The bed Hannah had occupied was empty when Hermione was returned to the hospital ward in Hogwarts.
Healer Stroud poured a potion down Hermione's throat as soon as she was placed in the bed. The pain in Hermione's mind subsided slightly. She blinked, and the dancing black spots that kept obscuring her vision finally started to fade away.
Hermione felt nauseous. Her insides were roiling and cringing like she had poison inside that her body couldn't expel. She was still shaking. She wanted to roll over and curl into a ball, but she couldn't summon the strength to manage it.
"Guard her with your lives. If anyone wants to touch her or so much as look at her, they will require permission from me," she heard Healer Stroud say.
Hermione turned and could vaguely make out two large men standing behind Stroud. Their eyes were cold as they stared down at Hermione.
Stroud cast several monitor wards on Hermione that rose up, shimmering around her body. After she had inspected the projections for a few minutes, Stroud turned and strode away, her healer robes billowing out behind her.
Hermione stared up at the ceiling, trying to absorb everything that had happened to her that day.
She felt like she should be crying, but she couldn't summon the tears.
Resignation and hopelessness had entwined themselves with her soul since the moment she watched Harry die.
After watching most of the people she loved die in agony, she'd known her turn to suffer was lying in wait.
Now it had come.
Death had never frightened Hermione. Her fear had always been in the manner of death. She had watched the worst ways to go.
Harry's death had been a mercy killing compared to the torture the Weasleys, Remus and Tonks had been subjected to.
Lucius Malfoy had been standing mere feet from where Hermione was caged when he looked up at Ron and snarled "This is for my wife!"
Then he cast a curse that turned Ron's blood gradually into molten lead. Hermione watched as the curse slowly crept through Ron's body, destroying him from the inside out. She'd been helpless to do anything—helpless to spare him in any way.
Arthur Weasley had been left permanently addled by a curse during the war. He cried, not even understanding why he was in pain or that he was dying.
They had left Molly for last. So she'd watch all her children die.
Remus had lasted hours longer than anyone else. His lycanthropy kept healing him until he just hung there, unresponsive. Finally someone shot the Killing Curse at him out of boredom.
The deaths had replayed themselves before Hermione's eyes so many time she would have thought that eventually the pain of them would ease.
It never did.
Each time felt just as sharp. Just as fresh.
A wound that would never heal.
Survivor's guilt, she thought, that was the Muggle term for it. Such a paltry description. It didn't capture even a fraction of the breadth of agony in her soul.
For Hermione, being bred by a Death Eater was a fate that had never even occurred to her. Being raped—the risk had been considered. This felt like rape in slow motion. However, the situation was far more complex than simply that. Whatever she had hidden in her mind, it had been important. More important to her than anything else. She couldn't let it fall into Voldemort's hands.
She wasn't afraid of having her corpse rot in the Great Hall. That fate was nothing compared to giving up what she was protecting. Or compared to being raped and forced to carry a child that would be torn from her the moment it was born.
Escaping, she realised, was likely a luxury she couldn't afford to pursue. The important thing would be to die quickly. Before she could be stopped and kept from further attempts.
She lay quietly in the bed and schemed.
The days passed slowly. None of the prisoners brought into the hospital wing dared speak to Hermione with the guards constantly beside her bed.
Healers arrived several times a day to appraise and treat her. They took vials of blood and a bit of hair away for analysis. A therapist arrived to treat Hermione for the torture. For the tremors.
Eventually most of the intermittent spasming stopped. Hermione's fingers still tended to twitch spastically at unexpected sounds.
She wasn't used to noise anymore.
She remembered life being full of noise in the past; in classes, at meals, in the hospital ward after battles. Now any unexpected sound caught her off-guard. The banging of a door or clatter of boots, the sound waves from them—they felt like physical sensations on her flesh.
She'd twitch.
The nervous mind healer came frequently with Healer Stroud to examine Hermione's brain and psychological condition. There were concerns about her overall stability. They'd cast simulation spells on her brain to see how she'd react to crowds, tight spaces, physical contact, gore. If she was going to mentally snap, they wanted her to do it in the hospital wing.
Apparently, despite the twitching, Hermione was regarded as stable enough. When the most severe torture tremors stopped after four days of therapy, they decided she was ready for training.
On the fifth day, she was released from the hospital wing. The guards took her straight to the Great Hall.
