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The Interview Room.
Rita Skeeter's smile froze. It was a rictus of confusion, like a mask that had suddenly lost its elastic. The Quick-Quotes Quill hovered in mid-air, trembling slightly, unsure of what to write.
She paused, blinking rapidly behind her jeweled spectacles. Is she mocking me? Is this a teenage rebellion thing?
Before Rita could process the shift in power dynamics, Hermione continued. Her voice wasn't loud, but the weight of her words seemed to suck the oxygen out of the room.
"Why was it me who colluded with him?" Hermione asked, looking genuinely puzzled. "That implies a hierarchy where I am the follower."
Hermione tilted her head, her eyes wide and innocent. "Have you ever considered... well, another possibility?"
Rita instinctively held her breath. A sense of foreboding rose in her chest, the instinct of a prey animal realizing the rabbit is actually a wolf.
Hermione leaned forward, her eyes clear and terrifyingly sane.
"For example... that Voldemort is actually my subordinate? That he does things on my orders?"
The air froze instantly.
Rita's jaw dropped. The quill dropped onto the parchment, leaving a blot of green ink.
Outside the door, Harry Potter stopped breathing. He looked at Ron, mouthing, Did she just say what I think she said?
Inside, Hermione gracefully picked up the bone-china teacup. She took a small, delicate sip, her pinky finger extended. Her movements were composed, elegant, as if she hadn't just claimed ownership of the Dark Lord.
"Ms. Skeeter," Hermione put down the cup with a soft clink. "As a professional journalist, your reporting always needs some... sensational elements, right? You need a hook."
She smiled, a helpful, collaborative smile.
"How about I give you a better one?"
Hermione spread her hands. "Write this down: I am actually a Transmigrator."
Rita blinked. "A... what?"
"A Transmigrator. A Time Traveler from a higher dimension," Hermione explained patiently, as if teaching a toddler. "And you? You are all just characters in a book I read."
"I don't have the gift of prophecy at all," Hermione confessed, her voice lowering to a conspiratorial whisper. "I just read the original script. I know where the plot is going. I know who lives, who dies, and who ends up marrying whom."
She gestured vaguely. "With the advantage of having read the book and having foresight, I found Voldemort early on. I recruited him. He's my henchman. My heavy lifter. I had him infiltrate the Ministry of Magic to clear the board."
Hermione leaned back, looking satisfied. "When the time is right, I will overthrow the Wizarding World in one fell swoop. The Dark Lord is just my little brother."
She looked at the stunned reporter. "What do you think of this narrative? It's punchy, isn't it?"
Hermione shrugged, looking innocent. "See? Now that we've established that, isn't my behavior at the Ministry—breaking in, beating up Aurors—completely justified? I'm the protagonist. It's plot armor."
Rita was completely stunned. Her brain had gone blank.
All the leading questions she had prepared, the twists, the traps—they all became a joke in the face of Hermione's shocking "Truth Game."
This witch doesn't play by the rules at all!
Rita wanted a scandal. She wanted "Teenage Girl Seduced by Dark Arts." She wanted "Harry Potter's Lover Turns Evil."
She did not want a story that sounded like it came from the secure ward of St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries.
If she printed this, people wouldn't think Hermione was dangerous. They would think Rita was insane.
Rita was speechless for a long time. Finally, she managed a faint, trembling smile.
"Haha... Miss Granger... You have a... vivid sense of humor. You're joking, of course..."
Rita was sweating. She was usually the one driving people crazy with lies. Now, the interviewee was out-lying her. She felt dizzy.
Seeing that Rita Skeeter hadn't written a word, Hermione laughed softly.
"It seems you have nothing more to ask. You look a bit pale, Rita. You should get some rest."
Hermione stood up, smoothed her skirt, and walked out.
"We look forward to your report."
The Corridor.
Harry and Ron had already fled, terrified that Snape would catch them eavesdropping. Snape was waiting by the gargoyle, his arms crossed.
They walked side by side down the damp stone hallway. The torches flickered as they passed.
Snape turned his head to look at Hermione. His expression was unreadable, but there was a flicker of dark amusement in his eyes.
"Miss Granger," Snape drawled. "You... you're not planning to just kill her, are you?"
He knew Hermione. He knew her nonchalant attitude usually masked a lethal intent. He figured she was thinking, 'Dead beetles can't write reports.'
Hermione looked slightly surprised, placing a hand on her chest.
"Professor Snape! How could you think that? Am I the kind of person who would kill someone so easily? I'm a Prefect!"
She shook her head. "Besides, think of the paperwork. How bad would that be for Hogwarts' PR?"
Her tone was innocent. Too innocent.
