Marcus Apparated into the back garden of the Granger residence to avoid the notice of the neighbours. He stood still for a moment, breathing and letting his innards realign themselves. Brooms were so much better. He looked around at the barren yard, thinking that although painfully small it had possibilities. Someone had loved this little space enough to make an effort.
The wizard knocked on the backdoor as he considered the espalier roses. Not bad for Muggles. He hoped they there red. A good rich colour would go well with the dark brick of the house. When Hermione stopped flinching at any mention of her parents he would ask about the garden.
She answered the door in the cusp of anger and sorrow. Her face was expressive giving him fair warning not to attempt to kiss her. Marcus stepped inside, knocking the snow off his Oxfords. The witch looked him up and down seemingly surprised by his smart clothes.
"McLeod likes to remind the press his players are gentlemen." He was wry, recalling more than one occasion where he had been bleeding into his dress shirt after a game.
"Does it have to be tonight?" Hermione tried not to sound petulant. She wanted Harry and George out of trouble but facing the Prophet right now seemed like slow torture.
"Yes." Marcus answered flatly. That got her back up so he gave an explanation rather than bring down her simmering temper on himself. "I have skipped out on too many interviews. I hate them. So McLeod keeps me on a bloody short leash. No excuses. No rescheduling. The Prophet will print something for Monday. If we do not give it, the bastards will make something up."
"Do you know who will be interviewing us?" She went to the sink to wash her hands. That was mostly habit as she had been levitating her belongings out of the trunk but it helped her feel tidy. Everything would need double-checking before she put it through the wash. Ginny had transfigured Whiz-bangs into all sorts of innocuous things. Hermione had never expected to have to detonate her own socks.
"Wood, probably." The animosity between the Montrose Chaser and the former Puddlemere United Keeper was well known. Any time the Prophet wanted to jazz up their sports page, they sent Wood to the Magpies.
"Oliver? Isn't he still playing professionally?" Hermione had thrown herself so whole-heartedly into her NEWTs she was still reconnecting with her acquaintances.
"Three year ban. Bringing the game into disrepute." Marcus did not attempt not to sound contemptuous. "The League tried to batten down all the heroes before the end of the war. Didn't work."
"Surely those bans would've been rescinded after Tom Riddle died." She took grim satisfaction in referring to Lord Voldemort by his given name. "There must be an Appeals process." Marcus's smirk told her otherwise. "Feudal nonsense."
"The League is not beholden to the Ministry, and all penalties are final. Wood and the others will be back next season. Most of the teams kept them on as Reserves. Show of solidarity and all that rot." This time his casual sneer earned him a militant glare. Marcus met her gaze for his own pride. "They did bugger all to shield their players during the war. No points for coddling them now."
"A Slytherin railing against hypocrisy? That's a novel attitude. Are you feeling unwell?" She had antagonised her best friend today. Verbally sparring with a schoolmate was nothing. Hermione felt no concern over her jibes until he grinned.
"Fierce and spitting mad, that is what I need, milady." He chuckled as her eyes narrowed in suspicion. Marcus put his hands over his heart in a truce gesture, showing he held no wand. "You wanted to light a fire under the Prophet. Cannot do that looking woebegone."
Fuelled by annoyance, Hermione went upstairs and changed. She chose the navy blue suit she had bought optimistically for job interviews. Paired with a crisp white shirt, the witch thought she looked professional with her new hair cut. Finding her notes, she nodded to herself in the mirror. She would do this for her parents. She would make the world a better place.
Marcus Apparated them to the clubhouse then spent a few minutes breathing deeply looking stricken. Hermione put a hand on his arm, fearing he was going to be sick but he shook her off and straightened.
"That is why I bloody well fly." He adjusted his black and white tie, mentally girding himself. McLeod had read him the riot act before sending him off to fetch his wife. No smirking, no sneering, no goading Wood. He would let his Manager and Hermione do the talking while he glowered in the background.
"Peppermint helps. Aids mental focus and settles the stomach. You can keep a few mints in your pocket. No one will think you odd." Or weak. Hermione did not say that aloud, aware of how prickly wizards could get when you suggested they were not up to snuff. Marcus was sufficiently uncomfortable merely to nod.
That discomfort did not last long. It was salved by the sight of Lady Flint making Oliver 'I've got' Wood take a step away from her as though he would hide behind his Self-Writing Quill. Marcus had stood impassively throughout the interview as McLeod did his spiel before Hermione began her crusade. Once she started laying into the Ministry and its damn stupid law, he could not help but smirk.
It was all very precise. In language that sounded polite as it hid the knives, Hermione corrected the Wizengamot on several policy points. She kept it simple as the Prophet wanted headlines not diatribes but her critique was surgical. She ended with a question: when had the Ministry decided to become pimps?
"Pimps." Oliver said carefully.
"Forced marriage is a Human Rights violation." Hermione cited, placid and sure. "The Wizengamot may think they are enacting an outgrowth of the arranged marriage tradition, but even formal betrothals require consent. Which is sorely lacking here. I am being kind in assuming the Ministry does not intend to facilitate sexual assault. But they are certainly bang onside prostitution."
"Can I quote you, Mrs Flint?" He admired the witch's fire, but Oliver wanted to caution Hermione before she set herself up to be seen to be calling herself a whore in print.
"Certainly." Her tone was cool. She had planned for that allegation. "My husband had to sell himself to tour with his team." A quick glance at McLeod cued the Manager into a protest on behalf of the Magpies and the League at large. Hermione was not the only one who had come prepared.
After Wood had left with a flea in his ear, Marcus pulled off his tie and accepted a glass of Firewhisky. He raised his drink in a toast, quoting the Sorting Hat. "Their daring, nerve and chivalry set Gryffindors apart."
"Thanks." Hermione took a sip of her drink to sedate her racing pulse. As public speaking went, she had faced larger audiences as Head Girl but the prospect of being heard by the literate population of wizarding Britain was daunting. "We'll need to keep up the pressure. I don't want to be the only one shouting into the wind."
"Trust me, Madam Flint, you will not be alone." Cormack McLeod lifted his glass to her and considered privately that whatever whim of Fate had gifted the witch to Flint, his Chaser did not deserve it. The eloquent Miss Granger would be very useful for as long as Flint could keep his temper in check. After that, well, there were a great many players coming back into the League next year. Keeping in the witch's good graces was suddenly a priority at Montrose.