cciv. extortionist

Hermione Granger stood at the mouth of the Charms corridor, hidden in the shadow of Darius the Dread, puzzled.

It was precisely eleven-oh-two on a Monday during Hermione's only open period, three days since the end of the Triwizard Tournament's second task. An innocuous hour, most students and their instructors remained tucked away in their classroom or otherwise occupied with study hall. Hermione herself should be huddled in a comfortable corner with Harriet and Terry, working on their essay for the 1912 Goblin Riots, sharing a tin of sugar-free sweets from Honeydukes.

Instead, Hermione half crouched in the shadow of a weathered statue with the Argonauts' Atlas balanced on her knees.

The day had started off normally enough—as normal as any day at Hogwarts could be. She, Harriet, and Elara sat in their usual place at their House table and had breakfast. Harriet ripped apart her toast in a sulk over Snape's difficult lessons, and Elara slouched in a half-doze.

Hermione had only just tucked into her porridge when the Prophet arrived. Given the conversation that rose as the owls dispensed the paper, she guessed Skeeter had written another salacious article. A glance at the cover showed it to be about someone outside the castle for once, but as Hermione took her first bite of porridge, she frowned.

Skeeter had done another article over the weekend about the Tournament's second task. That in and of itself wasn't a surprise, of course, but Hermione thought the level of detail she slipped in couldn't possibly be replicated by a second-hand account. No press had been allowed to the event. Somehow, Skeeter had been there.

So, as breakfast finished and they gathered their bags—prodding Elara awake—they went to History of Magic, and Hermione pulled out her Atlas below the desk. Professor Lupin lectured, and Hermione set the map to search for Rita Skeeter. She had expected the results to return as they had the last time she'd checked, with Skeeter somewhere in London or her own home, wherever that may be—but, instead, Hermione's eyes had widened as she recognized the tiny dot moving through the corridors of Hogwarts.

Holy cricket!

Her notes for the period proved pitiful, as Hermione couldn't tear her eyes from the Atlas to pay much attention to the lecture. She almost concussed Harriet in her rush to pass off her heavy satchel at the end of the class, and when the other witch asked where in Merlin she was off to, Hermione didn't answer. She clung to the Atlas and hurried away.

Now, over an hour later, she was torn between questioning the Atlas' efficacy or wondering if Rita Skeeter could somehow turn herself invisible.

She'd trailed the dot with Skeeter's name through several passages and halls, becoming more and more puzzled as to how no one around her seemed to hesitate or approach the witch. When Hermione finally came within sight of her—or what should have been within sight—she expected to look up and see a stranger, Skeeter utilizing Polyjuice or another disguise—only to find the corridor mostly empty.

Hermione scrunched herself smaller against the wall, grousing. Skeeter—or not-Skeeter, or Skeeter-the-somehow-invisible-libelist—supposedly lingered at the door to the Charms classroom, but when Hermione looked down the corridor, no one stood there. With everyone in class, the emptiness became all the more glaring—and frustrating.

Well, she told herself, lips pressed in a thin line. I could go over there and begin poking around, but if Skeeter IS there, a blunt investigation will only tip her off to be more careful. However, I'm not getting anywhere sitting in the dust….

A patrolling Auror approached from the far passage, making slow, unbothered progress toward the Great Hall. Hermione stared at the Atlas with such ferocity she was surprised it didn't melt in her hand. The dot John Dawlish toddled by Rita Skeeter—within inches, overlapping—and then continued without a single hitch in his step. Hermione only had seconds to step away and slip into one of Filch's broom cupboards before Dawlish spotted her and gave away her position.

What in Merlin's name is going on? Hermione had a dozen half-formed theories bubbling in her head, but none of them included the possibility of Skeeter being permeable. The Auror had walked through her! And now, Skeeter's dot seemed stuck to Dawlish's, meandering toward the stair vault.

Hermione eased the door open and looked out, brow furrowed. She glowered at the back of Auror Dawlish's graying head as if he were culpable in her annoyance—and an instant before she dropped her gaze, a sudden sparkle on his collar caught her attention. There, clinging to the thick maroon fabric of the wizard's robes, was a beetle. A jeweled beetle specifically, the spotty radiance of daylight giving just enough glow to catch the shine off the bug's patterned elytra.

NoHermione told herself, her fingers tightening against the door's edge. That isn't probable in the slightest….

