If, in future, anyone would wish to accuse me of plagiarism, specific examples and/or links to the offended works would prove useful. I've read a lot of fan-fiction over the years, but I confess I know of only a handfull of stories which see Hermione attempt to thwart the marriage law. In fairness, I read SSHG fanfiction pretty much exclusively so this may be why. If I have mistakingly used the same themes, tropes, characters or worst of all plots of any other story, please let me know which, so I might address the concerns. Also, using your own account would probably help as well. To be honest, i'd actually be thrilled if I thought the writer of an incredibly well known fan fiction was actually reading and flaming my work! As it is, I doubt it.

As always, these are J. K Rowlings 's creations. In this chapter I've stolen a few minor characters from the Harry Potter Wiki and universe, and shaped them according to a recent mini-series I watched. Again, on the plagiarism note, I do admit I have shamelessly stolen quite a lot from T S Eliot in this chapter. I'm sure he won't mind.

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"Immature poets imitate; mature poets steal." ― T.S. Eliot

"A public man may reasonably esteem it a piece of good fortune to be vigorously attacked in the newspapers. In the first place, it lifts him more prominently into notice. Then, a plausible defence will divide public opinion, while a triumphant vindication will more fully establish him in the popular regards. Even if unable to offer either, the notoriety so acquired will in time soften into a semblance of celebrity, so like its original that it will easily pass for it. Besides, the world is charitable, and will readily forgive old sins in consideration of later virtues. ~Christian Nestell Bovee (1820–1904), "Suggestions: Public Men," in The Atlantic Monthly, December 1858"

"And would it have been worth it, after all,

After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,

Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,

Would it have been worth while,

To have bitten off the matter with a smile,

To have squeezed the universe into a ball

To roll it towards some overwhelming question,

To say: "I am Lazarus, come from the dead,

Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all"—

If one, settling a pillow by her head

Should say: "That is not what I meant at all;

That is not it, at all.""

The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock, by T S Eliot.

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Diagon Alley, at quarter to eight on a Wednesday night, was generally quiet; the throngs that stomped the cobblestones by day retired behind dingy curtains of kitchens and bedrooms and doldrums of home. Rita alone stalked through the half-deserted streets, the scent of London smoke and fog rubbing against the shopfronts darkened window panes; store-clerks making their retreat, slipping through jangling doorways, swiftly locked behind them as they disappeared out into the restless night.

Glancing at the delicate golden links of her wrist watch, Rita slowed her gait. There was time, there would be time. Granger's instructions followed her through the streets, like a tedious argument with insidious intent, leading her to the overwhelming question. Did she dare?

The ticking hand upon her wrist measured out the minutes as she nervously drew the small compact from her purse, there was time enough to prepare a face to meet the faces she would meet.

The Prophet building stood dark amongst the street, only the sign illuminated by a flickering lantern, which cast its shadow into the corners of the evening and lingered glinting over the pools stood still in the gutters.

Indeed there was time to ascend the stairs, with her curls perfectly coiffed about her head, her magenta cloak secure about her narrow frame, the pointed collar of her dress suit mounting firmly to her chin, pressed immaculately and framing the gorgeous silk cravat adorned with a simple pin. Time to stall before the door and breath through the minute of decisions and revisions which a minute could reverse. Ignoring the questions thrumming through her thin frame, Do I dare, do I dare?, Rita pulled open the heavy door and was immediately ensconced in the warmth of the wood panelled foyer, the high chrome welcome desk abandoned, and the voices she knew so well already, dying with a dying fall beneath the low hum of static from a farther room.

The Newsroom was narrow and far longer than allowed for by the building's exterior, long rows of desks lining the room and leading vertically to a stained glass encased conference space nestled between two wrought iron staircases that rose to the second floor officers of the senior staff and Barnabus Cuffe himself. The long ebony desk divided the room with tall headboards, which at this hour of the night, held floating, rearranging page plates of the morning run, ready to hit the print in 4 hours time. As such the newsroom was generally by now, left only to the tragic few zealously dedicated reporters with no sense of their own importance or life outside of work to go to. Tonight however, the green flare of the fireplaces, dispersed evenly between the portraits of prior journalists and reporters on the walls, unfolded their living counterparts into the room, some still in the wrinkled robes they'd worn that day, others in evening attire that signalled they had been interrupted by the news that Potterwatch would return to the air waves in ten short minutes.

