Rita Skeeter was restless. She was independent. Accomplished. She had discovered the secret way of things, of politics and back dealings and the way the wizarding world was run.

She had discovered the secret way of things and she had cashed in.

All she had to do, her only real part, was to get the readers to feel.

At first it was the blissful ignorance that came with deep set feelings of superiority: the knowledge that they were all safe and the nasty radical wizards like Dumbledore and Potter just wanted them to feel afraid.

Then it was to feel appalled, and shocked, but with that nagging feeling that somehow all along the readers had known that Potter was the real deal.

It was no surprise that when They had come to power, when They had taken over those secret back room dealings, with more fear that force, that They had asked her to write.

She became an accomplished author. They wanted her to write.

So she wrote. She was independent. She was noted.

She got the readers to feel a sense of betrayal. The burning dread in ones stomach that their heroes were hollow and neither side was truly 'good'.

The book was a best seller. Even before the ministry fell, she had been Their mouth piece. And she had continued to write, to instil the readers the deep dread, the whispers from the dark of their bedrooms, their silent kitchens, the pauses between the radio broadcasts of the dead, telling them to stay put, to stay in their homes and bury their heads in the sand.

She had hated herself most days. It was a bitterness deep within that she attempted to spit out, to launch along with the poison that fell from her pen. Let it burn them. Burn the faces at the ministry, the ones who had scorned her, who began to slowly disappear. Let it burn away Dumbledore's memory, burn away those blue eyes that looked at her not with scorn or anger but disappointment.

She had been so young, once.

He had taken her careers appointment.
The stellar Slytherin, not a prefect, but adored by many, hated by a few, and bright. The brightest witch of her year. He had listened to her plans in silence. Sitting across the desk from her, he hadn't warned her off her course, but sat there resigned that she was not one of his precious Gryffindors and she was not to be swayed. He had sat across the desk from her, knowing the secret ways of things and he had not warned her.

Would she have listened anyway?

She had been young and bursting with the secret way of things and the magic of words.

In the end, it didn't matter how much poison and resent she poured onto his memory. Now she was negated by her work under the dark lord. Relegated to the side columns, the gossip pieces. Fashion. Celebrities.

Blacklisted.

A 'Viable face' in the 'witches' entertainment' section. Those were her editor's words.

Her book deal on the second wizarding war, suspended. Indefinitely.

And what struck, under that new wave of resent, the bile at what she had done, was an older sore, turned septic, deep within her core.

They had used her.

Not the Death Eaters, but the ministry. The prophet.
She had been so young, so besotted with the secret way of things that she had let them. But now there were plenty of up and coming new voices to herald the news of peace, of stability, of the plummeting magical population. Plenty of new voices, new mouthpieces, new weapons.

And she was tossed aside. Useless. Replaceable. Just some daft old witch whose voice still held the echoes of fear and war.

Skeeter smiled thinly as she charmed her hair into place and dusted a non-existent speck from the shoulder of her robes. Making her way through the muggle streets of London, leaving behind the disappearing building of Grimauld place, Rita Skeeter twisted an old muggle fountain pen through her gold rimmed nails, and felt the pit of her stomach roil with fire.

Just a daft old witch?

She was independent. Accomplished.

She knew the secret way of things and she would not be used again.

444

She couldn't believe Skeeter had so readily agreed.

Couldn't believe it, as in, didn't believe it.

The vile woman was loathsome, petty, scathing, and everything Lavender and Pavarti had adored. She had had the opportunity to be someone young witches looked up to and she had sold it all out. She had made her life as a fourteen-year-old hell.

Hermione was shocked at the flow of rage and hatred that poured out, until she remembered her own dealings. Sending Harry's article screaming through the papers, making her deal with the devil.

She was no different really.

She had only just gotten off the phone to Dennis, listening as he repeated Ginny's assurances that Skeeter had taken the bait, that she was sold, that she had signed the 48-hour non-disclosure contract.

But still, she jumped as the small piece of plastic buzzed once more.
"Luna 2 meet you Passage de l'ancre'

Dennis had been short with her all day. He'd taken to messaging her in the most abhorrent text speak and she could only presume it was his means of acting out the suave undercover agent, proficient in muggle code.

Shoving the mobile into her bag, Hermione walked away from the hospital with disdain.

The welcome witch had given the Grignotts goblins a run for their money.