There were rows and rows of chairs arranged facing the front of the hall. The chairs were filled with women dressed in drab grey dresses.
Umbridge was standing on the platform in the front, speaking with saccharine cheer. She was dressed in a subdued shade of pink with a large pendant hanging from her neck. One of her hands was heavily bandaged.
"You have been chosen to help build the future that our Dark Lord has envisioned. You have been granted the privilege of bringing it forth," she said, and simpered. "You are the few found worthy of it."
Umbridge sounded mechanical, staring down at the girls with eyes glittering with hatred. The false smile plastered firmly across her face. Her eyes kept flickering up toward a corner of the room.
Hermione turned slightly to look and saw two Death Eaters standing there unmasked; Corban Yaxley and Thorfinn Rowle. They were watching Umbridge with expressions of bored amusement.
"The Dark Lord has commanded that you be trained in order to fulfill your duties without fail. This is a great honour he has bestowed upon you; you do not want to disappoint him. You are important to the Dark Lord. Because of that, you must be protected from others as well as from yourselves."
Umbridge's smile suddenly sharpened, showing a malicious edge. She gestured toward the back, and Yaxley and Rowle came forward. Umbridge turned to the prison guards lined up along a wall.
"Stun them all. Be thorough about it."
A few of the seated women cringed or tried to shy away, but most of them barely moved as guards started hexing them. The bodies slumped down in the chairs or fell forward onto the ground.
Hermione was standing toward the back. She watched the girls fall. She recognized a handful of them; Hannah Abbott, Parvati Patil, Angelina Johnson, Katie Bell, Cho Chang, and Romilda Vane. Hermione thought some of the others might have been in the older and younger years in Hogwarts. There were a few slightly older women too, although no one who appeared over thirty. There were nearly a hundred of them.
Umbridge saw Hermione standing toward the back.
"Stun her too," Umbridge said, glaring venomously at Hermione.
They hesitated.
Healer Stroud appeared from the periphery of Hermione's vision.
"Do it," she said with a sharp nod of approval.
Hermione was knocked out before she could brace herself.
"Rennervate."
Hermione sat up groggily. She'd been moved, and found herself lying beside the rest of the girls.
They were laid out in rows. Some were still unconscious, and the guards went down the line waking them. Others were sitting, staring at the manacles around their wrists. Hermione looked down at her own. The magical bracelets looked different; a bit wider, and now without any clasp. A perfect circle of copper wrapped around each wrist.
"Property of the High Reeve" was engraved into the shining surface of both of the manacles.
Of greater concern to Hermione was the cold object beneath the metal that she could feel pressing slightly against her inner wrists. The manacles were so closely-fitted she couldn't peer under to discern what it was. It was clear—the reason they had been stunned was in order to remove and replace the manacles. Presumably with something worse than what they already had been.
The clock on the wall indicated that hours had passed since the stunning had started. Whatever the process had been, it had taken time.
A large table had appeared in the Great Hall, covered with weapons.
It couldn't have been a more obvious trap.
Everyone stood cautiously and just stared.
"Come forward," Umbridge said in a coaxing voice, beckoning from beside the table. "Come on. Come see."
No one moved.
Umbridge looked disappointed. She had clearly hoped someone would be foolish enough to rush toward the table and try arming themselves.
"You there. Come here." Umbridge pointed at a girl in the crowd. Hermione thought the girl might have been in Hermione's year. Mafalda, she thought, from Slytherin.
The girl obeyed slowly, cringing in apprehension.
"Lift something up," Umbridge ordered her.
Mafalda reached forward slowly, but when her hand got within a few centimetres of a knife, she abruptly snatched it back with a cry.
Umbridge smiled in triumph.
"Everyone now, come reach. See what happens."
The women all shuffled forward reluctantly. Hermione approached in growing dread, her mind speculating. There must have been a barrier charm added to the manacles; something that prevented them from getting close to certain objects.
She extended her hand from a considerable distance and approached slowly. When her fingers were within ten centimeters of a dagger on the table, a burning sensation began enveloping them. She pulled her hand away bitterly. Her options if she needed to resort to suicide were suddenly dramatically limited. She surveyed the various objects: crossbow bolts, knives, swords, axes, kitchen knives, letter openers, even large steel nails. The spellwork to create the punishing barrier appeared to have been comprehensive. She catalogued each item carefully.