Ahead, a few yards down, Skeeter spotted Betty Braithwaite, surrounded by half a dozen or so other reporters as they crowded around the slim, portable transistor she had procured on her desk, spitting it's low static as it watched the reporters come and go, talking of Weasley radio.

As usual Betty had a half chewed muggle pencil in hand and a small pad of paper balanced on her knee, reminding Rita vividly why she needed the naive witch- she was the only reporter ready to take notes on the revelations of the radio, namely as she was the only one foolish enough to believe Banarbus Cuffe, or even Amorin for that matter, would lower themselves to sully their print by reporting on a rival news source. She was also the first to notice Skeeter's presence in the cramped walkway between desks.

"Back again Rita? This is almost starting to resemble regular work hours for you." The slim, dark haired witch barely raised her inflection, not wasting time on true sarcasm as she continued. "More gossip ready to tear down one of the saviours of the wizarding world?"

Rita beamed down at the dowdy reporter, her dull blue robes not hiding the shapeless jumper beneath them or the terribly unfashionable black work pants. She really was a lost cause, even back before the war when Rita had tried to take her under her wing, inviting her into her flat to promote her biography on Dumbledore. Months of the grim reality of working at the prophet still hadn't dampened that irritating sense of moral judgement.

"Darling, you've worked here long enough now to forfeit all rights to journalistic integrity. I read your piece on the muggleborns affected by the law and their dating prospects. It was wonderful, but glass houses and all that."

"I do it for the paycheck, not the pleasure. You hadn't been here in weeks before the opportunity to tear Hermione Granger to pieces came up."

Betty was too easy to bait by far, and the small flush to her pallid, make up free complexion showed Rita her mark had hit.

"Yes well, if you'd met her, even your naivety wouldn't stop you from seeing her for the spiteful little bitch she is." Skeeter didn't need to fake the venom that laced her voice.

"You're too late for the morning run." Betty looked somewhat smug at this, even as the crowd of reporters continued filling the newsroom, the hum of conversation anticipatory as the hand of the large four-faced clock hanging from the art-deco ceiling ticked closer towards eight.

"Oh sweetie. I'm right on time." Skeeter merely grinned, looking up to see Amorin leaned over the rail of the wrought iron staircase, his face like thunder as he surveyed the still swelling newsroom, clad in rolled up shirt sleeves as his pipe clung to the corner of his frown.

Skeeter left the radio behind her even as she heard the ridiculous words 'Brightest witch of her age" bring the voices from the static into life, and weaved her way through the now silent crowd, glancing up as her heels echoed in their ascent of the metal stairway.

She was steps away when the slow litany of questions asked how she should presume, and how she should begin, when the eyes she knew already fixed her amidst her formulated phrase.

"I've got the front page story for you."

Even as his head hung over the banister, still listening to the drifting voices of the radio, his eyes fixed her in place as though her beetle form was stuck sprawling on a pin, pinned and wriggling on the wall in the wave of his contempt.

"When are you going to accept you're just a style reporter woman? Anyway The morning run's finished. Show me tomorrow."

"I've seen the morning run, this is better."

Rita was used to being relentless in the wake of male contempt, and for once she marshalled the truth to her defence. She'd seen the headlines hovering on the plates ready for print, and even for the Prophet they were backdated and dull: "Hermione Granger seen in Paris" was the bland title slotted next to a purchased photo of Granger with her blonde friend who ran the Quibbler. A photograph that Granger's broadcasting allies were about to attribute to Le Mecure.

"Piss off Rita."

Rita held her tongue, biting back the urge to begin spitting out all the butt ends of her former days and ways of tearing down Ruben's fragile ego. Instead she stared at the arms she had known so well already, known as they lingered under amber lamp light, downed with light brown hair, cradling whiskey in one-night cheap hotels, arms that had lied upon rumpled bed sheets and wrapped about her as they hoisted her further along her career. He was obviously still bitter, but she had need of him yet, despite the fact he was a total tosser, so she turned from him with a huff.

