“Are you walking? Long walks are important for the constitution.”
“I — can't.”
Healer Stroud stared at Hermione. “You can't?”
Hermione bit her lip and hesitated. “I have panic attacks — Just leaving this room is hard. The High Reeve takes me to the veranda for an hour, but I–I can't — I can't… I don't — It's so — so—“
Hermione started gasping as she tried to describe it. Even with the aid of veritaserum, she struggled to put the fear into words. She struggled to handle the wave of anger and despair she felt for having such an irrational obstacle that she couldn't overcome on her own.
She pressed her lips together, but they twisted sharply. She could feel the pressure in her cheeks and eyes as she struggled not to cry over it.
“Interesting,” Healer Stroud said, scribbling several notes. “Presumably due to your imprisonment. It hadn't occurred to me that going outdoors would be an issue. Hmm. Calming Draught would be insufficient, but I can't put you on a permanent anxiety relief; they interfere with pregnancy. Perhaps something temporary, to help acclimatise you. I'll have to research it.”
Hermione said nothing.
“Materials will be provided daily for your cycle,” Stroud added as she continued writing notes. A thought seemed to occur to her, and she looked up quizzically at Hermione. “What — what was it that happened when you were in prison?”
“I just bled,” Hermione said. “The cell was kept clean, but there was nothing provided.”
Stroud shook her head faintly in disapproval. As though she had some moral superiority over Umbridge in her treatment of Hermione.
“Anything else you think I should know?” Healer Stroud asked Hermione.
“I think that you are evil and inhuman,” Hermione answered immediately.
She hadn't even had time to realise the words coming out of her mouth; the veritaserum had just dragged them forth.
Healer Stroud's expression flickered for a moment.
“Well, I suppose I left myself open for that. Anything about your health that you think I should know?”
Hermione thought for a moment. “No.”
“Alright then.” Healer Stroud glanced over her notes one last time. “Oh. I nearly forgot. Remove your stockings.”
Hermione obediently pulled them off. Healer Stroud glanced over Hermione's legs for a moment and then waved her wand. A sharp, burning sensation came over them for several seconds.
Hermione hissed faintly. Startled. When the burn faded she looked down and saw that her legs were bright red and irritated looking.
“A permanent hair removal charm. Several of the men have complained. One of them tried to provide a bath potion, but the spiteful little witch dunked her head under and emerged entirely bald.”
Healer Stroud handed Hermione a small jar of murtlap essence.
“The irritation should fade in a day or two. I'll speak to the High Reeve about your condition.”
Healer Stroud put Hermione's file back into a briefcase, and Hermione slipped off the table and stood awkwardly, holding her stockings in one hand and the jar of murtlap essence in the other. With a flick of her wand, Healer Stroud vanished the table and left the room without another word.
Malfoy arrived half an hour later, looking more angry than usual.
Hermione pulled on her cloak and followed him. When they reached the veranda, he glanced over at her with a grimace.
“You are required to walk at least half a mile.”
Hermione blinked up at him.
“I would send you with a house-elf, but Stroud is concerned that your self-inflicted brain injury may cause you to have a seizure if you become overwrought.” He looked enraged enough to break something. “I am now required to walk you.”
He stared across the estate for a moment before adding, “You are worse than a dog.”
He stormed down the steps and then turned, standing on the gravel path.
“Come,” he said in a cold voice. His eyes were flashing, and his lips were pressed into a hard line as he looked at her.
Hermione stared at him, incredulous. Hell would freeze over long before Draco Malfoy's presence kept her from having a panic attack.
The compulsion dragged her forward.
Hermione took a deep breath as she stepped gingerly down the steps and then, after a moment's hesitation, onto the gravel. She took four steps across it toward him and wanted to cry with rage when she didn't freeze along the way.
Apparently it was a cold day in hell.
Malfoy turned on his heel and walked down the path while she followed.
It was probably because of the manacles, she realised along the way. He had ordered her to come and so she came. The manacles forced her to be compliant while being raped. However the compulsions worked, they were apparently capable of suppressing her panic attacks in the same way they were capable of suppressing her desire to fight off Malfoy and then murder him in a painful and prolonged manner.
He strolled along the outside of the hedge maze until they passed it entirely and then led her through the paths among the wintering rose beds.
Hermione wondered if there was anything about the Malfoy estate that didn't feel cold, dead, and sterile. The gravel paths had not so much as a stone out of place. The rose bushes had been clipped meticulously for winter. The hedges cut into the sky in precise, straight walls.
Hermione had never particularly cared for formal English gardens but Malfoy Manor's might be the most horrid she'd ever seen. Hedges, and white gravel, and leafless trees and shrubs pruned within an inch of their lives.
She imagined it was less awful-looking in the spring and summer, but in its current form she had seen car parks with greater aesthetic appeal.
Malfoy did not seem inclined to appreciate the scenery either.
After storming along the paths for an hour, Malfoy led the way back to the manor. As they drew close, Hermione thought she saw an upstairs curtain twitch.
Malfoy walked to Hermione's room but rather than leave once she was there, he stayed, staring at her.
Hermione shrank away and fidgeted with the clasp on her cloak. Perhaps if she ignored him he would go away.
“Bed,” he commanded after a moment.
She looked up at him, startled, and he smirked maliciously as he stepped toward her.
“Unless you'd rather do it on the floor,” he said.
Hermione didn't move. She just stared at him, feeling stupefied with horror. He drew his wand and after giving a sharp, nonverbal flick, Hermione felt his magic seize hold of her and drag her backward until she collided with her bed and toppled backwards onto it.
Malfoy sauntered over, looking bored. There was a faint glint in his eyes.
Hermione bit her lip to keep from whimpering and crossed her arms across herself.
He stared down at her and then, pressing his legs between hers, leaned over her.
Hermione wished she could sink into the bed and suffocate there. Wished she could scream. Wished she could have just a shred of her magic to fight him off with.
Obedient. Quiet. Not to resist.
She tucked her chin down against her shoulder and tried to cringe away from him as much as she could.
His right hand pressed into the mattress by her head, and then she felt the tip of his wand under her chin.
“Look at me, Mudblood,” he commanded.
Her chin untucked itself as she turned to look up into his eyes. They were only inches away from hers. His pupils were contracted, and the grey of his irises looked like a storm.
He drove into her mind.
She gasped with shock.
Even his legilimency was cold. Like being plunged into a freezing lake. It hurt with a sharp, clear pain.
Unlike previous occasions, her mind was unclouded with trauma or shock. The experience was far more vivid because of it. He shot through her memories, attending to all the clusters of locked ones. He tried breaking his way into one until a wail wrenched itself from her lips.