The week had jumbled together in a blur. The morning after Ginny's visit, a young woman named Healer Barkley had appeared in her room, informing her that she was being treated for repeated concussions and casting a flurry of diagnostics. Hermione had tried her best to seem cooperative, yet sharp, but it was like speaking to a brick wall. When she'd asked why a blood sample was necessary, Healer Barkley swiftly left the room.

The door had stayed locked for the rest of the day. And that night, as Hermione sat in the sterile tub of her attached bathroom, clutching her knees, she'd wondered if they were right about her.

The second day had been much the same, except Healer Tamor came along. Hermione had asked him a few questions about her treatment, only to receive vague replies. She'd managed to keep her voice steady when she requested to speak with Bill Weasley, telling them she had sensitive information to share about Voldemort's defeat and the whereabouts of two missing Death Eaters. They were free to view her memories, if they needed proof.

After exchanging a glance with Healer Barkley, Healer Tamor had assured her the True Order had victory well in hand, with or without her memories. They'd exited the room together — locked again.

On the third day, Hermione had only asked a single question — a request to write to Ginny and Ron. She regretted how they parted, she'd explained, and wanted to make amends. Later that day, after she'd complied with their strange new tests — tapping her fingers together, performing a card sorting task — a stack of parchment and a dull self-inking quill appeared on her bedside table.

Her nights had been filled with grey eyes and severed arms and shattered glasses. She'd tried to bury her memories, but the suppressants dulled her Occlumency. She could only meditate for so long before her lake with still waters would flicker, the surface rattling from a distant avalanche.

The fourth day, they'd asked her questions. And when Healer Barkley had prodded about her interests before the war, Hermione realized they were looking for signs of mind-altering magic. Not the kind caused by the Imperius Curse, but an insidious kind that changed the fabric of who you were. Cold dread had washed over her, but she answered their questions nonetheless.

Before they left, she'd asked for the Daily Prophet. Reading it made her feel more like herself, she'd said. Healer Tamor had given her a curt, "I'll see what I can do," before locking her in.

The Prophet had appeared on her bedside table the next morning, and Hermione upended her coffee to snatch it. The headline had read, ATHENS LIBERATED. The cover photo had depicted the corpse of Eleni Cirillo, hanging by her feet from the columns of the Old Royal Palace.

On Wednesday 12 May, the Prophet had reported the surrender of Great Order forces in Lüneburg and Hanover. Azkaban was overflowing. There had been no mention of Pansy, Blaise, or the Malfoys. But Draco's face had still stared up at her from page seven — Undesirable No. 3. Just below his father.