Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/110407.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      F/F
  Fandom:
      Harry_Potter_-_Rowling
  Relationship:
      Hermione_Granger/Poppy_Pomfrey
  Character:
      Hermione_Granger, Poppy_Pomfrey
  Additional Tags:
      Medical_Kink, Torture, Insanity, POV_First_Person, Altered_Mental_States,
      Mutilation, Sexual_Violence, Bloodplay, Blood, Sadism, Trapped, Horror,
      Body_Horror
  Stats:
      Published: 2004-09-30 Words: 1401
****** It Is a Letter of Fancy, and Therefore Must Be Rewritten ******
by parsnips_(trifles)
Summary
     "Vanity leads to fantasies, and fantasies lead to a vacuous sort of
     mind, concerned only with the unreal."
Notes
     Originally posted 9.30.04 for the September Fantasy Fest at
     pornish_pixies. Additional warnings: nonconsensual sexualized
     activity with underage unconscious persons, bloodplay/sadism, fairly
     hefty insanity.

Dear Sir,

I am, I believe, a no-nonsense sort of person. I don't approve of flights of
fancy or letting such things interfere with daily life. I have no use for
things that aren't real, and I believe that the institution of Hogwarts has no
use for a nurse that does. As such, I must tender my resignation.
I had several students under my care while the school was under the threat of
the Basilisk. You may recall that the infirmary was under special protections
disallowing the entrance of any non-invited presences for the majority of that
time. I recognize that it was to protect the sick under my care from outside
attack. The unfortunate side effect of this protection was that while others
could not get in, none inside could get out. While I don't think the frozen
members of our school particularly cared, I was keenly aware of this
restriction on my person.
I spent more time than I care to think of pacing the infirmary, surrounded by
what you must agree were little more than wax figurines, consumed by thoughts
that, as I've mentioned, I dislike falling into. The silence was overwhelming.
My skirts rustled, my breath was constant, and for all that I had patients to
care for, I was for all intents and purposes in solitary confinement.
It shames me now to think back on the thoughts that came upon me during those
long days. At night I slept with the aid of potions, which is a vice I have
never before indulged in. The daylight hours, however, required vigilance and
aptitude, and while I was certainly present, I was by no means in a fit
condition to care for my charges. I could check their vital signs, feed them,
wash them, tip potions down their stricken throats -- but the primary healing
device, my mind, was from me.
I dislike prisons. My first assignment as a mediwitch was as an emergency
caretaker for Azkaban. You may be surprised by this -- it is not on my resume.
I was relieved of duty within a month of my placement. I have very little
accurate memory of that occasion, and the final report concerning my work was
not specific. It was suggested, however, that I avoid similar situations in the
future. Which I have managed for over half a century before now.
To return to the case at hand: I was alone. The only discernable change in each
day was the moving of the light from one end of the room to the other,
highlighting my charges one face at a time. Creevey, Fitch-Fletchley,
Clearwater... Granger. I remember thinking, on the third day of my
incarceration, that the mirror in Granger's hand was for the purposes of
vanity. Earlier in the term she had confided to me her fears in remaining in
cat-form, how people would look at her for it. It had disturbed me then. I
thought of what my family would have said to me if I'd succumbed to such fears
at her age. Vanity leads to fantasies, and fantasies lead to a vacuous sort of
mind, concerned only with the unreal. I would have been whipped.
It was because of the mirror, of the remembered conversation, that on the
nineteenth day I cut off Granger's hair. It was not a sudden action. I must be
clear on this point: Logical thought is always my driving force. I refuse any
other. It came to me, over the course of many hours, that removing her hair was
medically indicated. Vanity was a condition. Remove the cause, remove the
problem. I used a pair of shears for it.
I regrew it all an hour later. Even shorn she was still beautiful. It did not
relieve her affliction in the least.
On the twenty-fifth day -- I still had not left the infirmary, if you recall,
had not been in my rooms, had not left the grounds, had only the company of wax
figures and vain girls watching me -- I stripped her body of its uniform. The
Hogwarts uniform expressly presents the female form as sexual. In a young girl,
this is inappropriate, more so if she is aware of it. I was certain Hermione
was. Her knees were bent very slightly, and her skin was smooth. This is an
invitation to admiration, and causes other minds to fall into the trap of
fantasy.
For both herself and others, it was medically sound, medically appropriate,
medically right that I relieve her body of its beauty. She had not learnt how
to control her own thoughts. Outside reinforcements were required for her
recovery. To this end I took a scalpel from the medical history cabinet and
tried to save her life.
Granger's face was unflawed. She was pale, composed in her statue-state. It
was, in fact, my ideal. I hope to someday achieve it. She would not stay
forever this way, however; the cure for the aborted Basilisk stare would
eventually be prepared, and then she would reanimate. She would move that
mouth, lower those lids over dark eyes, and she would blush at every fancy. I
scraped the scalpel along her cheeks. I cut her lips in half.
Her breasts were small, widely spaced and firm from growth. Coral shells,
almost as pale as her skin, tipped them. Her skin was soft. She would develop
more if I didn't help her. I took my scalpel and traced around the silk circle
of her aureolas; I cut twice over her nipples, marking them as false realities.
The space between her hips was concave still, but the beginning of a womanly
belly was forming. I cut a circle there. She would hide it, but that very
impulse would show her the way to control. Control the body, control the
desire, and the mind will rise above the walls imposed by the flesh. There
would follow the clarity of logic, and then she would be safe and, ultimately,
she would be free.
I spoke to her as I healed -- the one circle had become three, one inside the
other inside the other -- and the blood was as slow as syrup. The Basilisk's
doing. I told her everything I'd learned, everything she would ever need to
overcome herself. I told her there was only one more thing that needed doing,
and then I would clothe her in my own robes, take her away from this prison,
and then she would be free, we would be free, and we would be nothing but real.
I could almost feel her shudder, sigh, nod in agreement for what must be done.
I remember feeling proud of her, of how far she had come. My hand shook as I
pressed it to the flesh between her legs, my fingers finding the folds of her
labia. I touched the inner flesh. She was dry. So good a girl, she learned so
quickly, she kept the thoughts away. I touched lower, and found her entrance.
She was tight, too tight to push through. She was keeping herself from me.
Holding back. She wasn't yet cured of frivolous thoughts.
With my other hand, the scalpel hand, I healed her. Blade to the flesh, I cut
away her body's prison. The way was open. I slid my scalpel into her and when
the blood came out, dark and slow and covering my hand, I knew then that she
would never be trapped again. I remember a joy that I have never felt before. I
remember weeping from it.
I remember you breaking the spells that kept me in my confinement, and opening
the doors, greetings on your lips, and seeing what I had done to Granger.
This is where my memory fails. It has, I understand, been some three weeks
since that point. I notice that I am again confined, this time to my quarters.
It is, I say again, leading me to thoughts that I do not appreciate having.
Fantasy is not an acceptable escape, though you've made it clear that you
believe otherwise. From my window I've seen Ms. Granger walking the grounds.
She laughs, and her knees flash from the slit in her robes. She is trapped.
Nothing I taught her has remained.
I cannot stay here. I am a prisoner. I must leave Hogwarts. Let me go.
I have no use for things that are not real.

-Poppy Pomfrey
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