AN: Pleased pink I am to proclaim: I have attained a beta-reader and a brit-picker! All reading souls bow to the betaing power of one wonderful fury-shashka, and to the lovely Lady Arianne Of Ambers Valley for brit-picking this chapter. Seriously. Bow now!

Jokes! But, any errors found are solely my fault for adding little bits here and there after the final run-through.

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter and/or the characters of the original story created by J.K. Rowling.

Chapter Four: My Anger Will Be Aroused

The following morning, Hermione arose at four—earlier than normal. Usually, she would wake at six and go about her day feeling chipper and refreshed, but this morning was quite the opposite. She'd hardly gotten any sleep due to her anxiety and persistent nightmares. She'd tossed and turned, waking many times with choked screams almost escaping her mouth, clutching helplessly at air for a saviour that never came.

She was so tired—tired physically and mentally—and bone-weary of her ongoing nightmares. Why did the memories of her torture—and torturers—taunt her like this? Why wasn't she given respite even after six years? Why didn't God rescue her from her tribulations and banish those awful dreams from her sleep? Hadn't she done plenty enough for Him to notice her efforts and grant her a reward? Why couldn't she just forget?

She lowered herself to her knees and planted her elbows on top of her mattress. She leant her upper-half slightly forwards and clasped her hands tightly over her rosary beads. She closed her eyes. It was a posture that was familiar to her body because she prayed often during her days. With whispering lips, she poured her heart out, neglecting her usual prayers for the salvation of others to instead beg and cry for reprieve for her own soul.

When she was finished, she went and took a bath in her adjoining lavatory. Once bathed, she dressed in the gloom as the sun had not risen as yet and she felt a sense of security in the quiet dimness. The day prior, she'd worn her virginal-white Abbess' nun habit with the accompanying white-headdress to appear formal and authoritative. At the time, she'd hoped that her outward appearance and serious countenance would instil a measure of respect in the others but it had been for naught. So today, she wore her regular black, calf-length nun habit and its equally washed-out black headdress of her Novitiate days.

With a pop, she Apparated to her kitchen and prepared herself a strong batch of coffee. As she made her way to her study, she sorted through the mail the owls had brought during the night, and took only the pieces of mail that requested her services. Once in her study, she perused the letters and smiled. She felt a little better when she read a missive from her former Herbology professor, Pomona Sprout.

Dear Miss Granger,

I hope this letter finds you well, even though you are currently sharing your home with the evillest of men. No, do not frown. This is not a letter of chastisement. Indeed, I found myself surprised at your sudden decision but I have no doubts in your abilities, my dear. You are doing what so many others are afraid to do—even myself—and I commend you. Nevertheless, I have a request. I was made aware that one of your 'rehabilitation methods' would be to utilise the prisoners for community services. You would issue them tasks to aid the Wizarding community in some way or the other, am I right? If so, I would like to apply for their services. I have enclosed another letter detailing the particulars. Do let me know whether it is possible, dear.

Yours truly,

Pomona Sprout

Hermione retrieved the second piece of parchment and read it entirely. There, in Pomona Sprout's untidy scrawl, Hermione read about Madame Pomfrey's idea of a stronger version of the Pepperup Potion—one that would be able to cure early onset of pneumonia and bronchitis. A list of necessary ingredients was provided. As autumn was coming to a fast close, and winter was on their doorsteps, the flu-season would be in full swing, and the advanced version of the Pepperup Potion would be needed.

Instantly interested, Hermione did not hesitate to send a note of compliance to her former professor. And, by the time she'd finished up her second cup of coffee, she was humming and feeling very much like herself again. All prior worries were completely forgotten.

Lucius confessed himself bored. Terribly so.

There was nothing to do, nothing to occupy his attention, nothing to banish the persistent tedium that was filling his morning. His meagre belongings had yet to arrive, and he was closeted within his bare room, with not even one paltry book to assuage his slowly fraying nerves. He'd anticipated some further entertainment this morning during breakfast, where another one of his comrades-in-imprisonment might have made a fool of themselves, but had been disappointed when his breakfast was delivered magically to his room.