"Well don't get stroppy when I show them to Barnabus and he wants to know why you wasted valuable time so close to print."

He didn't bother looking at her as he frowned and waved her away, turning from her completely as he made his way down the stairs towards the radio that was beginning to draw outraged shouts from the reporters below. He found time to call back to her, "Barnabus has a dinner meeting, don't hold your breath" before the reporters parted before him and his attention left her behind entirely.

Rita quickly trailed after him, weaving her way between the desks as the broadcast echoed through the room.

"...The Prophet has shown exactly how much of the ministries weight it is under, seemingly in full favour of the Law, and going so far as to publish the names and photographs of affected muggleborns without consent.

"Well there's precedent for that isn't there? The Ultimate undesirable himself published a fair few muggleborn posters in his day."

"Never with comments on personal appearance or dating history."

Rita smiled with vicious satisfaction as she watched the face of Betty fall, her furiously scribbling pencil faltering briefly as her article was called out in comparison to you-know-who's effort during the war. She watched the young witch's jaw tighten and knew immediately: this was leverage she could work on later. Around her, the staff of the Prophet were seemingly of two minds, some shuffling guiltily and shooting furtive glances at those around them, others muttering darkly about the nerve of these amateur political broadcasters calling out the Prophet, with no true idea of what news entailed. It was only as the calm, measured tones of Kingsley Shacklebolt came over the airwaves that silence fell once more. Skeeter watched as Amorin thunderous gaze grew darker, and quickly checked the hanging clock once more. How long until Barnabus was embarrassed in company with questions about the ex-ministers public broadcast which he knew nothing about? It rather depended who he was dining with.

"As you know, the minutes of the Wizengamot are private, and the voting records have not been released. However for those listeners at home who would like to know who to thank, in writing, for this new law, I have five names."

The gasps around her were quickly drowned out by a wave of shushing, and the rustle of other reporters now drawing out quills to follow Betty's lead rippled through the crowd and brought a vindictive grin to the dowdy witch that Rita rather liked.

"In order for there to be Trust in this government and law, there needs to be transparency. I am prepared to take the repercussions. John Dawlish, Thomas Shelby, Robert Coates, Eric Woods, and Theodore Burges. I think it's fair that if the names and images of those targeted by this law are released, then the wizards responsible for it are also public knowledge."

Skeeter tried her best not to shoot her gloating look directly in Amorin's direction, she really did. His greying hair, cut short against the sides, made a marvellous contrast to his ruddy skin, and he glanced almost involuntarily towards the floo.

It wouldn't be long before Barnabus was dragged from his dinner, and she felt her grin falter as she remembered who was likely to pay the editor a visit, especially now that he had been publicly named. Suddenly, Rita recalled the questions that plagued her, and an overwhelming tiredness lingered. Did she dare? For the briefest moment she saw her head upon the platter of Burges' ire, the rest of her career finished, and was afraid.

"...The last two days the Prophet has released alarming reports that Miss Hermione Granger is missing."

Mention of the Prophet again drew muttering from the crowd around her and Rita re-drew her focus to the radio.

"These reports are written as though they have nothing at all to do with the Marriage Law. They detail events by which Harry Potter was brought into St Mungo's after being affected by a cursed motorcycle, Ron Weasley was already in Hospital with magical burns, self inflicted the previous day, and most importantly, an explosion occurred in St Mungo's. The floor of the explosion is not mentioned, nor is its cause. Most interestingly, the reporters drew on no first hand witnesses of the event at St Mungo's- we spoke to a number of medi wizards and healers who had no recollection of the events whatsoever."

Betty Braithwaite was scribbling so furiously that Rita was sure the shorthand would be useless to anyone else who attempted to read it, and the rest of those who had retrieved quills had seemingly given up, staring slack mouthed at the narrative none at the Prophet had bothered to uncover

"A few blanket memory charms perhaps?"

"If that is the case, I think listeners might be interested to know that the area of the hospital that was damaged was the experimental potions' department, where Miss Hermione Granger worked. Several research projects were interrupted or lost, according to key witnesses, but no one from the hospital can comment on what these projects were working towards. I think it's fair to say that such a level of secrecy is unusual, especially if the research was only to do with medicinal potions."

