Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter or The Maze Runner. Please don't sue me.
Author's note: I needed Hermione to get to know the Gladers before all the action starts up— this chapter was a good place to do that.
I apologize for the confusion in the last chapter. To clarify, Hermione ended up in the Scorch from the Maze Runner universe, where she met the surviving Gladers.
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Chapter Three:
Pictures flashed before her eyes. Snapshots, until she was forcefully shoved inside one. Her fists clenched and her stomach squirmed uncontrollably.
Dark. That's what she saw first. As thick and heavy as rice pudding, sticking to her eyelids and weighing them down.
A sudden flash of light burned across her gaze as a scene came into focus. She felt strangely removed, as though seeing it like a fly on a wall.
Someone lay sprawled on the forest floor, their leg extended. Their hands were folded together behind their head, as if steadying it, and they screamed loudly, deeply; the sheer volume of it caused the ground beneath her feet to quiver. Scarlet leaked through shredded clothes, gleaming on shattered bits of bone. Flesh embedded with twigs and bits of gravel was put on clear display through the torn fabric.
She gagged, unable to pull away. Acid burned at the back of her throat. Digging her nails into the side of her arm, she swallowed.
A boy was yanking the person on the ground to their feet. "C'mon— get up. On my count; one, two…"
The injured person yelped and cried out. "I hate you! I hate you!"
The rescuer snarled. "Wasn't me who got you into this, now, was it? Three!"
Hermione caught a flash of blond hair as the fallen person was yanked up. Screaming and cursing into their sleeve, they draped one arm over the rescuer's shoulder. "Sorry," they mumbled, voice oddly familiar.
"Nothing for you to be sorry for. We'll sort this out, you shank," the rescuer put in with a reassuring smile.
"Slim it. Don't wanna hear that klunk again until we get through the buggin' Doors."
Her eyes widened— it was Newt. "Where are we?" she called. "Did the others go off to scout?"
He didn't answer, didn't look up. Her stomach dropped as she was suddenly yanked backward into the dark.
Tangled in her sheet, she awoke. Her breath caught in her throat as she desperately tried to shake off the dream. "I really am going insane, aren't I?" she muttered, rising unsteadily to her feet and draping the sheet across her head like a hood.
"Yeah, why wouldn't you be?" Thomas stood next to her, one eyebrow raised.
"Not a day ago I was off having fun with…" The names stuck in her throat, refusing to release. "…Harry and Ron, my friends from school."
"There was an outbreak at your school, then?"
"No, I just— okay, sure. Yes, there was," she said unconvincingly. "What about you guys?"
"Dunno. It's not like we were in the outside world or anything, but somehow we still managed to contract it."
"What do you mean, the 'outside world'?"
"Long story."
"I've got time." She wrapped the cloth firmly around her hands like gloves and squinted into the sky.
He hesitated. "They— we called it the Glade. Every month, a boy would arrive in this box with crates of supplies. They'd be disoriented; angry, even. No one had any memory of what came before that. It was as if we had this past life, and it's all there, but locked up tight so we can't get in. There's echoes and fragments, but they're not really ours anymore."
"You'd no idea who you were?"
"We knew our names, but that was about it. Still don't know much more than that." He shrugged, as if this was perfectly normal. "The boys that came before me developed a functioning society, with rules and all that. It maintained order, or so Newt claimed. He was second-in-command," he added, gesturing toward the boy.
"Why didn't you just leave?" she asked, feeling stupid.
"There wasn't exactly a door— I mean, WICKED had gone to the trouble of wiping our memories and sending us in, so it wasn't going to be easy."
Pursing her lips, she kicked at a stray pebble, a cloud of dust rising from the ground.
Thomas continued, "It was a maze. Metal, with massive doors. The pattern would shift every once in a while. Obviously we needed to explore it to get out, so we sent in a few kids to jog around inside a bit— called them Runners. Minho and I were the first to survive a night out there. He got trapped inside when the shuck Doors closed, and I ran in after him."
"Why hadn't anyone been in there for a whole night before?"
"These creatures called Grievers would come out every night— they had stingers, like bees, only more painful. Deadly, if you didn't get the Serum."
She whistled through her teeth. "Sorry, how long ago was this?"
"A week or two, tops."
"How- how long were you in there?" Hermione asked, rubbing at her burning eyes with the back of the cloth.
He pushed his sweat-stick hair off his forehead. "I got sent in later. Second-last, actually." He winced, then started again. "Yeah, got sent in later. I'm told the first kids were shipped up in a big group about two years before I arrived."