He missed Azkaban. At least there usually was some variation of entertainment. Whether it was a fist-fight between the Lestrange brothers, or a rowdy, amusing altercation between Bellatrix and a prison guard whenever the physical examinations were due.

If this day was to be an example of his remaining days on this earth—well, then he was going to consider taking his own life while the getting was good. If it was one thing Lucius Malfoy abhorred far beyond Mudbloods, it was boredom. Nothing aggravated him more than inactivity. That wasn't to say he was always lively. He appreciated stillness when it was necessary. All he needed was a good book and something alcoholic.

But there was none of that to be found in this horrid, drab place. Even though the building had once been a drinking establishment, he doubted if the good, old Sister had even a pint of firewhiskey remaining to loosen her perpetual rigidity.

He scoffed. A nun. Merlin, the heights of ludicrousness those Mudblood abominations could achieve! Didn't she realise that bad blood could not be made clean no matter the amount of external transformations? And what did she really hope to accomplish with this harebrained scheme of hers? Redemption? Penitence? Forgiveness? He rather thought not. There was and never would be any remorse for those who he'd murdered and tortured. They had deserved it. The only guilt he felt was from getting his son involved in the business.

Draco had been far too young. He had needed more time to appreciate the work his father had been doing. The boy had also been easily brainwashed with inane ideologies about 'equal rights'. To think his son had swallowed such hogwash—it disturbed Lucius immensely. Nevertheless, his son was his son. Despite it all, he loved the boy and was saddened by their estrangement. Hopefully, if all went well, he would have a nice, long chat with Draco and have him see the way of things.

However, in the meantime, he'd have to suffer the company of the Mudblood. For a professed 'bright witch', she certainly wasn't very intelligent. Had she not been a witness of and an active participant in the War? Wasn't she aware of the kind of men—and woman—she was dealing with? They were not people to be trifled with. What gave her the notion that she could change them for the better? The gall of that silly, inexperienced vermin! How he longed to just rid her from this earth.

Mere seconds later, the door to his room opened and admitted the very same vermin he'd been contemplating on. She was escorted by an Auror—Corner, he presumed—and she was carrying a satchel in her arms. She had abandoned her formal Abbess garb to replace it with a plain, washed-out habit, and her hair was devoid of the headdress.

"Here you are, Mr. Malfoy," she said stiffly, walking towards where he sat. She extended her arm and presented the satchel to him. "Your things."

He pinned her with his gaze for he had learnt very early on that she squirmed when he did so. If he could not physically harm her as he wished to, then terrifying her into gibbering fear with a baleful, insistent stare would have to do.

She jiggled the satchel before him, her gaze meeting his stolidly. "Take it now or you'll find your paint bottles broken and all your precious art pieces ruined when I drop it on the floor."

A smirk fought to usurp his face. The little chit had cheek, did she? He dearly wanted to test her, but judging from her steely features and tense posture, he didn't disbelieve she'd do as threatened. So he raised his hands, and she promptly shoved the satchel into them.

"Good," she said coldly, then stepped two steps back and away from him.

"Tsk, tsk, Sister," he said quietly. "I'm sure dirty threats are frowned upon amongst your religious cohorts."

She ignored his statement. "In your bag, amongst your things, you'll notice a pair of dragon-hide gloves. They are to be worn during your community task today. Do not forget them. If you do, you will still work without the gloves for there will be no replacements."

And without waiting for his response, she turned away from him and exited the room.

Lucius Malfoy smiled at his closed door. He despised impertinence, and even more so in ugly little Mudbloods like Hermione Granger. But he couldn't deny that her razor-sharp tongue was amusing. Maybe the Church of Saint Mary might not be such a dreadfully tedious place after all.

Hermione sat at the back of the hired Day Bus with Lillian, trying her best to follow along with the girl's constant chattering. However, her mind was miles elsewhere. Off to a place where steady, unblinking, disturbing grey gazes persisted. An involuntary shudder of unease raced down her spine. Facing Lucius Malfoy should only be done when her fortitude was at two hundred percent, but alas, even when she'd thought she had been strong enough, she had failed miserably.

