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.