Hysteria

A/N: Thank you to Softobsidian74 for alpha reading, honest feedback and suffering through it and to robs55 for the excellent beta and being unfazable!

Chapter 4


Asperitas


The grey ceiling above her was vaulted and cracked.

Three cracks in the upper right vault.

Two to the left.

And two crossing from one vault diagonally into the other.

Hermione knew the ceiling well.

She did not want to look left or right at the other women occupying this forgotten and neglected part of the Janus Thickey Ward.

Without looking Hermione knew that the woman to her right; a red haired witch of around thirty-five years was rocking back and forth in her straightjacket, humming senseless melodies and staring at her naked feet.

On her left there was a younger girl, a little older than Hogwarts age. She was not restrained and sat in her cloak, a small satchel at her side.

“Daddy will pick me up today. He promised. Daddy is always right.”

She had told Hermione so two days ago, when she had woken up in the hospital bed.

Daddy had not come. Not that day, not yesterday and Hermione was now quite sure that he would not come to pick up his daughter today either. Or tomorrow.

Hermione’s back hurt.

She had been in the bed for more than two days now. Due to the restraints, she could not turn onto her side. Her wrists were securely fastened to the metal bed frame and so were her ankles.

Neither of her two bed neighbours spoke much. Maybe that was because she could not answer.

The gag had been removed every now and then, but only to administer the nutrient potion or ask her the occasional question.

But soon, too soon, they always forced the rubbery bit back into her mouth, petting her cheek, telling her to be a good girl and accept it. She did not want to bite off her own tongue in a hysterical fit, did she?

Not even mealtimes were interrupting the melting of one hour into the other; morning into afternoon into evening into night.

The nutrient potion given to the patients restrained to the bed was easy to administer and made her low maintenance as far as the nurses were concerned.

Harry, where are you?

Are you looking for me?

Yesterday we were supposed to have lunch together. What did you do when I never came to the restaurant?

Her eyes followed the crack in the ceilings and she wondered just how long it would take until she would hum along or tell herself that today, today surely, Harry would pick her up and take her home.

The door opened, but it was not Harry who walked in. Healer de Belleme strode in, his medals gleaming on the left side of his chest.

In his wake a group of about fifteen wizards and witches in apprentice healer robes entered the room.

Healer de Belleme stood next to her bed, adopting an imperious stance.

He removed the clipboard with what she assumed was her case history from the foot of her bed and flipped through the notes the nurses had made during the last two days.

“Alright then. Twenty-six year old female, Muggle-born, symptoms include insomnia, restlessness, loss of energy, nervousness, tiredness, anxiety, loss of appetite, difficulty to perform day-to-day tasks, shortness of breath, dizziness and heaviness in the abdomen.”

He looked at the eager faces of his students.

“Diagnosis?”

He let his gaze wander over the group.

“Blancbaston?”

The young healer startled.

“Er... I... Witches’ Hysteria?”

“Don’t make it a question, Blancbaston. Correct.”

Healer de Belleme turned his attention to yet another apprentice.

“Treatment? Payne?”

Pain? More pain?

“Pelvic Massage after Galen, sir.”

“Very good, apprentice healer Payne. Now in this case, pelvic massage has been administered in four sessions. It appeared to be a successful route of therapy, until the subject suddenly refused treatment. What are alternative or additional cures? Fitzmason?”

“Sensory deprivation, hydrotherapy, cruciology, sir.”

Hermione had trouble breathing. In her research she had indeed seen the pictures and read the articles.

“Very good. You all seem to have done your reading exercises. Now it is time to put the information into practice. Payne, will you demonstrate the technique as described in your textbooks, please?”

Another nameless nurse, this one with blond hair, grasped the edge of the duvet on Hermione’s bed and flipped it over to double it up and expose her legs to the view of the group of apprentice healers.

Hermione closed her eyes.

Strapped down to a bed.

A gag in her mouth so she would not injure herself. Or maybe so she would not talk?

