"Who's next," he hummed, voice tired and thin.

Yaxley pushed Pansy forward. She stood tall. A measuring tape floated up and began taking her height while an enchanted quill worked beside it. It nudged her to raise her arms, measuring her waist, hips, chest.

"Name," he said.

"Pansy Parkinson," she stated proudly.

He looked up quickly, then looked away, pressing his lips together. "Blood status: pure-blood," he muttered. "Age?"

"Seventeen."

He wrote that down, and took the measurement page from the air, copying down that information as well. He shuffled through a pile and found another parchment, frowning down at it. "Anything in your medical history we should know about?"

Pansy scoffed. "Will it really matter if I broke my leg when I was nine?"

He grimaced down at the page. "No, I guess not." He reviewed what seemed to be the medical page the mediwitches had scribbled up for each of them a few days before. He dragged his eyes back to Pansy, and peered at her over his spectacles, making note of her eye, hair, and skin color.

He sighed, rubbed the bridge of his nose, and said, "Alright, based on the scale you've provided me with, starting bid should be 4,000 Galleons"—he marked this on his page—"and you can expect bidding to escalate to 12,000, based on her physical appearance and blood status. She was not sterilized, so she might be seen as valuable for certain families."

Hermione pressed her lips together, breathing slow. Pansy, on the other hand, turned to Yaxley and said, "Not bad, Yax," with a sly smile. "We can bump that starting bid up, though, can't we? Trust me," she said, leaning toward him conspiratorially. "I'm worth at least as much as one of the virgins. Much more useful." She winked.

Yaxley glared at her and threatened to silence her as well.

Hermione frowned, watching Pansy smile and flirt. Defense mechanism.

She'd probably been raped last night. Or tortured, or both. And now, instead of sitting quietly in a corner like Penelope Clearwater, Pansy Parkinson was weaponizing herself. Her body. Her wit. Her charm. All so she wouldn't break down.

Hermione didn't know how to do that. And she wasn't sure she wanted to learn.

"Next," the old man said.

Hermione stepped forward, and the measuring tape wound around her.

"Name."

"Hermione Granger," Yaxley replied for her.

The older man snapped his eyes up to her, taking her in. He blinked several times before returning to his paper.

"Blood status: Muggle-born," he said.

"Mudblood is the term now," Yaxley corrected, and the older man nodded.

"Age?"

"Seventeen," Yaxley replied, and she turned to correct him.

"Eighteen. She's eighteen," Pansy said.

Hermione blinked down at the tape circling her chest.

The old man pulled her medical form. He shook his head slightly, clenching his jaw, and Hermione saw him make a mark in the top right corner of his notes page: V

He copied down her measurements, did some calculations, and said in a hollow voice, "Starting bid for Miss Granger should be no lower than 7,500 Galleons based on your grading system." He pulled his glasses from his face. "But I've heard she and Miss Weasley will be starting at 10,000 regardless."