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.
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.