Opening the door, the healer called out, “She passed. You can process her.”
He walked over to his desk.
Everything was weirdly luminous. She squinted. So bright she could hardly see past the light to make out the shapes around her.
Reaching up with a shaky hand, she pulled the gag from between her teeth. They immediately started chattering. She realised that she was terribly, terribly cold. Too cold.
The guard was approaching her, reaching for her arm to lead her away. She slid off the table and tried to stand.
She wobbled.
“Siiiiir...”
Was that her voice? She didn't remember what her voice sounded like.
The words came out slurred, and all the luminous objects in the room seemed to stretch and distort before her eyes as if she'd been dropped into a goldfish bowl. The healer turned back toward her quizzically.
“I thinnn' k mmmmm going 'nto sshhh—“ The words couldn't seem to come out through her chattering teeth. She tried again “shhhh-shhhhh-shhhhhhoooooock...”
Darkness suddenly started seeping into the edges of her vision. All the luminous things faded until all she could see was the healer's concerned face swimming before her. Her eyes rolled back and she fell.
No one caught her.
Her head hit the corner of the table. Hard.
“Fuck!” swore the guard. Even sound seemed wobbly and distorted.
The last thing Hermione remembered was that she thought he might be Marcus Flint.
Regaining consciousness felt like drowning in oatmeal. Hermione wasn't sure why it was the first comparison that came to mind. She fought to drag herself to the surface, moving toward muffled voices, trying to make sense of them.
“Sixteen months in solitary confinement with light and sound deprivation! By all counts she should be entirely insane, if not dead. There aren't even any records on her! As if you dropped her into a bottomless pit! Look at this file. Prisoner 187 in the bed next door! Do you see how many pages there are? Checkups! Blood reports! Mental health sessions! Prescribed potions! I even have pictures of her to see how she looked before you maimed her. This one here — nothing! She was recorded as being assigned to this prison, and then she vanished! No one has seen her! There isn't even any record of her eating anything! For sixteen months! Explain how this happened!”
There was a pause, and then Hermione heard, “Ahem-hem.”
Umbridge's simpering voice began wheedling, “There are so many prisoners here. It can hardly be surprising if one or two manage to fall through the cracks as Miss Granger did.”
“Miss — Granger—,“ the other voice was suddenly horrified and stuttering. “As in THE Granger? You knew it was her! You tried to kill her.”
“What? No! I would never — It is for the Dark Lord to decide their fates. I am merely a servant.”
“Did you really think our Lord would forget about a prisoner like Hermione Granger? Do you think he will be forgiving if he learns what you did?”
“I didn't mean for it to go on so long! It was meant simply as a temporary situation. You don't know her. You don't know what she's capable of. I had to be sure she couldn't escape or reach out. The castle was still being re-warded. Then — then by the time all the preparations had been made — She — she had slipped from my mind. I would never defy our Lord!”
“The success of the enterprise our Lord has assigned rests upon your head and mine. If I discover so much as a hint that you have done anything else to undermine his agenda, I will report you immediately to him. As it is, Granger is now entirely under my jurisdiction. You are not to go near her without my permission. If anything else happens to her, by anyone else, I will assume you were responsible for it.”
“But — but she has many enemies.” Umbridge's voice wavered.
“Then I suggest you oversee your prison carefully. The Dark Lord named her specifically in his plans. I will throw you before him today if that's what it takes to succeed. I have worked longer and harder to get where I am than you have, Warden. I will not let anyone get in my way. Go process the rest of them. The Dark Lord expects a report on eligibility numbers tonight, and I've wasted half my day fixing your mistake.”
A pair of footsteps faded. Umbridge's, Hermione thought and hoped. She cracked an eye open, trying to take in her surroundings surreptitiously.
“You're awake.”
Not surreptitiously enough. She opened her eyes fully and looked up at the blurry outline of a healer standing over her. The healer leaned closer to study Hermione, and Hermione could make her out somewhat against the brightness. An older woman, severe, with robes denoting medical seniority.
“So, you're Hermione Granger.”
Hermione wasn't sure how to respond to the comment. The overheard conversation hadn't shed light on what was wanted with her. She was important to some dreadful machination of Voldemort. She wasn't supposed to be dead or insane, and they wanted her healthy. They probably weren't supposed to torture her horribly again.
She stayed quiet, hoping the healer was the sort who kept talking when people failed to respond. She was disappointed.
“I'll have to ask you, since no one else seems to know. How are you still alive? How did you manage to stay sane?”
“I...d-don't — know...” Hermione answered after waiting for several moments. Her voice sounded deeper and wobblier than she remembered. Her vocal chords felt atrophied. It was difficult to pace words; the consonants slurred together and then paused as though it required effort to push them out. “I did — mental arithmancy... I...recited potions. I did my best... to keep from — slipping.”
“Remarkable,” the healer murmured, scribbling notes into a file. “But how did you survive? There's no record of anyone feeding you, and yet you've been perfectly maintained nutritionally.”
“I — don't...know. Food appeared. There was never a set time. I thought — it was intentional.”
“What was intentional?”
“The irregularity… I thought it“—her throat felt exhausted as she kept speaking—“was part of the...sensory deprivation. To keep — me... from knowing… how much time — had passed.”
Her voice got thinner and thinner with every word.
“Oh. Yes. That would have been creative. And your physical condition? You were never removed from that room. Yet you have better muscle tone than half my healers. How on earth is that possible?”
“When...I couldn't — bear to think, I'd exercise — until I couldn't anymore.”
“What kind of exercises?”
“Anything. Jumping. Pushups. Crunches. Anything — that tired me... So I wouldn't dream.”
More scribbling.
“What kind of dreams were you trying to avoid?”
Hermione's breath caught slightly. The other questions had been easy. That — that went too close to something real.
“Dreams of before.”
“Before?”
“Before I came here .” Hermione's voice was quiet. Furious. She closed her eyes; the light was giving her a severe migraine.
“Of course.” More scribbling. The sound made Hermione's muscles flinch reactively. “You'll be here in the infirmary until the side effects from your torture sessions are fully relieved. I will also be bringing in a specialist to figure out what happened to your brain.”
Hermione's eyes snapped open.
“Is there—,“ she hesitated. “Is there something—wrong with me?”
The healer stared at her contemplatively before waving her wand over Hermione's head.
“You were kept in sensory-deprived isolation for sixteen months. The fact you're lucid at all is a miracle. The effects of such an experience can hardly be avoided, especially given the circumstances prior to your arrival. I imagine you studied some healing during the war?”