That couldn't be all the new manacles did. Inlaying a barrier charm was simple enough magic. There was something more complex about the new set.
Hermione looked down and fidgeted them again.
"These new bracelets will keep you safe and ensure the households you are sent to can take good care of you. The head of each household will carry a charm that allows them to always find you and know if you are ever in any danger. Given"—Umbridge smiled sweetly,—"the dangerous, volatile nature common among Muggles, they will keep you from committing any acts of violence on anyone, including yourselves. They will help you to unwaveringly obey the Dark Lord in this generous opportunity he has given you."
Several women were audibly sobbing.
"These are such important wizards that you will be serving, after all. We don't want any mistakes or accidents inconveniencing them."
A barrier charm, possibly some kind of compulsion spell, and paired with a monitor enchantment—that was what Hermione felt under the manacles—a monitor piece, tracking her physical well-being.
Monitor enchantments were commonly used in the psych wards of hospitals to alert healers when patients were likely to injure themselves or act out. It tracked heart rate and hormones, picking up spikes and surges. Complex ones even tapped slightly into the consciousness. It wasn't mind reading exactly, but it gave an impression on the wearer's state and inclinations.
Trying to commit suicide or escape without any type of weapon, trapped under a sort of compulsion spell, without any mental indication or spike in heart rate—it would be nearly impossible.
Hermione stood frozen in the Great Hall as she absorbed it.
The days merged together into a haze of dread.
They were trained.
Umbridge would hold what looked like a small lantern and issue an instruction. When she finished speaking, the lantern would glow slightly and the manacles would grow warm as magic sank in.
Ingraining compulsions into their minds.
It was done gradually. It seemed that each instruction needed time to take root in their psyches. To mould their behavior.
You will be quiet.
You will be obedient.
You will not hurt anyone.
You will not offend the wives.
You will not resist when bedded.
After being bedded you will not move for ten minutes.
You will do everything to get pregnant quickly and produce healthy children.
You will not have sex with any man but the one designated.
As the days passed, Hermione could see the effect of the instructions on the other women.
They grew quieter and quieter. During the first few days, there were hushed whispers at night. By the third day, the rooms were mostly quiet aside from the muffled sobbing.
Hermione was kept slightly apart from all the others. There was always a guard flanking her.
Umbridge stayed far away from Hermione, although her eyes would flash toward Hermione in triumph each time a new compulsion was laid.
Whatever the Dark magic being used to enable the compulsion spell was, it was delicate. With each new instruction, the healers would sweep in and run diagnostics over the girls.
One day, one of the girls abruptly snapped and stood up screaming. She seized her chair and whipped it up into the air before smashing it down onto the woman beside her. By the time the guards had stunned the screaming girl and dragged her away, the woman's shoulder was shattered.
There may have been further instructions planned, but after that event, Healer Stroud decided that what had been programmed with was sufficient.
Hermione lay in the dark each night and plotted.
If she couldn't escape, her best hope would be of dying at the wand-point of the High Reeve.
He was, from what Hermione had been able to gather, very quick to murder. If she could provoke him to act without thinking, he might kill her before he could stop himself.
If she—succeeded, Voldemort might then kill the High Reeve. Making the world a better place by far.
She would have to be quick about it. Clever. If he were as good a legilimens as Snape claimed, the High Reeve would find the intention in her mind.
Perhaps it wouldn't matter.
Someone so hate-filled—they were probably far quicker with their emotions than their reason. She could use that to her advantage and draw a noose around both their necks.
"Strip," Umbridge said several days later.
Hermione wasn't sure if it was the compulsion or merely the futility of resistance that caused her to obey automatically.
Probably both.
She, along with the rest of the women, unbuttoned her drab grey dress and pulled off her undergarments. They stood shivering in the cold room. There were seventy-two of them left. Twenty had been pulled by Healer Stroud out of concern they'd snap like the screaming girl had.
They all stood nude but for the shining copper bracelets on their wrists, folding in on themselves to hide their bodies from the leering appraisals of the guards.
"Dress in these."
With a flick of her wrist Umbridge unfurled a large pile of clothing. Bright scarlet dresses and robes. Red as blood.
No undergarments.
Hermione was thin enough that she barely missed having a bra but the lack of underwear was keenly felt. Like a raw nerve.