Except Rita Skeeter being an Animagus made a frightening amount of sense, especially if she could transform into something as inconspicuous as an insect. Hogwarts couldn't maintain barriers that would bar witches or wizards in animal form; barring them in their human bodies proved difficult enough, as stated by Hogwarts: A History. It required a blood sample, and most people weren't eager to give those up. Being an unregistered Animagus no bigger than a child's palm meant Skeeter could go wherever she pleased.

Perhaps I shouldn't be so surprised, Hermione thought, grim. After all, Pettigrew spent years as a rat—.

Pettigrew.

Hermione's mind fairly burst with ideas, and she recalled rapid-fire scenes within the Forbidden Forest, the cold, firm touch of glass under her fingertips. Her eyes bounced from side to side, unseeing, as she continued to crouch in the broom cupboard, a cobweb caught in her bushy hair. If a jar could work on Pettigrew….

A plan began to form.

Oh, but it was a wicked plan, the kind that could get her expelled, for Merlin's sake—but Hermione couldn't ignore the potential benefits. When her best friend was risking her life working toward apprenticeship with a dangerous wizard, there was no assistance Hermione would dare to overlook—not if the only thing truly at risk were her own scruples.

What she wouldn't do—wouldn't give—to shut that horrid woman's mouth permanently, to never have her say one rotten word against the people she saw as family. What she wouldn't give to have that disgusting rhetoric turned away from her friends—.

"Dobby," she said aloud, and the house-elf appeared with a crack! She couldn't see much of him in the single stray shaft of light entering the cupboard, but what she saw was covered in several hats, socks, and a fine misting of flour.

"Miss Herme-ninny!" The house-elf launched himself at Hermione, and she caught him in a one-armed hug, the other hand flying back to catch herself before she could topple. "How can Dobby be helping you?"

"Hello, Dobby. How are you?"

"Dobby is good! Thank you, Miss!"

Hermione brushed a bit of flour from her robes, and from Dobby. "I wanted to ask if you'd lend me a hand."

He bounced on his toes, head nodding before Hermione could finish speaking. "Yes, Miss Herme-ninny! What is it Dobby must do?"

"Well, first we'll need one of the glass jars from the kitchens. I'll put a Charm on it, and then, we'll be going on a beetle hunt…."

xXx

Consciousness returned to Rita one bleary, headache-inducing second at a time.

She couldn't remember where she'd been or what she'd been doing. Based on the state of her head, she'd guess having one too many pints down at the Leaky, but that didn't sound right. Rita clearly recalled checking in to the office, and seeing as it was a Monday morning and rather slow, she decided to make the trek to Hogwarts in search of new stories. She wasn't averse to popping by the Three Broomsticks on the way home, always with an ear out, but it was Monday—wasn't it? She never got squiffy on a Monday or on the hunt for a new article.

Rita shifted, her body feeling off, her eyelids closed. No, she hadn't gone to the pub. She remembered being in the school, making a quick lap through the classes attended by the older Slytherins. There'd been whispers of an inner-House competition held by the Defense instructor to find an apprentice, and Rita knew her readers were salivating for the story. The participants had been infuriatingly tight-lipped.

Rita knew better than to tail the instructor himself. She'd found that out the hard way. Slytherin had been a mysterious, intriguing figure since his supposed return to Great Britain some fifteen or so years ago, and Rita had very nearly had her antennae hexed off when she'd dared follow the wizard a bit too closely. The same could be said of the Potions Master, that grim fellow apparently acquitted of following You-Know-Who in the eighties. Rita had no desire to be mistaken for an escaping potion ingredient.

That was all well and good, but Rita still didn't have a story, and nothing to go off of aside from a few comments here and there and tidbits fed to parents back home. She remembered being outside the Charms classroom, but the door had been sealed too tight to fit through. She recalled spotting a passing Auror and then using him as cover to get back to the Great Hall. If she couldn't get a story about the supposed apprenticeship, she could always pinch some gossip off the Boy Who Lived. Not terribly riveting stuff, but—.

Rita groaned, because she'd flitted over to the Auror, but she never made it to the Great Hall. A girl had called out to Dawlish—Rita didn't see her, but the wizard had stopped to answer or chat, and then—.

Bulbous green eyes. Four hats and two mismatched socks. A snap, and—.

The ground shifted below Rita, rolling like an earthquake. She yelped as the cloth she'd mistaken for her own eyelids pulled back, and her beetle legs twitched in sync as the light coruscated in her eyes. Her antennae moved fitfully, tapping against something solid, something that felt suspiciously like—.

