The Second War Continues

CRASH.

Hermione Granger's body made contact with a hard wooden table in the cool, dank dungeon of Hogwarts School, smashing through and scraping across the floor to land with a dull thud against the slick stone wall.
"Stupid girl," a voice said, stalking over to her fallen body as she tried to push herself up. He grabbed her gruffly by the collar and pulled her to her feet, walking her over to the middle of the room and throwing her into the grasp of two hooded and cloaked figures, who caught her and held her fast.
"This one obviously doesn't understand the extent of Lord Voldemort's persuasion," the same man said, training his wand on her chest, "Maybe she should have one little taste of the penalty the Dark Lord gives to non- cooperators..."
Hermione panted and struggled against her captors, casting anxious looks at her wand that lay at the edge of the room where she had fallen. Her hair clung to her face in dirty clumps, and her schoolgirl uniform was torn and tattered, her legs bloody and scratched. It was clear that the young Granger girl had already had a taste of Lord Voldemort's displeasure, and it was clear that she would do so again.
The man who held her at wandpoint was young and , smug off of his power that he held over her and the favor the Dark Lord gave to him for assigning him with such a task. His body was lean and muscled, the strength that rippled through his arms and legs matching the malice with which he cried out the Cruciatus Curse.
The pain that seized and strangled Hermione Granger caused her body to thrash about in her captor's arms. They threw her to the ground as they watched her lash out her arms and legs, the muscles involuntarily cramping and relaxing only long enough to sear in burning pain. The screams that she promised herself would lay stifled inside her throat came piercing out into the cool doom of the Potions room, bouncing off of the shiny glass vials that contained pickled toads and severed limbs of creatures and plants used for the art of potion making.
"Finite Incantatem!" The boy who had just barely become a man ordered over her cries, ceasing the grip of the spell. The hand of it had left her body marked with bruises from flailing on the rough stone floor, blood trickling from the corner of her bloodied lips. Hermione lay whimpering on the ground, gasping for air that she was not sure she would taste again. Again the man stalked over to her and grasped her by her collar, which caught on her throat and put pressure on her windpipe. He threw her against the wall again, a jagged edge of brick colliding with her back.
"I'll ask you one more time girl, WHERE IS HARRY POTTER?!" The man roared, raising his wand. A few soft words fell from her lips, between deep, uneven breaths and chest-wracking coughs, the blood from her lungs splattering around her lips.
"What did you say?" The man stepped closer, lowering his voice, an intense expression on his face. Hermione turned to face him, her bruised eyes puffing and dark.
"Never."
And as the man raised his wand and brought his spell down upon her, a great green light blinded her eyes and she looked away, feeling the warmth of the room disappear into the darkness as the heat from the spell overtook her body.
A thousand miles away, Hermione Granger woke with a start, her silent love sleeping complacently beside her with his arm around her waist.
Harry Potter, as she knew him, was still alive.