"One source, who wishes to remain anonymous, but was a co-worker with Hermione Granger, has revealed to us exclusively, that the department had been allocated extra staff, funding and security from the ministry in the last few days." "And since we're always sticklers for referencing our sources, we followed it up. The ministry released $2000 Galleons to St Mungo's for a research project referred to only as "Fecundity" on the Ministries outgoing record of expenditure."

"Fuck." Amorin's explosion shattered the silence of the crowd and some of the younger, less experienced staff actually jumped. Skeeter glanced at the Floo which stood still, the flames still an ordinary yellow, before she felt Ruben's gaze upon her as her name echoed throughout the high ceilinged hall. It took her a moment to realise it wasn't another of his outbursts.

"... Rita Skeeter, who's long standing vendetta against Granger is well documented, claims that Granger refused a marriage proposal from Ron Weasley, prior to the law's announcement."

Several of the reporters around her reached out to pat her on the back, while the others stared and a few with false congratulations nodded towards her. Amorin looked close to bordering on puce.

"For all our speculation listeners, here is what we do know. Hermione Granger hasn't been seen since the destruction of St Mungo's property, and has been reported missing by her employer. This has led to the Prophet speculating that Granger is in danger.

So far, no link has been drawn by the prophet between Granger's disappearance to the Marriage law, and the headlines have proved a nice distraction, taking the heat off the ministry and their new law."

There were no shouts of outrage now, and few reporters sought to meet others eyes. Any claim to journalistic integrity had long been forfeited, but some still had enough shadow of shame to merit their chosen profession.

"Here at GrangerDanger, we'll be keeping you up to date on Hermione Granger's whereabouts, and can delight in reporting that the french newspaper Le Mercure has published photographs of the brightest witch of her age, out for a spot of shopping at the famous Passage De l'ancre"

Almost at once, a wave of movement swept the crowd as heads rose in unison to look at the mock up of the front page, the plate's dull iron still, not yet imbued with the magic that would make the photograph of Granger outside De l'ancre move.

"That's it. Conference room, all senior reporters, now. Betty, I want a transcript of the rest of this monstrosity ASAP." Amorin glowered as he burst through the still scrambling crowd, his wake followed by a wave of the relevant reporters making for the stained glass bubble nestled between the wrought iron staircases, it's door slamming in their faces before they reached it's innards.

With a loud screech, the floating plates of tomorrow morning's print run detached from the black wooden backings, before floating towards the stained glass doors and following in the line of senior reporters.

Technically Rita was no longer a senior reporter.
As Ruben had so viciously reminded her, she was just a style reporter.

But as he already knew, she was not about to accept it.

She drew in a breath and prepared herself to force the moment to its crisis.

The room was fraught with several conversations crashing over each other at once, Ruben's focus was turned on the front page plate, enlarging it and charming the erstwhile headline and photograph to detach and float to the side. None of the reporters seated around the table batted an eye-lid at her presence, particularly as none had been at the Prophet longer than her, but as Ruben turned at the thud of the door closing behind her, he immediately resumed his shouting.

"I told you to piss off Rita! You're style and you're not needed."

"For fucks sake Ruben! Listen to reason. The cover's just been shredded by that broadcast, if you print that photo along with some bullshit story about Hermione Granger's safety being in doubt, you drag this paper's reputation through the mud and prove that bloody radio monstrosity right! Just look at what I've-"

"Out! Get out!" Ruben's eyes, the weak blue that had once stared at her with shrewd adoration glittered with nothing but malice.

Skeeter stood her ground and drew a slim, grey manilla folder from her handbag, throwing it onto the conference tabletop. She had deliberately omitted the newly developed photographs of the law enforcement officers apparating in muggle Paris, along with the one of Harry Potter liaising with the french law enforcement. Granger hadn't mentioned them, and they were better kept aside for further ammunition. Instead the eyes of the room trailed the photographs of Hermione Granger embracing a young suitor that spilled across the wide oak table.

"Will you listen while i'm trying to save your arse!" Skeeter asked, low voice dipped in sickly sweet venom and the eyes around the table darted between her and the now silent Security Editor.