"Hello, Miss Skeeter."

The voice spoke outside the glass walls surrounding Rita, and she had to turn her whole body to find the girl seated in a chair at the other end of the desk her jar prison rested on. It was a girl—a student, given her robes and the telling stripe of Slytherin green revealed by the turned-down lapels. A vague recollection buzzed against Rita's brain, but she couldn't quite place the chit. Bushy-haired, maybe fifteen or sixteen, her teeth slightly too big and too white in a friendly smile.

Where?

"I wouldn't advise changing forms at the moment. The jar is Charmed Unbreakable, you see. It'd be interesting to witness what happens when an unstoppable force meets an immovable object—but, well, I don't think you'd like the result."

Rita's wings buzzed beneath the hard shell of her casing, and she had to move the whole of her body in a quick, fumbled circle to get her bearings, not wanting to give the girl her back. They were in a classroom—abandoned, of course, the girl sitting primly in the chair with her legs crossed and her hands folded neatly on the desk. She continued to smile, looking for all the world like a cheery schoolgirl in an interview, but Rita still thought those teeth shone too bright. Too sharp. Too hungry.

"This is a rather unorthodox way of meeting, isn't it? But I guess I can't apologize for that. It was the most efficient way of having this conversation, and I fear we don't have terribly long. Lunch will be over in another half hour, and I really must be in class." The girl paused. Her brown eyes fairly gleamed with thought as she bent ever so slightly closer, peering at the jeweled beetle under glass. "I don't think we've ever had the pleasure before. I'm Hermione Granger."

Granger. It took Rita a moment to place the name, her head still frazzled from whatever had knocked her out—but oh, she did know that name. The Muggle-born who was a ward of the Malfoys until last summer, until she became a ward of the Blacks.

The other shoe dropped for Rita, and with a rising sense of dread, she thought she knew where this situation was headed.

"Did you know it's illegal to be an unregistered Animagus? It has been since 1731, when it was put into law that all would-be Animagi had to be registered at the Department of Magical Law Enforcement by a Master certified with the Thorwich College of Transfiguration. Isn't that interesting?" The Granger girl extended her hand to give the jar a gentle tap on the glass, startling Rita. "It's often overlooked, as not many witches or wizards ever make an effort to become one, and even fewer have the ability. You're quite talented, Miss Skeeter, but I would imagine it's frightening, knowing that that if anyone discovered your secret, you could face a ten to twenty-five year sentence in Azkaban. Well, pardon me, ten to twenty-five years not including potential charges of unlawful espionage—which, wouldn't you know, could see you Kissed? I mean, one word to Minister Gaunt about a potential leak in his office would probably elicit a fairly extreme reaction. Fascinating!"

Rita didn't find it fascinating at all. Had she the ability to sweat, she imagined she'd be soaked within an inch of her life. How did the girl know all of that? Had she been watching Rita? How long had she known? Who had she told? What did she have planned?

Rita's legs moved, restless, as her wings buzzed.

"The Ministry can be so uncompromising. Oh, I guess it's a bit hard to have a conversation at the moment. Here, let me open the jar, and you can take a seat, Miss Skeeter."

The girl whipped out her wand and gave the jar's lid a sharp tap. It unscrewed, and Rita took her chance to fly up and out. Even as she changed forms, she couldn't shake how wrong-footed she felt, whipping around to stare at the impudent chit who'd had the gall to trap her in a jar. Granger merely stared back, wand in hand, and her eyes flicked toward the opposing chair.

Rita cleared her throat. "If you wanted to chat, you could have sent a letter to my office," she sniffed, tossing her head as she sat perched on the edge of her seat. She could feel her heartbeat in her fingertips, Gaunt's name hovering like a Blasting Curse about to go off. She hadn't spied on him, she hadn't! But would the Minister believe that?

"I didn't think you'd want me to write any of this down, would you? Might be a tad incriminating."

Rita's lips puckered as if she'd bit into a lemon. "What do you want?"

"I don't want anything, Miss Skeeter. I have a terrible habit of gathering facts and sharing them." The girl's smile remained bright, the soft glow of the torchlight almost angelic on her face. Rita fidgeted with her hands, making short, aborted motions as if to reach for something and bring it in front of her, placing it between her and Granger. "I think we have a misunderstanding. You really perform a vital role, did you know? I read your articles every morning. Everybody does."

