She gave Malfoy a long look which he returned without blinking.
Hermione was certain, Stroud did suspect Malfoy of doing something to interfere.
"Fine."
"Excellent," Stroud said, her mouth widening into a thin smile. "After all, the Dark Lord is quite eager for access to be gained to those memories. If the conception efforts continue to fail, we may find ourselves obliged to consider other 'sires.'"
"I was under the impression that using magical pregnancy to unlock the memories necessitated that the father be the legilimens or it may result in a miscarriage," Malfoy said in a lightly cutting tone.
"That's true. The magi-genetic familiarity is important. However, it wouldn't necessarily need to be a paternal familiarity. Half-siblings, for example, could be another option. I have heard rumours that your father may be recalled to Britain."
Hermione felt herself wobble and her throat contracted as though she were going to be sick. Malfoy's expression didn't flicker but he paled, visibly, even in Hermione's blurred vision.
Healer Stroud continued and there was a taunting quality to her voice. "I haven't mentioned the option to the Dark Lord. Yet. But I know how eager he is for progress. It would a disappointment for me to have to recommend it. As a scientist, I must admit I'm particularly curious to see the progeny from two such uniquely powerful individuals. But... my first loyalty is to the Dark Lord, so if this particular pairing is still unfruitful after six months I feel I'll have no option but to offer an alternative solution."
"Of course," Malfoy said, his tone calm but with an edge to it that Hermione recognised as cold fury. "Was there anything else?"
"Nothing else, High Reeve. Thank you for your time," Healer Stroud said.
Malfoy turned on his heel and vanished through the doorway.
Chapter End Notes
"Get. Out. Of. My. Sight." by _knar.m_
Chapter 21
Author's Note: A gentle reminder that depiction is not authorial endorsement. Third person limited point of view necessarily involves some distortions of vision and missed/misconstrued events.
Hermione remained seated on the exam table in a state of horror. The grating, scratching sound of Healer Stroud's quill in Hermione's file continued along with the endless, monotonous ticking of the clock.
Hermione's mouth felt parched and she struggled to swallow; there was a sour taste in her mouth. She tried to breathe evenly but found that her throat had closed, and she could do nothing but sit rigidly and try not to pass out at the thought of getting handed over to Lucius Malfoy.
Lucius Malfoy who was insane; far more insane than Bellatrix Lestrange had been. Who always broke the rules and crossed lines and somehow managed to use his silver tongue to save his skin. Who could have killed Arthur Weasley, but instead chose to curse him in such a way as to steal the Weasley patriarch's mind and leave his body intact for his family to care and mourn over; a helpless, childish shadow of a wonderful, generous father. Who cursed George with a horrific variation of the necrosis curse that it had forced Hermione to cut off his leg at the hip while he was still conscious in order to save him. Who killed Ron before Hermione's eyes, laughing the entire time.
Hermione thought she might faint or just snap and start screaming. Her head was pounding and the room was swimming slightly.
She started shaking.
"What's wrong?" Healer Stroud asked.
Hermione flinched.
"You — just threatened to hand me over to Lucius Malfoy."
"I'm hopeful it won't come to that," Healer Stroud said in a bland voice.
"And if it does?"
"Well, we can have it supervised, if there is too much concern that Lucius will overstep himself. It's unfortunate I can't redose you with the fertility potion this month. I'll have some potions sent that should at least ease things and possibly improve your odds of success."
Hermione fell silent and didn't speak again. She felt so ill with stress she wondered if she might be poisoning herself.
Malfoy arrived late in the evening and she stared at him listlessly. His expression was hard; set jaw and cold, flinty eyes, but also tired. He was probably back to hunting down the last member of the Order. Or perhaps he was worried that his father was going to kill her prematurely.
She studied him, trying to divine from his expression why on earth he would have done anything to intentionally not get her pregnant. Hermione couldn't think of an explanation for it. She kept turning it over in her mind but couldn't come up with anything that seemed plausible.
She reviewed the possibilities.
It could be because he found the idea of her being the biological mother of his heir so objectionable, but Hermione doubted that was the issue. For one thing, aside from using Mudblood as though it were her given name, he didn't seem to care much about blood purity. He didn't treat Voldemort's victory like it was a testament to pureblood superiority nor did he treat Hermione's imprisonment as being due to her dirty blood. Whenever he spoke of the war, he referred to the sides as being set apart primarily by idealism vs realism.
In Hermione's experience, bigots were obsessive with their bigotry. Draco Malfoy at Hogwarts had been a little parrot of his father's bigotry. The Draco Malfoy of the present — Hermione wasn't sure what he was obsessed with.
Hermione, if Astoria were to be believed.
Hermione didn't know what to believe.
He always had such a smooth answer and a compelling excuse for all his behaviour.
Why wouldn't he want her pregnant? She couldn't imagine where that fit strategically.
She hadn't wanted to be pregnant, but now knowing what lengths Healer Stroud and Voldemort might go to in order to ensure it...
She still felt utterly nauseated at the thought of having Malfoy 'take' her on a bed 'with less detachment;' of getting pregnant; of not getting pregnant and then getting handed over to Lucius...
No good options; just worse and worse until she thought she was going to finally just have a mental breakdown.
She couldn't stop thinking about it, and every time she reviewed the options again she felt as though she were going to be violently ill.
Malfoy cast a diagnostic charm on her eyes and studied it.
"How much can you see now?" he asked.
Hermione laughed abruptly.
She had no idea when she'd last laughed. Years before, most likely. But the question was funny. Hilarious even.
Everything in her life was a complete and utter horror, and somehow Malfoy's first concern was her eyesight. He kept her prisoner in his house, raped her on command, and he was concerned about her vision.
She couldn't stop laughing. It kept going on and on and growing increasingly hysterical sounding and then she wasn't laughing she was actually crying. She was crying and crying and crying, while she rocked on the edge of her bed, and Malfoy just stood there the whole time; staring at her, expressionless.
It took her twenty minutes before she finally stopped sobbing. Then she just sat there, hiccoughing and holding her hands over her eyes as she tried breathe. She felt as though she were hollow inside; as though she had sobbed out everything inside of her and all that was left was a shell.
Finally she was quiet but for an occasional hitching of her breath as she stared at the floor and wished she'd just die.
"Feel better?"
The corner of her mouth twitched and she shrugged tiredly.
"As close to better as I ever will," she said. She stared at his hands and noticed his fingers twitch subtly. She glanced up at him.