She has been waking up to those nightmares so often.
In these nightmares, she was always running.
Green and red fireworks shooting out of wands. Pool of red contrasting and staining the grey stone floor. Bodies lying on the floor; whose team were they on, she wasn't sure. But all she could think of was how to keep herself alive. Alive for Harry, the chosen one. For Ron, the guy who never fails to turn her world upside down. For the other Weasleys and her friends that she wants to protect so fiercely. And her parents, whose memories she modified, because she loves them so.
She needed to fight.
Hands full of mud and dirt, waving her wand, chanting spells to ward off the Death Eaters.
Four hours and counting. This battle was exhausting her out. She didn't know how much longer she could sustain.
Walking along the deserted corridor, all alone, all she could hear were her own footsteps. She held her wand tightly in her hand.
"I smell a Mudblood."
She gasped and turned. There stood Fenrir Greyback, in the middle of the corridor. She should have watched her back. The war has no room for mistakes. One wrong move could cost you your life. An advice from Mad-eye that she should have heed moments ago; why didn't she? Greyback began circling her, taking in her scent. She was sure he could smell her fear. Her grip on her wand tightens. Her mind was racing a thousand miles. She needed to find a way to get out of her, fast. So why was it that at this exact moment, her mind's completely blank? Merlion, she wasn't going to survive this, was she?
Of course, there was always – "Expelliar-"
"Incarcerous!" Greyback was much faster. Ropes were being conjured from thin air, binding her down. There was nothing to do now, except to be bitten by this monster or to die. She sincerely hoped that it was the latter; at least it's less painful and quick. Honestly, given a choice between death and being turned into a werewolf, any rational human being would choose death.
"There, there. Potter's favourite mudblood, all helpless and alone," Greyback was now sniffing her hair, twirling a finger around a lock of hair. "Sadly, there will be no Potter or Weasel to save you." His intentions became clear as his hands began roaming her body hungry.
Gritting her teeth, she barked, "Get your filthy paws off me!"
She remembered how excruciating the pain that crawled through her body was as he casted the Crucio spell on her. It was more than just needles piercing through her skin. It was pure torture. She vividly remembered how Greyback had laughed mercilessly, enjoying the sight. All she prayed for was for Harry to win this war; at least she wouldn't have suffered and died in vain. And of course, she hoped that Greyback would suffer the same amount of pain that he was inflicting on her, or ten times worse.
She heard him mumbled something along the lines of her learning her place after the pain subsided. Whatever he said after, she wasn't sure; all she knew was that her world was spinning and she was starting to lose consciousness. She laughed and despised her own weakness. How did Harry manage to endure and fight the Crucio curse? Maybe Harry and Ron were right. She was weak, and having her fight in this war was an addition burden. She should only be involved in strategic advances or defences. But she had been stubborn and insistent; she wanted to prove that she could do it like the guys. Ron had told her to stay by his side and fight along with him but she hadn't. Well, she didn't need help. She was Hermione Granger for heaven's sake! She could take down any Death Eaters; she could easily outsmart them. Except that at the crucial moment, her brain had failed her. She was exhausted and out of stamina. In other words, she was vulnerable. And now Fenrir had caught her in this moment of weakness.
She fought to keep her eyes open. But her eyelids were getting heavier by the seconds. Fighting the Crucio curse had taken up whatever energy she had left. Fenrir Greyback's hands were now ripping her cloak and blouse apart, and his lips were all over her neck. The only thought that ran through her head was, filth, filth, filth.
Her eyes were now closed, as she started to drift off to the world of unconsciousness.
A voice, that seemed to have travelled from a far distance, cried, "Stupefy!" The touches that roamed her body stopped abruptly, followed by a loud thud to the floor. Fast and heavy footsteps.
Complete darkness.
"Granger! Are you alright? Damn it, Granger! Do you hear me?" Warm hands around her shoulders. But his voice was drifting off, getting softer and softer.
All she could manage was to mutter, "Thank god, you came," with a small smile before she was engulfed by complete silence and darkness.