Something in the girl's voice eluded Rita, but her nerves eased. "Is that a veiled threat for me to stop writing, Miss Granger?"

"Oh, no. I'm being sincere. Whether or not I agree with what you write has no bearing on the fact I read your articles whenever they come out, and so does everyone else. I can appreciate your…creativity. Especially when directed toward the people in our government. Or even celebrity figures, like Longbottom. I'm glad someone questions them."

Rita settled in her chair. "Well. My stories on the Boy Who Lived are usually popular."

"Of course. I'm sure those articles do better than the ones about other students' personal lives."

Rita's nerves twinged, the skin of her neck tingling. She narrowed her eyes. The audacity of this chit!

"Cut to the chase, girlie," she snapped. "I know how this game works."

"I wouldn't treat this information like a game, Miss Skeeter," Granger said, her tone firm, sincere. Her eyes remained fixed on Rita's face and didn't waver. "This isn't a game. My foster sisters' lives aren't innings of cricket. You humiliating teenagers for the reading leisure of banal, fatuous cows leading vicarious lives is not amusing." The girl cleared her throat, then primly swiped at her skirt, ensuring it lay flat against her thighs. "I have my own qualms with the integrity of your writing, but I understand it serves a purpose. People will read it, and some of those people cannot think for themselves. This isn't something I can change. However, if your poisonous quill continues its habit of mentioning the Blacks and Potters, or tearing into children's private lives, I may start to question that purpose. I may start to question the need to stay silent on your extracurricular skills."

Rita said nothing, her expression cool. Granger seemed to pick apart her thoughts with terrifying ease, to the point Rita again questioned how much she knew, how long she'd sat on in this information.

"It would be rather costly to bribe a Transfiguration Master to register your name now—both in the literal sense, and the figurative. It would affect future stories, wouldn't it, if your status became known? And should someone possibly tip the College off to a potential fraudulent registration…." Granger raised her brow, then smiled. "So it really would benefit you to simply drop interest in my foster family, extended or otherwise. You have far more interesting subjects to follow, don't you? Stories potentially about Ministry corruption—abusive officials, excessive nepotism, legislation violating basic human rights. The list goes on."

Rita swallowed and forced a matching smile onto her face. Heat shimmered in the girl's eyes and belied the otherwise amenable expression. Really, blacklisting a few dull children and that miserable Black convict wasn't much to ask. Not when Rita knew every word the girl said was true, not when a whisper in the wrong ear would see her sealed on that miserable rock in the North Sea…or worse.

Turning her sights on the Ministry, however…that may be more than Rita could stomach. More than her editor would accept. But what would the girl do if she refused?

It didn't occur to Rita for an instant that the brat might be lying, that she wouldn't have the nerve to report her to the DMLE. She rattled off the laws with barely a breath taken, and the mention of Azkaban had been made without pause, without an ounce of reticence. That wasn't the behavior of a coward. Rita had a nose for information, a knack for simply knowing, and something in the girl stilled her tongue.

Granger stood just as a bell, muffled by the thickness of the stone walls, rang. Rita quickly jolted to her feet and straightened her robes, taking a moment to nudge her jeweled spectacles up her nose and try for a measure of composure. Granger merely picked up the jar, smirking.

"Do we have an agreement, Miss Skeeter? It's time for me to go."

Rita nodded and extended her long-nailed hand to shake, but Granger made no move to take it. She watched the reporter with those shrewd, burning eyes, and Rita snatched her hand back as if stung. She made for the door, ready to return to her Animagus form and get away from the brat.

Rita didn't see Granger's satisfied smirk slip, nor did she see how malice gleamed like new coins in the young girl's eyes for the briefest of moments before she straightened and handed the jar off to the house-elf hidden behind her legs.

"I'll be looking out for your next column, Rita. It had better be good."

Rita gulped as the door opened. She turned into her beetle form and fled the room as fast as possible.


A/N: Something I believe a Gryffindor!Hermione wouldn't recognize and a Slytherin!Hermione would is that blackmailing Skeeter to not write anything at all would eventually fail and drive her to think of how to get out from under Hermione's thumb. All stick, no carrot.

Hermione: "This is such a silly little thing—but if you cross me, I'll make certain you go to prison and have your soul sucked out of your body. Nothing major!"

Rita: "Ha ha. I'm in danger!"