InsaneJournal

 

“How are you feeling, Hermione? Proud? Nervous? Does it remind you of facing the army of He Who Shall Not Be Named?” Rita asked ruthlessly, peering over the horn-rimmed glasses, a Quick Quotes Quill poised above her parchment.

 

“I’m feeling quietly confident,” Hermione replied, her face as carefully neutral as a poker player. “You can quote me on that. Exactly.”

 

“I think my readers would like more personal insight into the confidante of the Boy Who Lived,” Rita persisted and stepped closer, her green satin suit gleaming under the lights. “What’s the nature of your relationship with Ronald Weasley? Would you describe it as intimate?”

 

Hermione ignored her and picked up the press release she was due to read.

 

“I’m here to make an announcement on behalf of the Minister for Magic’s Office,” she said calmly. “Copies of the text are available at the front, just to prevent mis-quotes.”

 

She saw Rita put away the Quick Quotes Quill in her crocodile-skin handbag and felt a small thrill of triumph.

 

The first week was pretty hard, since Rita popped up wherever Hermione went – outside her flat, in the café she visited for lunch, and once behind her in the line at the grocery store. A photographer with a huge lens snapped a picture of her opening a window for an Owl while wearing her dressing gown once, but it never appeared in the Prophet.

 

Still, Hermione’s life didn’t offer much scandalous potential so wasn’t a surprise when Rita stopped following her. It helped that Hermione went on the offensive, cutting off Rita’s gossip at the source by ensuring she didn’t sneak into the Ministry loos or coffee room.

 

During her third week in the job Hermione traced the source of several leaks, and a threatening talk from Harry in his Auror’s badge put an end to Rita’s longstanding system of bribing Ministry officials.

 

Of course, Rita didn’t capitulate – she was like a weed that sent tendrils in all directions, winding her way under barriers and re-emerging whenever you uprooted her, but Hermione found that she didn’t really mind. Without Rita’s leading questions and acerbic comments the press pack would be drab and manipulable. The tussles with Rita were a kind of game between equally matched adversaries, and Hermione had always enjoyed a challenge.

 

Nonetheless, after a month of foiling Rita’s untimely questions and sorting out civil servants who leaked like a cheap cauldron, Hermione felt she deserved a treat – which came in the form of a few drinks at WandLass.

 

It wasn’t long into her relationship with Ron that Hermione admitted she liked women – admitted to herself that is, she announced it to Ron shortly afterwards. Ron looked gob smacked for a while and then, in the way of blokes, told her that it was 'really hot'. Persuading him that she should ‘explore her sexuality’, as she put it, had not been hard.

 

Now she got two Girl Nights each month, while Ron and Harry ate curry and got pissed. She occasionally wondered if they spend the night having pornographic fantasies of her with a series of women, but it seemed better not to ask. Overall, the arrangement worked pretty well.

 

Tonight being a Girl Night, Hermione walked to the witches bar WandLass which hid in plain sight outside Charing Cross Station. It was a tiny, members-only club which held perhaps two dozen people, but since Hermione doubted there were a hundred queer witches in Britain, that wasn’t a problem.

 

When she pushed open the door it was almost empty, although the presence of a poisonous green drink at the bar implied someone was in the loo. Hermione took a seat at the bar, bought a drink and had just taken a sip when the bathroom door opened and Rita stepped out.

 

“Well,” Hermione thought, “I should have expected that. Who else would order an acid green cocktail?”

 

Hermione stood to leave and Rita saw her, lips curving into an unpleasant smile.

 

“My, my, if it isn’t Hermione Granger. Leaving so soon?” Rita said sweetly, taking her seat.

 

“I’ve no desire to be one of your exposes. My private life is just that – private,” said Hermione coolly, reaching for her bag.

 

“But my readers would be so intrigued,” Rita said, crossing her legs and flashing a hit of stocking-clad thigh. “Ministry spokeswoman caught in sordid lesbian affair. Or perhaps a war heroine’s appeal for equality and tolerance. I can see the headlines now.”

 

“You dare out me,” Hermione threatened, “And I’ll retaliate in kind. I’m sure the public would love to hear about the secret life of the infamous muckraker.”

 

Rita’s eyes narrowed over her glasses, and she gave a condescending smile. “This is dedicated investigative journalism, my dear. You have nothing on me.”

 

“I’m sure someone will tell me,” Hermione said, gambling a little.