"Who was last?" Her lips cracked on the last word, and she swept her tongue across their surface, tasting blood.
Giving a half-shrug, he rummaged through his pack, producing a green apple. Biting into it, he swung the bag back under his shoulder. "My friend," he mumbled through a mouthful of fruit. "What about you? How'd you survive this long?"
She snorted. "Where I come from, life's a bit easier." Thinking of Harry's many encounters with Lord Voldemort, she added, "Not quite paradise, but there isn't exactly a deadly virus spreading, either."
"Sounds nice. I could do with a normal, plague-free world."
"I didn't say it was normal," she cut in. "We just weren't put under the same circumstances."
"Didn't you come from Scotland? Thought they had the Flare there," someone behind her teased. She glanced up. Newt grinned at her, his mouth and eyes the only parts of him visible from under the sheet.
"This Scotland, maybe."
"What do you mean, 'this Scotland'?" He ambled closer, folding his arms across his chest. Hermione forced herself to focus on his face, rather than the leg that couldn't quite keep up. "Has this anything to do with what you were on about yesterday? The shuck hourglass an' all that."
She scratched the nape of her neck, attempting to think of an excuse. "I think- I think I need some water."
"Yeah, okay. Tommy, you can share provisions with her."
Thomas gaped at Newt. "Share? With a Crank?"
"I'm not a Crank," she put in.
"Get over yourself— I'd do it, but she took me as a bloody hostage earlier and I don't much feel like splittinv with her."
That was fair. She had cut him, after all. Part of it excited her— she'd made them afraid of her. Usually people took one glance and couldn't see past the books she stuck her nose into. Here they saw her as something more than that; dangerous, yes, but someone of substance, not to be overlooked.
Thomas grunted, yanking off the pack and handing it to her. "If we're splitting, you'll need to help carry it."
"Works for me," she said, already rummaging through it. Fingers shaking, she unscrewed the cap of a yellow canteen and took small sips of it until her mouth was sufficiently moistened.
"Hope you left some for Tommy," Newt commented over her shoulder.
"Of course I did— what kind of person do you think I am?"
"One who takes hostages," he deadpanned, jerking his thumb towards his leg.
She shook her head, aggravated. As it had to be nearly noon, the sun was becoming almost too hot to bear. The air was warm and dry, almost dusty. With each inhale, it felt as if she was breathing in a mouthful of ash. A steady wind had begun to blow past them, though it only served to make Hermione even warmer.
As food and water supplies decreased, people began holding the packs over their heads as further protection form the sun. Already, her mouth began to dry; her tongue sticking to the roof of her mouth with no liquid to slide it off. Offering the canteen to Thomas, she swung the bag across her shoulders. He took the water and hastily sloshed some onto his face. Streaks of red dirt ran down his cheek, revealing stripes of burnt skin.
Reaching into her pocket for her wand, a fresh wave of panic washed over her. The pocket was empty— she must have left it on the bed. That was stupid of her; even if the Time Turner was functioning properly, she'd still have use for her wand. Tears sprang to her eyes, loosening the grime that had begun to stick to her lids.
Conversations around them dwindled as the others gradually lost the energy to do anything but trudge in. Each step took effort and concentration. Dragging her feet, she took a shuddery breath, hot air filling her lungs.
The broken-down buildings she'd seen on the horizon when she first arrived had grown much closer. Hermione could make out the stone blocks lining smashed windows, though she couldn't see any people on the streets. The city looked deserted; would there be any supplies to replenish their packs?
"See anyone?" Thomas turned to her, brushing his palms together.
She raised her chin toward the buildings. "No. Looks abandoned."
"My thoughts exactly."
"Let's hope we're wrong, then. Maybe they don't come out until night, when it's presumably cooler."
"Good that."
[Elapsed time: 8 hours]
The ground beneath her seemed to sway. Fatigue had taken root inside her, and all she could do was focus on moving forward. One foot, other foot, she repeated over and over. Just a bit longer, Hermione.
The sun had barely slid behind the silhouette of the city when the wind picked up, this time bringing a bit of relief.
Small, controlled fires became visible in the buildings. Her bottom lip quivered at the thought of gathering around the common room fireplace with Harry and Ron, laughing as they shared answers to homework.
It had to have been past midnight when Minho turned to face the group and waved his hand. "We'll reach the city tomorrow, no matter what," he called. "We're nearly there."
Arranging her sheet over her head, she took one last breath before allowing sleep to claim her.