Hermione whipped her head up sharply as she heard a loud firm knock on her door. Her swollen red eyes flew open in panic and despair.
"Miss Granger? Miss Granger? Are you there? Open up please."
Hermione gasped softly as the voice identified itself with that of Professor Mcgonagall's. She stood up in horror, turning her head frantically about her, noting the state her room was in. There was no way she was going to tell Professor Mcgonagall what had happened. She couldn't let her in, not now, especially in the physical state she was in, battered, bruised and scarred.
She scrambled around her room in a mad course, with no clear plan in mind as to deal with the problem presented to her now, at this untimely hour. Hermione let out a small whimper, at her wits end. Her mind had never worked to slowly, nor so clumsily before. It was heavy and thick and with each jolt of panic sent to her head, it throbbed nastily.
The knocks on her door became more firm and urgent and she knew that if she didn't do anything, Professor Mcgonagall would magically break her door down. Over her dead body would she allow such a thing to happen.
Just as the quick knocks and crisp questions colored with worry reached its climax, everything in her clouded mind seemed to piece together miraculously.
Hermione whirled about her room, bending down sharply to pick up her scattered pieces of nightclothes, stuffing them unceremoniously under her bed. Straightening the bed sheets and covers, whipping them back in place, she cast a brisk spell, muttering at a fast pace, feeling the muscles in her body tensing up more.
"Eycanto Wanteilum!" It would allow Mcgonagall to see only the things that Hermione wanted her to see. Although at the present moment she couldn't see anything that seemed out of the ordinary, she wasn't about to take any chances. She, for one, knew how sharp the Professor's swift eyes were, having experienced it firsthand when she, Harry and Ron had stumbled upon her watch during their attempts to pry out information about countless intriguing mysteries or questions they had unfounded.
She hurried, her frazzled nerves on end, to the cosy warm common bathroom, which she shared with Malfoy. It was placed strategically between their two bedrooms, which two doors leading to each respective room at either end of the spacious washing up area.
Thankful that she had her wand with her, she cast a rather powerful locking spell on both doors, her thumping heart decelerating greatly as she took in a deep breath of cool air, wincing only a bit as the heaving movement caused a harsh pain to shoot up her chest. Suddenly she remembered a key factor and hastily turned on the water taps in gleaming white tub just as a loud thud resounded from outside, indicating that Mcgonagall had barged her way through.
In her panicked rush to step into the tub, she slipped on a wet patch and banged her head hard on the white surface, landing in a curled up, foetus-like position. Hot tears of pain and helplessness stung her dry eyes. Hermione rubbed the growing lump on her head softly, crying bitterly. The cold water that had gradually warmed into hot warm water caused more such tears to stream down her face. Her whole body felt like it was on fire and she felt slightly nauseous from the different sensations from the cold, then hot water. The scratches and bruises dotted all over her skin felt inflamed.
However, the warm-colored tiles lining the walls and the dark oak floorboards, in addition to the fact that the rushing water was drowning out any sounds she was making that might cause Mcgonagall to raise her suspicions comforted her.
Surely enough, three frigid knocks were made upon the bathroom door.
"Miss Granger? Can you hear me? I must apologize for entering in that manner, but I did not see you at breakfast, neither was there any response from you. I understand that you are still not feeling well and you are excused from waking up past due time. However," she continued, in a strict but matronly voice, "I must insist that you visit Madame Pomfrey after your bath. The new school term has just begun and we can't afford to have our Head Girl ill." Professor Mcgonagall finished, relieved that she had gotten that over and done with.
Hermione's eyes flew open in terror and fear as the Professor's words drifted through the door. She adjusted the taps so that the water flowed out in a less raging manner, before answering.
"I'm sorry Professor," she caught herself, steadying her voice, trying to quail the obvious tremble in her tone. "I, I was taking a bath and couldn't hear you. Don't worry; I'm feeling much, much better now. There is no need to see Madame Pomfrey. The long rest did some good. I'll be down for classes, as soon as I change." Hermione gulped, sincerely hoping that the rather alert mind of Professor Mcgonagall fell for that little speech, one that, hearing her voice echo off the walls of the bathroom, did not sound quite convincing.
Thankfully, the Professor had indeed fallen for her excuse, though not rested assured till after much exclamations and fervent protests from an "extremely, wonderfully well-rested and in the pink of health" Hermione Granger. Finally, she left her room, loosening the great big knot in Hermione's heart slightly.
Lying there in the bathtub, surrounded by rising steam and a faint white mist, she tried to register what had happened in the short span of dusk to dawn. She already knew the basics of what happened; she had been brutally raped by a most detestable creature. But she didn't know what, how, or why. She sat there stonily, wondering why Malfoy had done so. He was reputed to be a player and an avid one at that. He had probably shagged half the female population in Slytherin, and would most likely move on to the next half, setting a wonderful record for himself and pump up that obnoxious ego and pride of his.
She shuddered at the thought of how his pale gray eyes looked that night, the burning, haunting intensity residing within. She curled up tighter, wrapping her arms around her protectively. More tears burned hot red paths down her colored face, and she struck out angrily at the water covering her. Hermione hit her battered arms against the clear water bitterly, the water only magnifying the horrific splotches on her arms. In a fit of rage and mixed emotions, she grabbed the bar of soap and started to scrub her skin furiously in short, coarse, swift strokes. She was dirty. There was dirt all over her. She scrubbed harder and harder, ignoring the stinging pain the soap caused when they entered her cuts. The water was tainted a pale red and a metallic scent of blood filtered the air. The dirt was consuming her. She was dirt.