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.
Chapter End Notes
"You will be quiet. You will be obedient." by keerthi_draws.
Hermione in uniform by graciek_217
Chapter 4
Hermione reappeared in a dark foyer. It was an immaculate, empty room. A black, lacquered, circular table sat in the center of the room. There was a large bouquet of white flowers on the table.
She turned slowly. She didn't want to miss any details, but the stupid wings of the bonnet acted like blinders. She could only see straight ahead.
A large stairway lay to the right. Cold hallways led into darkness and further into the house. It was a manor, and an enormous one based on the width of the staircase.
“Hello, Mudblood.”
A cold voice made her freeze.
Slowly turning all the way around, she found Draco Malfoy.
He was older.
Her last memory of him was fifth year when he was on the Inquisitorial Squad. He had grown taller. He towered over her, and his face had lost every trace of boyishness. There was a dangerous, refined brutality in the way he held himself.
The way he looked at her...
His eyes were like a wolf's; cold and feral.
The deadliness in him was palpable. As he looked down at her, she felt certain, he could lean forward and cut her throat while staring in her eyes. Then step back, only caring that she not get blood on his shoes.
He was the High Reeve.
Voldemort's right hand. His executioner.
The number of her friends that he had murdered: Ginny, McGonagall, Moody, Neville, Dean, Seamus, Professor Sprout, Madam Pomfrey, Flitwick, Oliver Wood... the list went on and on. Aside from those who had been tortured to death immediately after the final battle — every person that she knew to be dead following the war — the High Reeve had killed them.
The girls had whispered to her during the first few nights. Telling her about the world of horror she had missed while locked under Hogwarts.
She hadn't thought he could be someone she knew.
Someone so young.
Terror welled up inside her. She wasn't sure what to do to handle the shock.
Before she could react — or even process the realisation — his eyes locked into hers, and he abruptly slammed his way into her mind.
The force almost made her black out.
His mental intrusion was like a blade, driving straight into her memories. He sliced through the fragile barrier that she tried to erect with the shreds of internal magic she could summon. He drilled into her blocked memories.
It was like having a nail driven into her head.
The precision and the unrelenting force.
He wouldn't stop trying to break through. It felt almost worse than the cruciatus curse. It lasted longer than the torture curse could without driving the recipient insane.
When he finally stopped, she found herself lying on the ground. Malfoy was standing over her, staring down at her as she shuddered from the trauma of his intrusion.
“So, you really have forgotten everything,” he said as he appraised her. “What is it you think you're protecting in that brain of yours? You lost the war.”