And now this.

Harry!

The nurse loosened one of the ankle restraints at the bed frame and pushed her leg so it was bent at the knee. Then she looped the strap around Hermione’s thigh and secured it at the ankle. The nurse repeated the action with her left foot and parted her knees.

This time, the tears came silently.

She knew it was not a good idea to fight. Not that she could. Especially when she could not communicate.

She did not want another dose of that potion that had left her disoriented and scared, a prisoner of her own nightmares.

The apprentice healer did not Scourgify his hands or put on gloves. Hermione did not want to think of all the foul things that could happen to her with this unsanitary behaviour.

Apprentice Payne started rubbing Hermione’s nether regions with clumsy movements; he could not quite decide which fingers to use or where to concentrate his efforts.

Had he never had a girlfriend? Or had he never cared enough to arouse her? Or was this treatment simply so far removed from and not associated with anything remotely sexual?

Hermione cried out around the gag.

“Very good, Payne. You found the spot. Now keep it up until the paroxysm.”

No, Hermione screamed in her head. It hurts! It hurts!

“Witches should not resort to rubbing,” de Belleme lectured. “It is a wizard’s job, suitable only for husbands and healers.”

“Vibratum,” apprentice healer Payne’s voice came from between her knees.

Ten minutes later she felt raw and ill. She wanted to curl up and never let anybody touch her again.

She never wanted to even think about that place between her legs ever again.

It hardly registered with her that the nurse replaced the restraints in their initial positions and covered her with the duvet as the other apprentice healers moved on to their own practice subjects.

“No. I cannot take my things off. I have to be ready. My daddy will pick me up today to take me home.”

Hermione heard the sounds of a struggle to her left and then muffled sounds of distress.

“Vibratum.”

And then finally, the group in lime green robes left.

The girl from the other bed limped over to Hermione, slipping back into her cloak.

Her hair was in disarray, several strands had escaped her braids.

“My daddy will pick me up today, don’t you think?”

Hermione wished she could smile or say a few comforting words, but couldn’t.

She simply nodded her head a little and the girl resumed her usual place on the bed, next to her small suitcase.

“I know daddy will be here soon,” the girl said, her eyes wide and haunted.


***


The nights were the worst. There had been only two nights so far, but Hermione had already learnt that the night was not her friend in this part of the Janus Thickey Ward.

Here, darkness did not embrace and protect her, cradling her in her sleep until morning. Here, darkness meant absence of staff. Here, darkness meant silence that amplified the incoherent mumblings, the sobs and the hollow sounds of large institutional halls. Here, darkness meant sudden appearances of unrestraint patients who stood next to Hermione’s bed, staring at her with empty eyes.

Here, darkness meant that the keepers were on duty.

The first night she thought he was a potion-induced dream.

The burly man in the light blue robes of the care wizards had stood next to her bed for a good while and when Hermione woke from a disorienting half-slumber, the burly man was still there, standing motionless.

When she woke again, as the grey light of early morning seeped into the ward, he was gone.

The next night there was no potion to sedate her, but the nurses had kept the rubber bit in place, explaining that it was not uncommon ‘for the likes of her’ to bite off her own tongue. Or injure other people. The staff had to be protected.

Hermione had stared at the brunette nurse with wide eyes.

She was not dangerous!

She was not dangerous!

She wasn’t, was she?

The keeper had been by her side again the next night.

He had been so still that Hermione had been convinced to be dreaming or that her brain was misinterpreting the shadows in the ward.

And then he touched her.

It was a very light touch.

Rough, calloused fingertips brushing her cheek.

“Soft,” he had breathed and fled.

The third night, Hermione was aching between her thighs. The apprentice healers had been practising on her until the delicate membrane had been dry and inflamed. Others had taken to sketching on their parchment boards, coming as close as possible as not to miss the smallest detail, crowdingthe limited space at the foot of her bed.

The angry throb at the apex of her legs kept her awake, fearing the next day.