She hadn't needed to deliver his personal belongings herself. Michael had offered his assistance, but she had declined. In her mind, she was desperate to face and overcome her inane but innate fear of Malfoy Senior. The memory of her astounding behaviour the night prior had plagued her, and she had wanted to prove to herself—and him, too—that she didn't quake in her sensible boots when in his presence, that she didn't want to flee for the hills at his merest indifferent gaze.

But she'd quaked and she'd fled. She had stepped away from him the moment he had taken his bag, and she had all but run from the room the very instant she had said her final word. During their short meeting, her heart had been setting records for itself as it beat faster than it should. And he'd known, the bastard. She'd seen the ghost of a smirk on his paradoxically handsome face. He'd read her like a bloody open book.

Paradoxically handsome, indeed. How could someone so vile and hideous within have far more pleasing features externally? Where did justice end and irony begin?

But it was poor of her as a nun to judge him. In her profession, she was to believe in the goodness and the salvation of the hearts of mankind. She was to guide them along such a path, and was not to criticise them for their past mistakes. Had Lucius Malfoy done or said anything dreadful since his occupying of her church? No, he had not. And therefore just because the very sight of him disturbed her gave her no right to judge one of God's children.

God's child, my arse. More like the devil's wicked seed…

She gripped her rosary beads with pale knuckles, speedy Hail Marys escaping her whispering lips. Lillian's dirty mouth was really rubbing off on her…

Finally, much to her peace-of-mind, they arrived at the field Professor Sprout had suggested in her missive. It was a large section of magical land situated within Brecon Beacons—a scenic mountain range situated in South Wales—sprawling along for acres with only a few wild horses grazing peacefully in the distance. To the Muggle eye, it was a wide area of green-yellow grass and winding footpaths, but to Wizarding folk, it was the biggest plot of magical fenugreek seeds.

With Michael's and Terry's careful guidance and restrictive Auror magic, the prisoners were all led off of the bus. Hermione and Lillian followed suit.

At Professor Sprout's additional request, Hermione transfigured a log into seven wooden barrels—as Yaxley was left behind, still unconscious from his curse—and assigned each prisoner a barrel to hold. Standing stiffly, she gave each scowling face an indifferent look, and ignored Bellatrix's vocal note of displeasure.

"Now, I've assumed everyone remembered their gloves?" she began. "If so, put them on."

As expected, no-one moved. She inhaled and then exhaled heavily.

"Must you disobey me every step of the way?" she demanded, frowning. "Put your gloves on this instant!"

"Make us!" snarled Bellatrix. "Make us, vermin! We won't listen to you. We will never obey orders from your filthy mouth!"

Rabastan, Antonin and Rodolphus smirked, Alecto and Amycus grinned, and Lucius gazed off into the distance with blatant disinterest.

Frustration welled in Hermione. How could grown adults be so stubborn and unresponsive? She believed it might have been easier to convince a group of six-year-olds to stay still and knit stockings. How was she to command respect from this lot? What snapped these hard-headed, foul-mouthed beings into action? What would they obey?

Cruelty.

Pain.

She cringed from the idea of inflicting pain to garner obedience. That was not her style of leadership. That was reminiscent of their former leader's control methods. But what else was she to use? She was incapable of sugary cajolement as it grated against her will to do so, and they disregarded her attempts at sharp and uncompromising orders. In fact, they mocked her.

Besides, didn't the One she followed—the One she devoted her time and energy to—utilise that same approach? She could think of more than one example where He meted out painful punishment due to insubordination. The story of Jonah and the Whale—a notable case of the consequences of defiance. And what about the constant threat of eternal damnation if one did not acknowledge His laws? Weren't those fine examples of administering cruelty for compliance?

The idea tempted her. A tiny, dark seed embedded in her heart slowly began to blossom. Oh, how she would enjoy delivering onto them their due. She couldn't deny the momentary sliver of sinister glee she'd felt at Yaxley's demise the day prior. There was no doubt in her mind that she could maintain an excruciatingly painful Cruciatus Curse on the likes of Bellatrix if she decided to cast it on the odious witch…

Still, she was disinclined in walking along that path. Despite the growing bud of hatred for her charges in her heart, her keen spirit of fair-play and compassion disallowed her from taking advantage of her authority and abusing them. Especially in front of the impressionable Lillian who, at present, was watching the unfolding scene with avid interest.

