The Apple of Her Discontent : Hermione's POV

My heart beats erratically as I transfigure my parchments into clothing. The resulting fabric is paper thin, but it will have to do. I cannot help thinking that I should have spent more on higher quality parchments. It would have provided a much stronger base from which to Transfigure garments.

But really, who needs to make clothes from paper, and who ends up naked in a library? I hope it all holds together, I need to make it back to my room. The thought of stealing a few pages from a high quality book does cross my mind, but I know it would be wrong, tempting as it may seem.

I need to get back to my room. This is what I concentrate on as I try to suppress the crushing swell of mortification within my chest. I have to make it back to my room; that is my immediate goal.

I try to settle myself from making angry movements. I breathe with a heavy sigh and feel the transfigured shirt move with me; it has a delicate texture to it. I can try a Strengthening Charm, but before I can apply it, I know I must calm down. I need to concentrate, even though every bit of me cries for retribution.

I bite my lip furiously, and it's not long before I can taste the metallic tang of my blood.

I can't help but to swallow back the angry tears of this gross violation. How dare Malfoy! How dare he do this to me! My hands tremble as I grip the back of the chair. I try to get a tenable grip on my emotions. I hear the wooden legs of the chair scuffle against the stone floor, and it is then that I let it all go. With a stifled sob, the chair, the tears, and my anger, all of it, comes spilling forth.

Hot tears burn at my eyes, blurring the light and shadows around me. I am so furious, livid with rage, my hands shake violently as I try smoothing the creases in my skirt. The fabric weakly resists the jerky movements of my hands; it threatens to tear if I keep on in this distracted state.

In the swirl that follows this hideously absurd encounter, I realize that I am quite scared. It was too easy for him to catch me off guard on both occasions. How long was he there? I feel my face burn with embarrassment and fury. How long did he watch on?

What does it matter how long he observed me in the Prefects' bathroom? What has happened since is undeniably more revolting. I want to scream, hurl things, and track Malfoy down for revenge.

I brush the tears away, and my face feels warm to my hands - hands that feel like cold wet clay. The contrast of the cool moist contact against the wet hot flush of anger makes me feel disoriented; this situation is unreal. My world, my very being, has been overrun; the usurper is Draco Malfoy. I have a burning need to make him suffer some manner of humiliation as I stand here shivering despite my best efforts not to.

I will make him pay even though I can hear my mind calling out a cautious warning, a fear, that in anger, I could go too far. I know revenge is usually a disastrous means to an end, but I feel reckless and destructive. Malfoy has gone too far. Too far! I don't think I can stop what is to come, not when every bit of me demands justice, and more than the Headmaster of Hogwarts can serve. I all ready know that I can do this once more; I've done it before.

The serpent has set out to lay temptation, and I cannot resist the call to punish him for his arrogance.

"Temptation," I murmur as I let the word settle in my brain. The idea behind it catches my attention. It suddenly strikes me that every touch, each provocation, all of it, is an exploration and simultaneously a dare.

He did not set out to seduce me, but to manipulate me. Seduction implies the intent to attract, to lure, but what transpired was not seduction. Seducers are charming and do not ruthlessly taunt those they pursue. I am certain he knows that more manipulation is in order; this is Malfoy. I know with every sense I posses that he is far from finished. He'll work at me, like a worm within an apple, 'til my core is gone, and nothing remains but hollow skin. He assumes much.

I take a steady breath. I can feel my heart even out as my mind finds a steady pace. I can work myself out of this. If he thinks he can manipulate me into curiosity, into action by a fear of loss, or fear of discovery, that he can condition me into feeling desire, then he is deadly mistaken.

"Temptation," I snort. "Malfoy, I promise you, we will redefine the word together."

I straighten my posture and steel my resolve. When I am through with him, Draco Malfoy will meet some dark ruinous end. I know I should have a specific plan, but the sensible part of me grabs my attention, I need to concentrate on returning to my room.

"One thing at a time," I think clearly and steadily.

I gather the last of my things and quietly leave the library. I don't think Malfoy will follow me; he's had his fun for now, but I am wary as I move towards Gryffindor tower. I hate how this makes me feel, like a snowflake under the microscope, so brittle, and under silent examination. I will not tolerate this. I will not melt under the heat.

I hear a sharp laugh behind me. I feel my posture falter when I recognize the pitch of that voice. I square my shoulders and turn to face the witch. I have no doubt she has played some part in tonight's disgusting incursion.

"You look like hell, Mudblood," Parkinson sneers. "Rough night was it, beaver face?"

"Twenty points from Slytherin," I say with great annoyance, "ten for insulting a fellow student with a derogatory epithet, and the other ten for being foolish enough to say them to those with actual positions of power. Do try, Parkinson, to remember that before losing even more points for your House."

I walk away from the scowling witch, thinking she got off far too lightly, when I hear her cackle. Her mirth makes my jaw clench, and my hand naturally curls into a tight fist.

"Deep calming breaths, deep calming breaths," I think repeatedly, and I concentrate.