He had come as if appearing out of thin air.

For a few minutes he watched her on the narrow hospital bed, bound to the metal frame.

Her eyes grew wide when he approached her and folded back her white duvet. Instinctively, she clenched her thighs to hide from his view.

Outside her range of vision, he did something to her ankle restraints. They were not has tight anymore; not pulling her legs toward the end of the bed like a medieval torture rack.

He gently touched the abraded skin around the stiff straps and disappeared without as much as a whisper.

Moments later he was back, setting several objects on top of her bedside cabinet.

He had brought more restraints and used them to fasten her knees to the metal frame at the side of the bed, now that her legs had more leeway to move.

She tried to struggle, but his hands were large and strong and her efforts did not seem to hinder him in the slightest.

When he pushed her open-backed hospital night robe up to her waist, she whimpered. He did not hear or pretended not to hear and gazed at her raw sex.

“The junior house healers were harsh with you.”

Petrified with fear, Hermione watched him return to her bedside cabinet and cast aguamenti calda, dousing a length of white cotton in warm water before pouring a potion onto it from a phial.

With gentle pressure, he placed the compress to her tormented genitals.

The relief was instant and gratitude flooded her.

He applied another potion to her ankles and wrists where the leather restraints had worn down her skin.

“I remember you from Hogwarts.”

Surprised, she looked up, trying to see his face more clearly. He somewhat resembled Draco Malfoy’s friends, Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle, but she could not remember him.

“I left school after my OWL’s, didn’t do too well, wanted to do something useful, help people.”

He removed the compress and poured another potion onto a small piece of cotton gauze. He used it to carefully apply the soothing potion to the angry skin of her sex. This auxiliary care wizard was finally taking basic hygiene precautions, something the healers hardly ever bothered to comply with. A sloppily cast Scourgify was the most she had come to expect of them.

The keeper methodically replaced her night robes and restraints and covered her legs with the duvet.

For a while he looked at her as if uncertain how to proceed. He reached around her neck and deftly pulled the strings of her night robes loose. His beefy hands had practiced the movements countless times, moving with an exact grace as he pulled the neckline down and bared her breasts.

None of the nurses or healers had ever examined her upper body.

Hermione felt uneasy. The atmosphere had changed to an intense silence.

After a few minutes, the keeper covered her and lifted her head to sweep her curls out of the way for securing the strings again.

“Try to rest. I will be back tomorrow night.”

While watching him exit the ward, Hermione bit down on the piece of rubber in her mouth and tightened her grip on the metal bars to which her wrists were bound.

Healer de Belleme had the nurses remove her gag. Yes, her gag. There was no denying its most primary function. Finally back in power of her own speech, Hermione had dared to reason with the healer, counting on the many apprentices and nurses present as witnesses that she would be able to resolve the situation.

She had worded her request to be re-evaluated with utmost care. She had kept her tone of voice level and business-like. She had tried to remain calm and composed when the healer had not answered her right away, but rather examined her like an interesting specimen floating in a jar on one of his shelves.

Her resolve had crumbled and finally slipped when he had instructed the junior house wizards to take note of the extent of her illness. To not forget to describe demeanour and enticing facade of reason.

The nurses and students had ignored her now pleading voice and jotted down notes on their note pads. Some of them had taken to sketching as part of their reports.

Now, de Belleme was showing the apprentice healers how to use their wands to warm a small, bulb-shaped glass.

He circled the flame around the small opening, building the heat evenly.

He nodded in the general direction of the door and a nurse came walking toward Hermione’s bed, heels clicking on stone, her deep blue robes rustling under the starched white apron.

This nurse had her hair in a severe blond bun, halfway covered by her nurse’s cap.

She was one of the no-nonsense nurses. Nonsense obviously meant compassion, thorough care and friendliness. More often than not, she handled her patients like ragdolls.

