "That extends to all of the assets, properties, and the obsolete, Pyrite ancestral seat on the Wizengamot as well. Mostly Headmaster Dumbledore is fearful that I will use that political influence to call him out for his unforgivable ineptitude. He should instead try to focus more attention on keeping Hogwarts a competitive academic institution."
"Many will argue at the appeal that you do not meet the...Qualifications of House Pyrite," Skeeter pressed.
"You mean by the fact that I am a mudblood?" Hermione clarified point-blank to the woman's horrified surprise. "Don't worry," She hissed aggressively, "Plenty of my bigoted classmates have whispered that whenever I had the answer to a question. Voldemort himself called me that filthy word multiple times as he tried his best to end my life." The girl sat back with the same, haughty composure that Cordelia practically wore like a shaw. "Cornelius Fudge constantly rants about how society is changing, but I cannot see it. Muggleborns are still begrudged their birthrights, and my Pyrite cousins in Azkaban have more claim to the inheritance than I do." She winced at having let her emotions get the best of her like that. Attacking Fudge was a bad idea as Dumbledore was already enough to deal with.
"You disagree with Minister Fudge's stance on muggleborn equality?" Rita's quill began scribbling with much more fervor. Blood pounded in Hermione's ears as she tried to find a way to remediate her previous answer. No matter how much she believed it to be true the girl could not go picking random fights when the hounds were already at the door. As the panic increased familiar voices started to whisper in the back of her head. 'Do not apologize. People admire those who hold to their opinions,' The silky voice, and bane of her existence, advised sternly. "Miss. Granger," Rita snapped in a bloodthirsty tone, "Do you have an answer or not?" Deciding that things could not get much worse she looked up to meet her interviewer's expectant gaze full on.
"Our elected officials act as though all of the problems went away when Harry Potter stopped Voldemort," Skeeter flinched at Hermione's fifth or sixth use of that forbidden moniker. "They are absolutely wrong. He is still out there. Plotting his return to power, and still fueled by an undercurrent of blood purism which was never truly dealt with." She stared with a determined gaze at the reporter, "I didn't go into that dungeon for fame, or a prestigious award, or to pursue a controversial blood claim. I faced Voldemort and Quirrel because it was the right thing to do. Because I refuse to live in a world where muggleborns are treated like scum. Now Minister Fudge needs to prove to us all that he feels the same way." Hermione felt her adrenaline pumping at the end of what had been a fortunate follow-up. Cornelius Fudge could never lash out at her, or he would be revealed as not truly caring for muggleborns.
They went through several more questions, each one more confrontational than the last. Skeeter finally finished after realizing that the, often-times rude, questions were not capable of dragging Hermione into the mud. She stood as gracefully as possible before being escorted by the insufferable blonde to stand in the middle of the alley with Gringotts towering above their heads. Hermione was soon forced to preen and pose for the photographer as though nothing were wrong. As though there were not silky voices whispering bits of advice in her head.
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Cordelia Granger stood hidden in the deepest bowels of Knockturn Alley. She wanted nothing more than to brandish her wand for at least a sense of security, but refrained from doing so. The woman was a Morrigan, and despite having been absent from the wizarding political scene for so long she would continue to maintain the dignity of her House. 'Morrigans do not show fear,' Her father's thick, Irish accent lectured in a distant memory, 'They cause others to fear. The blood of the Crow runs thick through yours and mine veins.' Her feet clicked across the spiderwebbed, stone ground which had probably been lain down two centuries earlier. Despite the encouraging thoughts she directed at her very nervous body Cordelia was growing more uncertain by the moment.
This was a very deadly game to have reinitiated, yet her hunger was far greater than any rationality. Her granddaughter being born a witch was truly where it all began. Cordelia should have taken a deeper interest in the girl's childhood. Now they did not trust one another as relatives should, and enemies were far too close for comfort. She was willing to take responsibility for having alienated herself from the intelligent child. There had been no small amount of resentment in Cordelia's heart that Hermione got to enter the Wizarding World without an army of wands patiently waiting. Now they were both trapped in a horrifically similar situation. Hunted like prey by powerful, ruthless wizards.
Though that girl was much smarter than Cordelia ever had been. If the Crow's blood ran thick in Cordelia's blood then it most certainly ran even thicker in Hermione's. She would give her grandchild every single tool necessary to bring their bloodline back into a prominent position. Even if it could potentially result in her own death. A figure stepped into the shadows, their cane tapping out an intimidating pattern with each smack across the stone ground. Standing firm in the face of a monster Cordelia hid all those whirling uncertainties behind a condescending sneer. This was not only for herself, but Hermione as well.
"You have gotten old," She taunted before stepping forth to begin the deadliest of dances.
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Thank you for reading and leaving such stellar reviews! I hope that this chapter was not too short. It just felt right to end where I did. Hopefully I captured Rita Skeeter well enough for you all. I really enjoyed the idea of her trying to pick apart Hermione who is becoming much more shrewd under Cordelia's influence.