I need to get to my room, if I can just get back to my room I will be all right. I don't know if that's true or not, but it is what keeps me together. It keeps me from melting.

I will not let this shameless slag stand in my way, or cost me my hard-earned post by engaging in conduct unbecoming of a Head Girl.

"Oh, with a few well placed favors, I'll earn them back by the end of the night, Granger." Parkinson smirks.

True to form she cannot resist from prattling on like the cat that's caught the mouse, her voice rings falsely sweet. "So, Granger, will you be back to using the Prefects' bathroom, then, or did something happen to clear you off it?"

I look at the dark-eyed girl with the straight jet-black hair. Her eyes are wide set, her eye lids droopy. She attempts to look haughty. I have to think, if anything, the expression set before me is that of a half-wit. A malicious half-wit. Slytherin's balls, Malfoy sure knows how to pick his flunkies. Her lips are drawn tight in that sneer of hers; what on earth does anyone see in this twisted creature?

"Deep calming breaths - deep calming breaths - deep calming breaths. I will not let her get the advantage. I will think this through," I tell myself soothingly. I've already embarrassed myself enough tonight.

This is Malfoy's handiwork. There can be no other explanation for anyone to know so quickly. I'm quite sure if Pansy were completely involved, she would be disgusted to her black and vile core to know the whole of what Malfoy has done. I doubt he's shared that much. It is then I get an idea to test this theory.

"Parkinson, did you know that Malfoy is fond of using his tongue to find the proper spacing between molars? And, admittedly, while his skills in dentistry do leave something to be desired, I feel he's revealed his hand, as it would seem his true preference lies in gynecology. But more importantly than Malfoy's amateur explorations of the female body, I find sexual assault reason enough to look like hell," I spit out caustically.

I watch for signs of smugness, or revulsion. I am betting on the latter. When Pansy's eyes widen, and the smug look drops from her face, I know that I have guessed right.

"I don't suppose he would mention that, would he? What, did he send a note, or were you just conveniently there, much like an afterthought, discovered only by chance passing? Are you supposed to just leer at me, and ask a few cryptic questions? I bet you thought it petty harassment at the time. But, I do have to ask," I muse, my voice tight and constricting with emotions I cannot control, "when you picture his filthy hands pawing at me, examining my insides, and that perverse mouth of his violating mine, is this what you really call revenge? It seems rather odd considering he could have just hexed me. It seems so out of place, considering who I am and who he is. Your personal lapdog? Boyfriend? Somehow, I'm thinking he's neither of those."

"You're lying!" Parkinson snaps angrily, her face contorts in fury, and she opens her mouth to spew more nonsense. "You lie, you dirty little Mudblood! YOU! No one would touch you, let alone Draco! When you leave these halls, built by better, and more pure wizards than you, you'll see. You'll see how the scum of our society will be handled for such disgusting behavior."

"I agree, Parkinson, let's see if the Headmaster shares the same sentiment. I wonder what he'll do when he hears about this disgusting behavior," I whisper harshly, my eyes taking in her now shaken expression.

I don't think she has considered what would happen if I went to those with actual power. Pure-blood rhetoric aside, the governors have changed, the Ministry officials have changed; on all levels the Wizarding world has changed. The balance of power has finally changed. Her threats are hollow and we both know it.

I am sure Parkinson knows what Malfoy is capable of. Her dark eyes are glinting with unshed tears. We both know that for me to go as far as I say I will; someone had to push me there.

I see Parkinson move for her wand, but this evening's events, if nothing else, have prepared me to react faster. I am more than prepared to go the full course. Whatever it takes, I will get to my room, and from there, I will sort out what I am to do next. I have the advantage here; what Parkinson and Malfoy don't know about me will come back to haunt them.

Parkinson raises her hand to point her wand shakily at me, her tears spill and she quickly wipes them away with the back of her hand. Her mouth is set in a grimace, and under her wicked scrutiny, I can tell what she plans. Gods, Parkinson you are so daft.

"Not if I Obliviate you first!" I say warningly, answering the unspoken threat that hangs between us.

I can see Parkinson means to hex me, regardless of what I say. I do not have time to see if we are completely alone. I have to quickly cast the memory loss charm. I am skilled at these, and really, after much practice, I should be. I cast it silently, but I still need my wand to cut the air to perform the charm.

As the charm does its work, I furtively look around the silent corridor. Tonight there are no witnesses, and Parkinson stands before me looking blank. Slowly, as if a great fog is lifting, she begins to blink. I decide to leave quickly, before she can come to her senses. It is best to go, it seems like the logical thing to do now. My goal is to get back to my room; Parkinson can be dealt with later.

My threat before the Obliviation had truly been an empty one; I have no intention of taking care of the situation through the proper channels. Still, I cannot help but to second-guess myself. I know this is the not the way it's meant to be done, but I don't care. I know from past experience that these things can be taken care of later.

Exhaling forcefully, I quickly take to the stairs to make my way back to my room. I don't spare Pansy a second look. Each step I take gets me closer to my goal; each swing of a staircase, as they align and lock together, brings me ever closer.

