Hermione's world exploded. It was like being hit with the cruciatus all over again. Finally mobile, her body recoiled, and she screamed and thrashed. The straps holding her down barely stopped her from arching backward as she writhed, and rocked, and wailed in agony. It seemed like an eternity before she could stop thrashing. Long after her voice had given out. Her muscles still twitched violently, and her chest heaved with sobs.
“Alright. You can go now,” the healer said as he prodded Hermione again with his wand. “But tell Umbridge if another one arrives like this, I will report her for sabotage.”
Hermione cracked an eye open and watched the guards leave. Her vision blurred. Everything was so agonisingly bright, but she could make out vague shapes and the light hurt less. Or rather, other things hurt more than her eyes did.
The healer returned to her. He was a large man. She didn't recognise him. She squinted, trying to see him clearly.
“Oh good, you're tracking movement.” He turned her wrist to get the prison number from the manacle. “Number 273...”
He pulled a narrow file off a shelf and furrowed his brow as he skimmed it.
“Mudblood, obviously. Hogwarts student. Oh, very good marks. Hmmm. Unknown curse to the abdomen in fifth year. Not a very good sign. Well, we'll see what we have to work with.”
He performed a complex diagnostic spell over her. She watched her magical signature float overhead and various orbs of color arrange themselves along her body.
The healer prodded them and scribbled notes. He was particularly interested in her abdomen, especially an orb tinged with purple.
“What—,“ she rasped around the gag still between her teeth, “—what are you looking at?”
“Hmm? Oh, a variety of things; your physical health, mostly. You're in remarkably good condition. Where have they been keeping you? Although none of that matters if I can't figure out this old curse you're still carrying.”
He worked in silence for several more minutes before chuckling. With a complicated flip of his wand and an incantation Hermione couldn't make out, she watched a dark stream of purple flame shoot into her stomach. Her insides suddenly started bubbling, and she felt something writhing alive among her organs. Something crawling inside her.
Before she could scream, the healer sent a red spell streaking into her. The writhing stopped, and it felt like something had dissolved inside her.
“A miscast spell,” the healer explained. “Someone wanted you eaten alive, but fortunately for you their curse was incomplete. I fixed it and then cancelled it. You're welcome.”
Hermione said nothing. She doubted any of it was for her benefit.
“Well. You're cleared. Eligible too. I think we'll get quite a bit of use out of you. Although that cruciatus will probably require some therapy before you'll recover from it. I'll put in a note.”
With a flick of his wand, the straps around her wrists and ankles released. Hermione sat up slowly. Her muscles were still twitching involuntarily.
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.