 

The risk paid off, because the barmaid promptly said. “I will! I’ve got plenty of stories.”

 

Rita turned slowly and gave the barmaid a very nasty look.

 

“Fair’s fair, Rita,” the girl said, raising her eyebrows. “Anyway, there’s a privacy clause in the membership contract. It’d be a lifetime ban.”

 

Rita took a sip of her drink, looking mutinous.

 

“So you’re saying that what happens at the WandLass stays at WandLass?” Hermione asked, and the barmaid nodded.

 

“Well, in that case…” Hermione said, and sat down again, sliding her drink towards her. She took a sip, enjoying the tang of alcohol, and then asked sweetly, “How is your beetle nowadays, Rita?”

 

Rita almost choked on her drink, splashing some onto the counter where it looked liable to tarnish the metal.

 

“Much better for the enquiry,” Rita said, meeting her eyes and Hermione saw a gleam there, “And your cat?”

 

“Very well, thank you,” Hermione said, and took another sip of her cocktail.

 

It was true: Crookshanks had spent the war at the Burrow, getting fat and happy on Mrs Weasley’s leftovers and looked almost disappointed when she returned. Luckily the environs of her flat seemed to provide enough birds and rodents to keep him occupied.

 

“All right, spill,” Rita said, after a minute or two of silence. “What’s your deal? I won’t print a thing – on my honour as a manipulative, nosy Slytherin.”

 

Hermione loved blackmail. She was enjoying it just as much now as she had the first time, when Rita had capitulated in the Three Broomsticks.

 

“Just here for a quick drink and some feminine company,” Hermione said, and Rita smiled, trailing a scarlett fingernail along the bar-top as she waited for a fresh martini to arrive.

 

Rita was, not that Hermione looked, very attractive for an older woman: coiffed blonde curls, flawless skin, scarlet lips and an hourglass figure emphasized by the satin. She looked rather like a Forties pinup and it would be easy to dismiss or underestimate her based on appearances. Hermione was certain that was Rita’s intent.

 

“I’ve been coming here for over ten years,” Rita said, her eyes trained on Hermione. “You wouldn’t believe who I’ve encountered. An Auror of your acquaintance, for one.”

 

“You never!” Hermione said, before she could stop herself.

 

“Oh yes,” answered Rita with evident enjoyment, “she was a lot of fun. Metamorphagi are great in the bedroom; the things her tongue could-“ she stopped, smirking at Hermione who knew she was blushing bright red.

 

 “I never kiss and tell,” Rita said, leaning forward so that her breasts were pressed tightly against the satin jacket, and a faint shadow suggested at the outline of a nipple. “But some people don’t mind a bit of…select advertising.”

 

“Who else?” Hermione asked, as Rita took a sip of the new cocktail.

 

Rita paused for effect, running her tongue along her scarlet lower lip. “Gwenog Jones.”

 

“Bullshit! I met her at school and she didn’t seem…”

 

“I can assure you it’s true,” Rita replied archly. “I have the photographs to prove it. Very athletic, and she does love to pose for the camera.”

 

“Anyone in the Ministry?” Hermione enquired casually, since stopping up the leaks was part of her job.

 

“Oh yes,” Rita said, eyes glinting with amusement over the rims of her glasses. “But I must protect my sources.”

 

“Have you slept with all the clientele?” Hermione said, downing the remainder of her drink and signalling for another, which arrived within instants – the barmaid clearly anticipating her.

 

“Not all,” Rita said, leaning in further. “But many. A slick tongue, quick fingers and immunity from publication works wonders.”

 

“Really,” Hermione mused, leaning in just a bit herself, close enough that they were almost touching and she saw Rita’s eyes dart down to her cleavage. “Why don’t you tell me more about that?”

 

“It would be simpler to show you,” Rita said, reaching out a hand and running one of the scarlet nails slowly up Hermione’s thigh. Hermione could feel the faint, tingly pressure even through her sensible work skirt and it gave her goose bumps. The good sort of goose bumbs.

 

She looked at Rita, she Slytherin who hid a mind like a scalpel behind a Blonde Bombshell act. Hermione had never fallen for it, but she had to admire Rita for beating the macho press pack at their own game. Besides, clever women were incredibly sexy.

 

“All right,” Hermione said.

 

Rita smiled. “I warn you,” she murmured, voice pitched low so that only Hermione could hear, “This might take all night.”