A voice repeats, "Get to your room", and I obey. I cannot think; I can only do. This is what got me through the war, and this is the methodology I fall back on. Maybe it was the war, but I wonder if this is why I feel I have permission to do this on my own.

Harry, Ron, and I at one point, or another, dealt out punishments in our pursuit of the Horcruxes. Those Dark wizards who crossed our path we maimed in the name of self-preservation, though in doing so, I'm quite sure we accomplished the opposite.

It may have not been the killing curse, or any of the Unforgiveables, but for those like Fenrir Greyback, extra measures had been taken to make them pay off the debts that never could quite be repaid. As news came our way of the losses, we took it upon ourselves to grieve in this way. This was our way of handling those who had hurt our friends, our family, and countless innocents. I quite vividly remember the day we crossed paths with Greyback. That repulsive creature had been Ron's score to settle.

That was the day I felt a piece of me die. Greyback was the first to bear the malice of our collective pain. Ron flayed him alive. It didn't kill Greyback, as a werewolf, his ability to heal is extraordinary, but it did cause him inhuman pain. What we had done was inhumane, but we rationalized it. We said he wasn't human, and those not human needed a special handling. Not long after, we easily slipped into categorizing Dark wizards a breed of their own.

Even though I know that the label "human" doesn't mean "special", I, of all people, let Ron do this to Greyback. I remember I did not turn away as he cast the spell to restrain the werewolf, and I did not call out to Ron to reconsider when he stepped up to cross the line. Greyback was already inhuman, and a cruel killer, but the piece of me that knew it was wrong, that was the first part to die that fateful night.

Malfoy wouldn't know this, of course; a select few in the Order had covered our tracks. Snape handling the worst of them, still, in the end they all lived. It was brushed under the rug by those who suspected but didn't want to know, justified by others who could sympathize, and ignored by those with the real power to stop us. As long as no one was killed, it seemed all Dark wizards were fair game.

I reflect on this again. I keep thinking what would have happened if someone had drawn the line and forbade us to cross it, if someone had been there to guide us instead of letting us stumble along. Dumbledore, I am sure, would have been the one to do it had he been alive. But I feel a bitter sweetness when I remember that it was he who had left us to stumble along.

There were no clear instructions, no clever last will and testament, or last minute hidden letter to tell us where to go next, to guide us on some kind of path. He left us vague clues and played us off each other. How could we trust in the madness that surrounded us? I remember being depressed so much of the time. I remember how I came into the habit of single mindedness, the freedom in letting myself give deference to the voice that let me do what I needed. Those were dark days.

When Hogwarts had been rebuilt, I was overjoyed. The war had been over for almost a year, and it was finally time to step out of the darkness of those times, and look to the future. I remember the day, right down to the hour; we had been invited back to properly finish the magical education that was due to us all. If nothing else, it was a right I had fought for and won. We who survived relied on luck and chance, but life requires more than that to get by. An advanced student if there ever was one, even I knew that I still needed further training and education.

I climb up the steps faster. I'm almost to the right floor, to my House's corridor. I try not to stifle these memories as I go along. They remind me how far I've come, where I have been, and why I am here.

I smile when I think about Harry, Ron, and I on the return trip to Hogwarts. The colors of this particular fall seemed more vibrant than those of any other year I could recall. Our ride in the usual compartment was nostalgic and healing. Ron had bought me a chocolate frog from the sweets trolley. He'd even been shy as he had unwrapped it for me. I retreat into that memory a little more as I swiftly head down the corridor. I'm almost there, a few more paces, and I'll be at the portrait door.

I remember that the chocolate frog had chosen that moment to hop into my blouse. Upon reflection, I think that it must have been a ridiculous sight. I had been squealing as Ron tried to slap at the frog in my shirt. We ended up smearing the chocolate on my blouse. I remember Harry's rich laugh as he teased us. Ron fumbled to help me, and we had laughed so hard.

Ron had been mortified at first, but his mood lightened when I gave him a quick peck on the cheek and reassured him it was ok, that I was ok. I remember impishly hugging him, knowing that I was smearing one of the chocolate frog legs on his shirt. I whispered conspiratorially to him; I told him not to worry, we would be fine, that there was no damage done that couldn't be repaired by a simple spell. Harry, after his own giggles, had done the honor and Scourgified our tops.

I feel a weak tickle as a tear rolls down my cheek, and my heart swells at the memory; I'm almost to the Gryffindor portrait now. I keep that day close to my heart; it had felt like a return to innocence. We had felt playful, joyful and normal. How dare Malfoy and Parkinson take what little peace I've had since those dark and dreadful days! The Prefects' Bathroom had been my sanctuary, a place where I could unleash what I craved most during the hardest days since returning - a release. There are still a few things that are left from those times that I cannot overcome without filling this need.

I am thankful no one is around as I head up to my room. I am ever so happy that this year I am Head Girl. I need more privacy than ever before. When I reach my room, I mean to unleash a terror before collecting my thoughts. I need release; this is my new goal. I step into the comfortable setting of my room. Release, yes that is what I must do next. "One thing at a time," I tell myself.