Straightening her back, Hermione marched forwards and stood before Bellatrix. She decided that, regardless of her ingrained fear of the woman, she would command respect from Bellatrix even while her own legs trembled and her heart skipped beats.

"You will obey me, Bellatrix," Hermione said coldly. "You will listen to my orders. I am in charge here, not you. Put on your gloves, now."

"Put them on yourself, bitch," was Bellatrix's snarling response before she projected spit into Hermione's face.

Hermione's response was instant. No miracle nor pleading request could have stayed her rising hand as she gave Bellatrix a hard, stinging slap across her face. The force of the attack sent Bellatrix stumbling sideways, and the sound managed to echo across the expanse of the field. Bellatrix screeched from the shock, and then began screeching even louder when the embedded sensor served her the imitation Cruciatus Curse when she tried to retaliate against Hermione.

Minor pandemonium ensued. The Carrow siblings attempted an escape which Hermione prevented, Rabastan got into a scuffle with Terry, Rodolphus and Antonin pitted themselves against Michael, Lillian tried restraining Bellatrix's writhing body to no avail, and Lucius…Lucius observed. Hermione watched as he did nothing and said nothing. He simply stood and surveyed the proceedings with slightly amused interest. He made no attempts to flee; he did not involve himself in any of the fights. Like the devil himself, he stood to the side and enjoyed the view as though he'd been the one to orchestrate the events.

Lucius Malfoy.

Lucius Malfoy.

Lucius…

The devil…

His gaze lifted and met hers, and an unnameable chill slivered down her spine. She shivered; he smirked.

Lucifer…

She turned her head away.

Lucius was the first to finish his quota of fenugreek seed-picking. After a cursory inspection of his barrel by Miss Granger, she'd ordered him to wait on the bus while the others finished their allotment. He'd not cared much for her stiff, brusque tone of voice, but he preferred ignoring it in favour of sitting on the bus. It had taken over an hour to fill the barrel of the glowing, amber-coloured seeds, and during that time, he'd been bent at the waist. At forty-eight years old, Lucius did not consider himself old as yet, but his lower back had begun to disagree.

He entered the vehicle and settled himself gratefully onto a nearby seat. The bus-driver was dozing away, and for a moment, Lucius contemplated hijacking the vehicle and carrying himself off elsewhere. However, he could not drive, and he wasn't willing to learn today. Furthermore, even if he managed to learn the mechanics of it all, he'd be caught and carted off to Azkaban with a beheading due the day after.

No, he'd sit and wait and think. He'd think about his present circumstance and relive the enjoyable moment when Sister Hermione Granger had delivered one fine slap to a deserving Bellatrix Lestrange. Merlin knew he'd longed to do it. Bellatrix annoyed him immensely; her incessant screaming and cackling usually engendered an urge to strangle her silent. But the Mudblood had succeeded where he had failed. With an open palm, and a strength that belied her petite stature, she'd given Bellatrix her comeuppance.

In the back of his mind, a voice cried in outrage that the Mudblood's actions needed to be met with severe punishment. How dare she lay her filthy palm on the flesh of a Pureblood in such a manner? However, he immediately reminded himself that it was Bellatrix, his crazed ex-sister-in-law who he'd shared a mutual dislike for, and that he needn't feel righteous indignation for the woman.

His conscience cleared, he leaned his head backwards against the seat's headrest and, once more, conjured the memory of the burning hatred in the Sister's eyes as she'd slapped Bellatrix into a stupor. His mind revisited the moment when their gazes had connected, and the mixture of fear and challenge he'd glimpsed in her eyes before she'd turned indifferently away.

Beneath her drab, stern and spinster-like exterior, it was apparent that Sister Hermione Granger was still a little spitfire. Well, he couldn't wait for the day when he'd douse that fiery spirit and put her in her place.

AN: Sister Hermione demands you repent of your sins if you do not review. ;)