The entire affair had been intolerable. But Draco had done well. Admittedly she hadn't seen the point of him being there. None of the properties were in his name, and she was more than able to place the few bids they could afford by herself. But he had insisted. Narcissa had never been accused of being an overly maternal figure, but watching him stand before the flashing mass of paparazzi, vultures, plebs, and the Entourage of remaining pure blood families who had come to see the spectacle of the Malfoy fall- well, behind the unfeeling face she showed the cameras, her heart sat in agonizingly in her throat.

The few bids they did place drew mutters and staged whispers, sending camera flashes bouncing around the tiled walls of the ministry's atrium. The magical podium stood where the Dark Lord's obelisk once reigned, and a large banner behind the podium was enchanted with a list of those fallen during the wars.

The auction should have taken place in one of the Auror offices, but the ministry was familiar with the notion of bread and circus', and with the unpopularity of their latest bill, she and her son had been hoisted out for public spectacle.

But Draco had done well.

Even with his school mate, Blaise, smirking across the room at him as his mother, the woman who had run through four dearly departed husbands and their associated inheritances, bought up the bulk of the Malfoy land. Including the Manor.

Narcissa had told Draco not to bother bidding, and so they stood silent, as the room hushed once more before the bids began and the home she had raised her son in was stripped away from her for the second time. Neither she nor Draco, after being trapped within its walls with that serpentine despot, held much desire to live there again. But it was the indignity of it all.

They had secured two of the smaller properties in England, and as the French estates were read out, Narcissa smiled triumphantly. The Malfoi estate, transferred to the blacks as part of the original marriage contract, was not included on the list. Who then, was the English woman seen snooping around?

With her lips thin, and an arm discreetly touching Draco's wrist, she pulled him away from the rest of the auction. The crowd began to jeer and Auror's on the podium adjusted their stance, waiting for some chaos to emerge, but Narcissa was used to the rumblings of the rabble and as the crowd closed in, she smartly drew her wand and cast a strong protego around herself and her son. With a final look of derision at those who'd come to watch and snigger, she followed Draco's proud gait into the floo.

"Le estate de Malfoi"

000000000

Ronald Weasley had come asking for her.

Not only in the main lobby that only days before had been swarming with cameras, but he had then asked her out for lunch.

To the Leaky Cauldron.

Lucy would have told him where to stick it, right smart, if it weren't for the nurses giggling behind the main desk and trying to catch his eye. Why the hell not? Hermione had blown her way out of here and the story still hadn't reached the papers. Maybe he had news.

It was two drinks of tedious chit chat, mostly about quidditch and Hogwarts, while their neighbours around them tittered over their drinks about the Hero and his date, and where oh where was Hermione Granger?

After five minutes, Lucy had the shits and Ron hadn't mentioned Hermione once.

"Listen Ron, I get that you just broke up with Hermione but don't think you can use me to get back at her. Melin, she said you could be a berk."

Ron flushed a near purple colour, the tips of his ears clashing violently with his hair.

"Look don't react in any way other than anger. We're having a row. We're having a blow out and it's because Hermione needs your help. She just said to tell you that Caligula would cause miscarriages and to keep your eyes open. She didn't warn me that you were such a bleeding harpy though."

He slammed back his drink.
"Here, she wrote you this."

Reaching into the inside pocket of his robe, he pulled out a scroll, throwing it unceremoniously to the table and slamming down a galleon alongside it.

Lucy cringed at the looks this exchange was earning them from the other patrons of the pub, and as she opened her mouth to tear him to shreds, Ginny Weasley walked in from the courtyard outside, trailed by none other than Rita Skeeter.

Her bloody luck.

Ducking away from the curious blonde, she turned as Ron ducked down to hug her and landed a quick kiss to her forehead.

She'd kill him.

Behind skeeter, a short man came through the door, his camera clicking off.

As the red haired tosser spun through the emerald flames of the hearth, he smiled guiltily.

This letter had better be damn good.

0000000

Rita Skeeter practically preened as she followed Ginny Weasley through Diagon Alley that morning. The witch had agreed to a small exclusive with the paper on the incident with Harry at St Mungos, and had arranged to join Ginny as she shopped through Diagon Alley. Skeeter had chatted amiacably enough, and if she wondered at Ginny's public reception, she made no comment.

It was only as Ginny led the columnist into Quality Quiditch supplies, and openly ordered a customised top of the range firebolt, that the witch betrayed any suspicion.

"I thought dear Harry had his own firebolt?"

"Oh he does. This is for me. I'll need an upgrade if… well, that'd be a completely different exclusive. Perhaps you'd like to join me for lunch?"

Skeeter's golden smile didn't waver even as her eyes narrowed and her floating quick quotes quill scribbled furiously.

"That sounds lovely. Let's grab a room at the Leaky Cauldron. The Prophet still allows me some expenditure."

Ginny mentally noted the bitter tone of the witches voice and handed a bag of galleons over the counter, accepting the receipt in return.

She knew she had Skeeter when the witch had sagely proposed a photo of Ginny holding the shop's display model. Ginny smirked, holding the broom over her shoulder, and felt for Hermione's draft contract in her pocket.

000000000

Hermione hated shopping. As a child, her mother had dragged her along through department stores, making her try on scratchy dress after scratchy dress until Hermione resolutely refused to wear anything other than jeans. As she returned to the muggle world each summer, her mother would fret at how much she'd grown, and each year without fail would march her through the shops hoping Hermione would suddenly develop an interest in what she wore, and blossom into the girly girl Jeanette had been denied. A year spent in a dormitory with Lavender and Parvarti had killed that notion dead. In fourth year, her mum had sat and poured through the magical robe order forms with her, oohing and aahing at different cuts and shades, until Hermione had chosen one, any really, as a means to escape back to the volume she was reading on the links between muggle mathematics and arithmacy.

Walking through the aisles of the dingy charity shop, Hermione tried resolutely not to think of her mother. She had to stay on task. Running her fingers across the bumpy wire hangers, Hermione shifted through a range of muggle tops, absently drumming through the colours and fabrics and waiting for something to magically jump out at her and say "This is Hermione Granger. She is a muggle born. She is going to fight. She is a force to be reckoned with."

So far the floral blouses and strappy singlets hadn't cut muster.

Eyeing a fluffy orange cardigan with it's own stream of synthetic fur, Hermione thought of Crooks and automatically picked it up.

It didn't matter what she wore. She remembered the mismatched attire of wizards and witches gathered at the Quiditch world cup. To them, she'd only ever be dressed in muggle clothes. Backwards. Inferior.

Hermione stalked through the aisles, hoisting a range of mismatched clothing into her arms, until she came to the back of the store and a long, floor length leather jacket stared back at her.

She left the store in a paisley floor length skirt, an old 'fight the power' singlet, and the long leather cloak. With her hair crackling, and a muggle pair of sunglasses hiding her face, she steeled herself.

She would be Hermione Granger, ministry malcontent and mad as hell.

Dumbledore had done well off his image of insanity.

Let the world work out on it's own time that she was a threat to be reckoned with.