"Don't worry," Hermione said, her eyes clear and sincere. "I promise you, Professor... I won't kill anyone at Hogwarts."
Snape stopped walking. He looked at her.
At Hogwarts.
He smirked. "Very well. Ten points to Gryffindor for... restraint."
The Next Morning. The Great Hall.
The owl post arrived in a flurry of feathers and screeching. A barn owl dropped a copy of the Daily Prophet directly into the porridge bowl in front of Harry.
The front page headline caused an immediate uproar. The huge, bold black text took up almost half the page:
SHOCKING INSIDE STORY! HERMIONE GRANGER ADMITS TO COLLUDING WITH YOU-KNOW-WHO! Could She Be the Mastermind Behind the Turmoil at the Ministry?!
Rita Skeeter had actually done it. She had taken the kernel of Hermione's "confession" and twisted it back into a semi-believable narrative.
The article claimed Hermione was the "secret power" behind the Death Eaters. It embellished the story, implying that Gilderoy Lockhart was also an accomplice—a puppet used to elevate their status. It painted Hermione not as a madwoman, but as a Machiavellian genius.
Harry and Ron rushed over to the Gryffindor table, their faces pale.
"Hermione! Look at this!" Harry spread the soggy newspaper out. "Look what she wrote! It's outrageous!"
Ron chimed in angrily, slamming his fist on the table. "Exactly! She wrote you like some kind of Dark Queen! 'The Power Behind the Throne'? She's trying to get you sent to Azkaban!"
Hermione picked up the newspaper. Her eyes scanned the text rapidly.
Her face darkened. A frown marred her forehead.
"This is unacceptable," Hermione hissed.
"I know!" Harry said. "We have to sue her! Or tell Dumbledore!"
"No!" Hermione slammed the paper down. "I clearly told her everything! I gave her the scoop of the century!"
She looked up at Harry and Ron, her eyes blazing with indignation.
"She cut corners! Why didn't she mention that I'm a Transmigrator?"
Harry and Ron froze.
"I told her I read the original books! I told her Voldemort is my little brother! I told her this is all a simulation!" Hermione ranted. "And she didn't mention such crucial information at all? She reduced me to a mere 'political mastermind'? It's insulting!"
The two boys stood there, completely petrified.
So... this is what made you angry?! Not the treason accusation?!
Hermione ignored her two friends' confusion. She muttered to herself, stabbing a sausage with her fork.
"Tsk. I described it so vividly yesterday. I gave her the meta-narrative. And she edited it out for mass appeal. Typical mainstream media."
"No. This distortion of facts is outrageous."
Hermione stood up abruptly. Her eyes shone with a dangerous, predatory light.
"It seems necessary to bring the person involved along. We need to have a... good discussion. To correct the details. We must ensure the truthfulness and accuracy of news reports."
That Evening. London.
Rita Skeeter was comfortably sitting in her plush living room. The decor was tacky—lots of pink velvet and gold leaf. She was sipping a glass of elf-made wine, pleased with her latest masterpiece.
The Daily Prophet was spread out on the coffee table.
She chuckled to herself. In the end, she hadn't written the "Time Traveler" nonsense. That would have ruined her credibility. But the "Secret Mastermind" angle? That would sell papers for weeks.
She had been worried about Hermione's temper. But yesterday, the girl hadn't seemed angry. She seemed... detached. Maybe even happy?
The rumors of the Witch's cruelty are clearly exaggerated, Rita thought, taking a sip of wine. She's just a girl playing pretend.
She picked up the newspaper, admiring her byline.
"Ah, Rita," she whispered to herself. "You've done it again."
Just then, a calm, melodic voice rang out from behind her chair.
"Ms. Skeeter... I spoke so eloquently yesterday. Why did you edit out the best parts?"
CRASH.
The wine glass slipped from Rita's hand, shattering on the floor. Red wine stained the white carpet like blood.
She spun around, her heart hammering against her ribs.
Three people had silently appeared in her living room. The wards hadn't triggered. The door hadn't opened. They were just... there.
In the middle stood the Witch, Hermione Granger. She was wearing casual Muggle clothes, but the half-smile on her face was terrifying. It was the smile of a cat watching a bird with a broken wing.
To her left stood a handsome man with a dazzling, magazine-cover smile. Gilderoy Lockhart, the Minister of Magic's favorite celebrity.
To her right stood a tall, dark-haired man with cold eyes and an aura of supreme danger. Ethan Hunt—the rising star of the Auror office, the man who terrified criminals.
(Or, as Hermione knew him: Tom Riddle Senior, her loyal undead servant).
Three people who shouldn't have been in her living room. Three people who represented the Media, the Law, and the Power.
They stared at her in silence.
"We're here for an edit," Hermione said softly.