"And these, for the winter chill," Umbridge said, smirking, as she unfurled another pile of clothing. Wool thigh-high stockings.
Then Umbridge added a pile of white bonnets and scarlet, flat-soled shoes.
Hermione put everything on.
The bonnet was last. The wings of it blocked her peripheral vision almost entirely. Muffled her hearing.
She could only see straight ahead. If she wanted to look at anything to the left or right, she had to turn her head overtly.
It was all carefully crafted to engender vulnerability.
They could barely see, barely hear, couldn't resist, couldn't refuse, couldn't escape.
Their well-being would rely entirely upon endearing themselves to whomever owned them.
So they would be pliant.
"If you leave the home you have been assigned to, you are required to wear these bonnets. You are not to be looked at," Umbridge commanded. "This is the end of my training for you. I cannot wait to see the children brought forth."
Umbridge's eyes were locked on Hermione's face, the hatred in them so thick Hermione could almost feel it glazing on her skin. Umbridge smiled a cold, gleeful smile and then turned and left.
Someone brushed Hermione's arm. Someone so close that even turning she couldn't see who it was with the obscuring wings in the way.
"I'm so sorry," Angelina's voice whispered. Angelina's voice broke, like she was suppressing a sob. "You were right. We should have listened to you."
Hermione opened her mouth to ask Angelina what she meant. Before she could get the question out, a hard hand closed around her arm. She found herself dragged away into a small room.
Healer Stroud sat behind a large desk piled high with paperwork. She had a file laid open before her that appeared to feature a calendar. The squares were filled with checks to mark off the days.
Hermione realised it was mid-November in 2004. She hadn't realised the date until that moment.
"Miss Granger," Healer Stroud said as she looked up, "I am quite pleased I was able to keep you in the program."
Hermione said nothing. She stared woodenly at the woman before her.
"I realise that you did not choose this, but given the side you chose in the war, surely you're pleased to have your magical abilities acknowledged." Stroud studied Hermione, her eyes bright and her expression strangely warm. "There will be no more Sacred Twenty-Eight after this. Future generations will simply be magical. I'm certain you can see the advantage to it."
Hermione stood there, marveling internally at the twisted logic the woman before her employed to clear her conscience.
It took her several seconds to realise that a reply was in order. Judging by Stroud's expression, expected.
"You're sending me off to be raped and you want me to see the advantage to it?" she finally said, arching her eyebrows up.
Healer Stroud's eyes flashed briefly and grew cold.
"I am not responsible for all the decisions regarding security. It may surprise you to hear it, but I am quite invested in your health and happiness."
"Even if I were sterile?"
Hermione looked down and studied the upside calendar, trying to read the numbers and ascertain the exact date. The bright white paper blurred in her vision and made her eyes ache.
Healer Stroud rolled her eyes and sighed. "Clearly there is no reasoning with you. You are still too emotional about everything. Perhaps someday, a witch with your intelligence will come to appreciate what I am trying to do."
Hermione said nothing. She squinted and tried to read the calendar again. Her fingers twitched.
Healer Stroud dropped a file on top of the dates and stood up. Hermione looked up.
"The Dark Lord is eager for you to be under the supervision of someone capable of monitoring your memories. I had requested an extension, in order to see how the training affects you, but you'll reach your window of fertility in a few days, and the Dark Lord wants you pregnant as soon as possible. I would have helped you prepare physically but—you don't seem to want my help. The High Reeve is married. I'm sure he knows what to do and won't mind training you to suit himself."
Healer Stroud gave a cold, thin smile and Hermione flinched. Her stomach twisted painfully.
Healer Stroud reached into her drawer and pulled out a bag.
"This will take you to the High Reeve's estate. They're expecting you."
She reached toward Hermione. Hermione skittered back.
She dropped her chin down and tried to breathe. She just needed a moment to brace herself. To prepare for what she was about to face—and what she was about to do.
"Put out your hand," Healer Stroud said as she walked around the desk toward Hermione. Hermione's heart was pounding painfully in her chest as she bit her lip and tried to swallow the dread rising up in her like a tide.
Helpless. Defenseless. Obedient.
You will be obedient.
Hermione's hand began to raise itself. A coin fell onto her palm. Instantly she felt a tug behind her navel as she was whisked away.