"I've got testimonials who saw Granger trialling engagement styles at the Enchantress Salon, I've got photographs of her entering Groomsbrides, a wedding robes store, and I've got a shot of her with a seventeen year old muggleborns tongue down her bloody throat. You can't print anything about her being missing after that broadcast, so stop painting her as the fucking victim!"

"The Prophet doesn't exist to pander to your bloody vendetta, woman! Isn't that what those radio imbeciles called it? You bring no credibility to the table, now do everyone else here a favour and just fuck off."

Skeeter seethed at the man who refused to pick up the report and in an instant, she saw the moment of her greatness flicker, the room silent but for the unknown reporter who rose to open the door for her, and the faint sound of anonymous snicker.

"Is that language I generally permit among my professional staff, Rubin?"

Barnabus Cuffe stood at the now opened door, his entrance sending silence rippling through the room, despite its lack of grandeur. He calmly walked into the stained glass chamber, enough to swell the tension of the scene, his evening cloak immaculate, belying his elderly somewhat portly frame. Cuffe was nothing if not politic, cautious, meticulous. He picked up the file from the middle of the table, flicking it open and dispelling it's contents for all to see. Skeeter directed her smug smile at the visibly chastised Amorin.

Barnabus she could deal with. He was full of high sentence, to be sure, but a bit obtuse and at times almost ridiculous, the perfect fool.

The man trailing him, hovering outside the conference room, was decidedly less so. Skeeter's vicious smile fell as she recognised Teddy Burges as he briskly walked past the stained glass windows, before climbing the stairs to wait in Barnabus' office.

"Amorin, scrap the front page. I'll be back shortly for a full run down, begin a short-list. Miss Skeeter will be welcome to join of course. In fact, why don't you join me in my office dear." Cuffe quickly collected the bones of Skeeter's article, shuffled it back into the slate grey folder, and guided the small of her back through the door. As Skeeter climbed the stairs to the senior editor's office, that small voice wondered if it would be worth it, after all, would it be worthwhile? Had she bitten off more than she could chew? Was it possible for her to come back from the dead, to arise from under Burges blackmail?

The office drew closer as Barnabus led her gentlemanly along, and she started upon entering, to see Burges glare up at her before looking askingly at Cuffe.

"This is Rita Skeeter, although I presume you've met."

Skeeter nodded as she stood before the man now silently surveying her.

"I had thought Miss Skeeter here had been removed to Style or Fashion or some such… frivolity." Burgess didn't address her when he spoke, and despite the fact he continued to assess her, it oddly felt as though she might as well not be in the room.

"Indeed she has. And technically this article does deal with style- wedding robes and engagement hairstyles." Barnabus handed him the file, and her drafted story, and silence reigned as he perused the pages.

"I want my old position back, I want to be a special correspondent."

Skeeter's voice was venomous, and she hoped it masked the slight flicker of fear that coursed along her spine. There was a beat of silence before Burgess smiled up at her, meeting her eyes like a bird of prey might a small, furry morsel.

"Is that right Miss Skeeter? How is it that you have found Miss Granger ahead of the entirety of the Magical Law Enforcement?"

Skeeter shrugged and offered a predatory smirk of her own.

"That's the same question I'd have been asking the ministry while on the record just a few years ago. Now? Suffice to say it says more about your law enforcement than it does about me. I was in the right place at the right time, chasing down style comments at the Enchantress Salon."

Barnabus looked less than amused but Burges cold smile didn't falter.

"You have a history with Miss Granger, though. You interviewed Potter at her request, for the quibble no less, free of charge."

Skeeter bristled for a moment and felt her indignation squeeze into a ball that she felt compelled to roll into the fray.

"You know exactly why. The little bitch was blackmailing me. For a year. She kept me in a jar." Her voice faltered under the strain of rage and Burges seemed genuinely amused.

"Hence your desire to quit the style column? You mean to persecute her in the press once more? Is that wise?"

"Can I be frank? Barnabus, no offence meant, but you've been painting Granger as a victim for the last few days. I've brought you proof that she turned down Weasley's proposal and you buried it in a sideline, I've shown you that she knew about the law before she disappeared and still you persist in ignoring the fact that Granger will never go along with this law. Getting this photograph was too easy. She's parading this farce to the press which is proof in itself she has no intention of coming to heel. You don't know her like I do. I don't understand why you persist in protecting her!"