Without further ado, the nurse reached between Hermione’s legs and took hold of her outer labia. With a sudden tug, she wrenched Hermione’s pussy wide open. Her fingernails dug into skin and flesh, making pain shoot through Hermione.

The small glass cup was placed directly on the upper part of her sex.

At first she felt nothing.

Then a weird, slightly uncomfortable sensation started building, sucking on her flesh with steady insistency.

Tiny lightning bolts of pleasure shot through her abdomen and she could not suppress a rocking motion of her hips.

De Belleme gazed down at her on the bed with clinical interest. With his wand, he flicked the small suction cup and Hermione flinched with her whole body in response.

“Remove the cup; we do not want to cause damage.”

Apprentice healer Payne fumbled with the cup and pinched delicate tissue before he finally managed to separate it from her engorged flesh.

For the first time in what felt like weeks, Hermione felt pleasure. The group of trainee healers stood in a semi-circle around her bed, staring at her swollen pussy, clip boards at the ready.

The head healer strutted like a peacock, chest and medals pushed out.

“As you can see, the cupping has the subject much more agreeable to treatment. It will also help to reduce the time spent in menial labour with each patient. Do take note that each case has to be evaluated individually. Not all witches can bear the suction.”

He looked at his patient, whose hair was matted from too many days spent in bed and too little time allocated for personal hygiene. The nurses had given up trying to disentangle her hair after the first morning.

Hermione’s eyes were unfocussed.

“We shall now move her to the hydrotherapy room. A simple drying spell might be enough to avoid unpleasant amounts of water, yet as we do have a room at our disposal we shall make good use of it.”

Two of the keepers unbound her from the bed frame and grasped her upper arms, hauling her to a sitting position and then to her feet.

The few days spent in confinement to the bed had weakened her frighteningly. Hermione could feel the effort of her muscles to comply and carry her forward but the short distance past three or four beds and through the door labelled ‘Balineum’ left her short of breath and with a fine sheen of sweat covering her body.

All fantasies of breaking free and fleeing the dark and neglected halls were effaced.

Feeling the padded reclining chair beneath her brought relief to her under-used muscles and lungs.

Having her legs spread by the keepers was nothing new by now and Hermione silently wondered whether there would come the point of no return, where she would exhibit herself to anyone at any time, whether this would destroy her cultural training and ingrained social patterns of conduct.

She felt a pang when she realised that she also considered that this might never come for her; that her life could become an endless nightmare of grey days and people staring, probing, reaching, hurting between her legs.

De Belleme had positioned himself standing between her wide-open knees.

“Aguamenti durus.”

The strong, ice-cold jet of water hit the hyper-sensitive bundle of nerves normally hidden between protective folds of skin.

She could not help it.

Really, she could not.

Hermione shrieked.

Unperturbed, the healer maintained a steady hand in directing the massaging stream.

“At first, the sensation is usually perceived as pain, as you can see. Do not stray from the prescribed method, though. Soon enough, the patient will welcome hydrotherapy eagerly.”

After the shock of coldness along with pain and finally numbness, her body sought to balance the temperature in the tiny organ so viciously attacked.

Blood rushed into her sex and she lifted her hips to welcome the pulsing water.

The healer saw Hermione’s head fall back and smirked at his students.

“Nevertheless you should be careful never to exceed the prescribed five to six minutes at most.”

He kept his wand trained at his patient’s genitalia even as he could hear her gasp and cry out and see the paroxysm find its crisis in spasming muscles.

“Finite Incantatem.”

Hermione lay in the chair, eyes half closed and exhausted from the ordeal.

The healer pocketed his wand and turned to the watching apprentices.

Hermione looked away.

“Overstimulation has to be avoided. Do not administer the pelvic douche more often than once within twenty-four hours.”

A blonde witch lay in a bath tub next to the hydrotherapy chair. The tub was sealed off with a sturdy canvas cover, which only left her head exposed and above the water.

Hermione stared into her empty eyes. The lips of the blonde witch were a deep purplish blue.

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