He reminded her that they needed the information, and that what happened to the Resistance members caught by Death Eaters was worse. As though Hermione needed to be reminded; she was the one who had healed what was left of those prisoners.
But she felt like a monster each time she was brought in to heal someone caught by the reconnaissance team, wondering whether she was enabling future victims by cooperating.
Even if they were Death Eaters, wanting them dead on a battlefield was different from letting them be tortured.
“I'm going to fix your hands first,” she said softly to the man.
She knelt down beside him then lightly placed her hand under his right hand and lifted it into the light.
With a quick spell she aerosolised an analgesic potion and guided the mist around the fingers and thumb. There had been needles driven under the nail beds repeatedly.
When the skin had absorbed the potion, she lightly took the hand in hers and began performing the spells to repair the tissue damage.
She had worked across three fingers when he spoke.
“I know you,” he said, raising his head.
She glanced up. He looked vaguely familiar. Solidly built. Dark haired with thick stubble. His arms and hands were hairy.
“You're Potter's Mudblood bitch,” he said.
Hermione raised an eyebrow and continued onto the next finger.
“You certainly grew up,” he said with a leer. “I would never have thought a frizzhead like you would have ended up looking like that.”
Hermione ignored him.
“Granger, isn't it? I'll have to tell everyone I saw you. We thought you were dead.”
He leaned forward until his face was unnervingly close to Hermione's.
“I'm going to tell you a secret, Mudblood,” he muttered. “You're going to lose this war. And when you do, I'm going to kill the blonde bitch out there so slowly she'll beg me for it.”
Hermione continued to ignore him as she closed the razor fine lacerations that had been cut into his palms.
She finished with his first hand and then started on the second. She dreaded the thought of finishing, but eventually there was no more work left to do on his hands, and she could avoid it no longer.
“I'll need you to sit back, if you want me to heal what has been done to your genitals,” she forced herself to say steadily.
Her whole body felt cold. Her stomach twisted so painfully she wondered if she'd ever be able to digest food again.
He leaned back in the chair he was restrained in and opened his knees. His expression was taunting, as though he was the one in power.
She wanted to stun him.
She was supposed to leave them conscious when she healed them. It was part of the psychology that Kingsley employed.
She flicked her wand to perform an unbuttoning charm then reached out and opened his trousers.
Gabrielle had used some type of fine blade to carve words into the shaft of his penis. Hermione couldn't read the French through the ragged incisions and blood. She had a brief moment of gratitude that they weren't runes.
Then she got to work.
She was determined to try not to touch him which made the wand work more elaborate. She banished the blood and cast a mild cleansing charm.
The young man moaned in pain for the first time. Then she siphoned out essence of murtlap from a vial and applied it magically. It was less precise and gentle but Hermione refused to let herself care.
Hermione murmured the necessary healing charms and cast a second diagnostic. He had a lot of alcohol in his system. It was probably part of how Gabrielle had gotten close. Hermione pulled out a sobriety potion and poured it down his throat. He recognised the potion because he didn't struggle the way she expected him to.
Then she stepped back and appraised him.
He stared up at her as she reached into her bag and pulled out a hangover relief potion and offered it to him.
After he swallowed it, he sneered at her.
“Patching me up for round two?” he guessed. “And here I thought you were all bleeding hearts with a no-kill policy.”
Hermione gave him a thin smile she had learned from Malfoy.
“We're not going to kill you.”
Then she turned on her heel and walked out. As the door shut behind her, she stood for a moment collecting herself.
She felt like a fucking bitch.
She had lied to Malfoy the first time she'd been drunk; she had no shreds of decency left. The war had ripped them all away.
The only thing she had left was her determination to save Ron and Harry. To win the war.
She would climb over tortured bodies, sell herself, and tear out Draco Malfoy's heart if it was required to achieve it.
When her friends were safe, she would stand quietly beside Kingsley and Moody, and swallow her damnation without a murmur.
August 2002
Hermione sat on a rock on the beach while she waited for Kingsley to call her back to administer the Draught of Living Death. As she sat, she kept replaying the previous night over and over, looking for anything she might have missed.