Skeeter watched as Barnabus glanced towards the man now sitting behind his desk, rather fittingly chairing the position that controlled the Prophet.

"Miss Granger has yet to be reasoned with. There is still a chance that she can be persuaded to take the appropriate path. There is sensitive material she has, that she has not brought to light, and thus it must be concluded she is not entirely decided."

"Or she's simply shrewder than you recognise. You should be taking the opportunity now to bring her down a peg. We can show the public how manipulative she is, playing the victim card, taking advantage of a much younger muggle born, disrupting an active investigation into her wellbeing to milk the drama for publicity- I can write this, you know what I can do to her-"

Burgess' keen eye never left her and his assessment seemed to come to a sudden halt. He closed the folder in front of him, before offering it back to her.

"You will toe the line that your editor sets for you, and not print a word otherwise. You are right. Your well known detestation of Miss Granger is useful at the moment, nothing more. Barnabus, you may relieve Miss Skeeter from Style reporting. Special Correspondent will work for now." Burges hadn't raised his voice to cut her off, and his carefully controlled tone continued as he now turned to her. "Just remember Miss Skeeter, I still possess the ability to expose you and remove you from this paper, that has not changed. You may prove useful, but do not get ahead of yourself."

Skeeter didn't smile so much as grimace at the man, even as she nodded.

"I'll await you Barnabus, to approve the final copy, but you both have a print deadline to meet." Skeeter turned from the room and took a breath outside the room, before she was joined by a benignly smiling Barnabus.

"You don't disappoint Skeeter, and you live to see another day."

Like Lazarus, come from the dead to tell all, Skeeter let her heels lead her down the stairway and entered the room with a feral grin ahead of her editor, primly making her way across the room and sitting across from Ruben, so that both were on Barnabus' immediate side.

A transcript of the radio broadcast was now floating on several enlarged sheafs of parchment, and a blackboard had a line-up of questions scrawled in chalk. Her eyes took in the list with silent glee as Barnabus asked Ruben to lead the run-down.

She was petty enough to enjoy watching each of his alternatives for the headline being shot down. Even as Barnabus frowned and the two questions about the St Mungo's investigation vanished from the board, her smile continued. Then it blossomed as Ruben tried to propose basing the cover on the plight of Dennis Creevey and Barnabus' frown grew deeper.

"We will not, under any circumstances, breathe life into anything brought to light by that preposterous broadcast. To do so gives it more credit than it deserves and does us a disservice, Is that understood?"

Skeeter almost preened as the table grew silent and she brought the grey manilla folder to the attention of the room once more.

"Perhaps a different angle on Mr Creevey? The young muggleborn being manipulated by the more experienced Miss Granger?"

Twenty minutes later, she had been given use of Amorin's deputy editor's office to write the feature. An hour before print, Burgess had approved the copy, and Barnabus poured her a glass of brandy long after Ruben had stormed off to the floo, and the office emptied down to the skeleton printing staff.

As midnight chimed on the four faced hanging clock, the plates were set and waves of paper rode forward over the rows of desk, magically suspended chrome instruments combing over the pristine white with scrawls of moving black ink. Skeeter lingered in the empty, high ceiling-ed chamber, and watched as the magical photographs of Hermione Granger wreathed themselves under the byline: "Rita Skeeter, Special correspondent, exclusive."

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I was teaching a year 12 class on T S Eliots 's poetry and for some reason saw parallels in the poem "The Love song of J. Alfred Prufrock" where there absolutely are none. It made it much harder to write, and I should have abandoned it long after I had used his seedy view of the world to show Diagon alley after dark, but I'm stubborn as well as foolish. I used the characters R Amorin and Betty Braithewaite from the world of Harry Potter, so they aren't original characters. Additionally, I watched 'Press' to give me some ideas about what the world of the Daily Prophet might look like, so in my mind, the Amorin and Braithwaite resemble Duncan Allen and Holly Evans respectively. (Also Duncan Allen is a older, dark greasy haired, bastard, anti-hero with no scruples, but deep down a human heart. So if you're into that sort of thing... which I assume some of you would be, perhaps give Press a watch.)

Leave a review with your thoughts, I still enjoy reading the majority of them!