Hermione had a hard time finding the muggle entrance to the hospital to begin with. Fluer's uncle had told her about the Doll Museum located just around the corner from Nicolas Flamel's old apartment, and while the entrance had been empty, and the signs marking the building out were clear enough even if Hermione' French was mediocre at best. She had paid for her ticket, despite the muggle operator seeming as though he'd taken one too many obliviates to the head. The building was old but the exhibits themselves had the nondescript grey carpet and white plaster walls of any recently refurbished building. The rooms were lined with glass cabinets, the lighting leaving the room in a dim shadow while creating small stages for the aging, still dolls. Some were puppets, hung artfully in small scenes as though ready to come to life at any moment, whenever the rooms emptied of tourists, or perhaps whenever Hermione turned her back and moved to the next exhibit.

Hermione continued to wander through the silent corridors, past a seemingly endless collection of starring dolls, some with what looked like human hair, until in the furthest corner, a wall of glass caught her eye. It was lit not by the standard artificial light of the other cases, but by a small, battery operated fire. The amber light glowed from within the case and small material flames fluttered in a perpetual updraft. Above them, a worn but elaborate model of a hag, with grey wild hair and a beaky nose, 'burned'. Her robes were black as midnight but over the ages dust had settled in around the ropes that held her to the stake, overlooked by the muggle caretakers and crackling with an unseen energy that held the tell of magic.

The hairs on her neck stood up, and reluctantly, Hermione moved closer to the cabinet. She tried not to jump when the dolls head turned slowly, restricted partly by the large hat it had to lift, and stared at her with empty glass eyes.

She must have been alone in the room, for the witch stared at her and Hermione's breath faltered as she whispered

"Lisette de lapin?"

The cabinet shimmered, and with one last look over her shoulder, Hermione walked through the glass.

The room beyond resembled nothing so much as an old cathedral, and through the stained glass windows the sounds of Paris echoed through, carried on the draught that seeped through the old grey stones and whistled through the wooden pews that made up the waiting room. There, where ordinarily a pulpit might stand, were two brass elevator shafts, behind a high mahogany desk.

Lording over it all, the welcome witch seemed to eye Hermione's mismatched muggle clothing with disdain.

You don't know that. She's too far away. Stop being so bloody paranoid. You did it, you're in.

Walking purposefully up the centre aisle, while trying to subtly examine the elevators before her, Hermione made her way up to the counter.

As soon as Hermione began to stumble over the French phrase 'experimental potions', the witches eyes had narrowed and her words seemed to echo throughout the room with a sense of finality.

"Est vous anglais?"

Okay, so that was definitely a look of disdain.

"Oui"

From that point on, Hermione was inundated with a stream of rapid French, from which she could could only make out the repeated words, 'appointment' and 'visitor form'.

Hermiones repeated attempts to interrupt were met with the witch impatiently waving a vividly violet form in her face.

Turning, Hermione took the sheaf of lurid parchment and sat between an intermittedly barking wizard and a young boy who's skin seemed to faintly glowing.

Well that went about as well as could be expected.

Eying over the French form, Hermione began to weigh her options.

She could fill in the form, using her real name and pray that the maelstrom she'd left behind her at St Mungo's hardn't spread across the Magical rumour mill. She snorted, earning herself a worried glance from the glowing boy beside her.

Unlikely. The magical world was a small place and even if it worked, it risked all hopes of her incognito presence in the city.

She could adopt a pseudonym; supposing of course that the hospital didn't enchant their forms with the same fraud detectors that St Mungos used.

Again, Hermione's nerves and frustration emmited in a scoff, sending the glowing youth inching away from her.

The waiting room was narrower than that of St Mungos; the old stone layout echoed terribly and despite the welcome witches claims that she was 'Tres occupe', Hermione had yet to see anyone approach the elevators without the witch scrutinising their approach and allowing them to continue.

Either Hermione returned with an illness, (do-able), or with a companion whose French was absolutely fluent.

Not so much resigned as relieved, Hermione had thrust the horrendously violet forms into her bag, and left the echoing space behind her.

She had failed.
Not particularly surprising.
She was on her own, she didn't properly speak the language, and there was no book she could read titled "How to infiltrate the magical communities key institutions"

But what was worse, was the relief.
She didn't have time to waste and yet as Hermione left behind the dim corridors and creepy gazes of perfectly arranged dolls, the relief washed over her just as surely as the city's lively air.

Disdain and disgust with herself crackled through her hair and she self-consciously ran her hands through it, trying desperately to dispel the memory of Dennis, sated and laughing, running his hands through it as she had finally succumbed to sleep.

Luna was waiting, and the Paris streets bustled around the strange muggle woman in the cheap plastic sunglasses.