Disclaimer: I don't own The Maze Runner or Harry Potter. For those of you who haven't noticed yet.

Author's note: This chapter was a bit harder to write, as it serves mostly to build tension for the storm and meeting Jorge and Brenda.

Hermione's glimpse into Minho's past was a struggle for me; I needed to write about a defining moment, but how was I to do that if he didn't remember it? This was the best I could think of.

Much of this chapter is canon, excluding Hermione's presence. I hope I strayed far enough for it to be interesting! Next chapter will be more exciting— I promise.

While you wait for the next chapter to come out, you guys should check out the new Mauraders fanfiction by @SherLocked-in-the-1967Impala — it's called A Hundred Thousand Worlds Apart, and it is genuinely amazing.

Thanks for sticking with this story!

Chapter Four

As soon as her eyes shut, she felt herself lurch forward, a familiar churning sensation threatening to bring up her light dinner. Spots of light danced across her field of vision, forcing her to blink. A scene began to take shape before her like strings woven into a tapestry.

Thin tendrils of fog lapped over her shoes, obscuring them. Swirling mist thickened around her, almost hiding the shadow that crept ever nearer. Her breath caught as their features began to come into focus. They remained in the center of the room, their shoes scuffing against the floor.

Hermione studied his face— clean, but twisted with a mask of pure terror. "Minho!" Clapping a hand to her mouth, she almost sobbed with relief. Yes, it was definitely Minho, his hair spiked and his brow furrowed. His eyes slid across her, through her, off to the right. Following his gaze, her eyes found a sort of large container. Steel, with a seam along one side and hinges on the other.

The fog began to dissipate, revealing a widening crack in the front. A door.

What burst through the crack chased away whatever shred of common sense she was clinging to.

Its shape was almost fluid, twisting and and slimy and horribly wet. Patchy spots of hair dotted its massive body. Appendages that looked alarmingly like metal flashed and flailed. Working its way free of the pod, it crashed to the floor, revealing itself to be about the size of a cow.

Eerie quiet washed over her, shutting off her thoughts. Adrenaline coursed through her, allowing one last primitive instinct to reach her. "Run!" she cried, ducking her head as though rushing into battle. Minho didn't move, didn't acknowledge her. His eyes fell blankly on her, as though she were nothing more than air. It was then that she noticed he was bound to a chair, his wrists tied together with a strip of cloth. His feet rammed against the ground and panic seemed to set in. Hermione could almost hear the thoughts echoing through him— Escape the chair or you die.

A flash of metal whizzed by her and she stumbled to the ground, her face slamming into concrete. Shrieks echoes behind her. She turned to find Minho thrashing, throwing his weight around to move the chair. Rising to her feet, she hurried over to him. She gave a firm yank on the back of his chair— nothing. Her hands slid through the wood as though she was air.

The creature drew closer. Hermione felt bolted in place, stuck, even as her mind screamed to run.

Then the thing was upon them, and everything rushed back.

Her eyes caught a glint of light, and she began to stir. The now-familiar feeling of a rough sheet against her cheek greeted her.

Her shin gave a groan of pain as she pulled herself upright, draping the sheet over her head once more. Rubbing the sleep from her eyes, she jogged unsteadily over to Thomas, whose sheet was nowhere to be seen. Wind tugged harshly at her own, threatening to rip it from her hands.

His eyes were fastened on the sky, now swelling with heavy black clouds. "Rain," he mumbled.

"Has to be," Hermione replied, surprised at the dryness of her throat. Her mouth watered at the memory of pumpkin juice and tea.

The city that had seemed so far away yesterday now looked over them, casting a shadow across the cracking ground.

Minho fought against the wind to talk to them, raising his voice so loudly Hermione was sure the others could hear. "Hurry and eat— we gotta get going. Maybe find a place to hide before we're soaked."

Thomas pushed back his hair. "What if we get there and a bunch of Cranks try to kill us?"

"Then we'll fight 'em!" His eyes narrowed. "What else you wanna do? Sit here and slowly starve to death?"

Hermione nodded her agreement. "Minho's right. We should go now, while we've still strength to continue."

"All right," Thomas shrugged. "Let's go. I'll eat one of those granola things while we walk."

It took only minutes to gather up the supplies from their makeshift campsite. Her eyes set on the cityscape before her, Hermione steeled herself for what could lie ahead.

They were only a few miles away from reaching the nearest building when they stumbled upon an old man lying on his back, swaddled up in blankets.

Upon Minho's command, they formed a tight circle around him, staring down with unease.

Next to her, she heard Thomas issue a light gasp as they took in the man's face. Ancient, cracked skin, his features only craters across the surface. Tanned beyond anyone she'd seen before. Scabs and open sores dotted the top of his head, reminding her of the scene —future, most likely— she'd caught of Newt fighting with Thomas.

The man was clearly alive, taking massive gulps of air. His eyes stared at the sky without seeing it, as though he were just waiting to die.

"Hey! Old man!" Minho shouted. "What're you doing out here?" The wind slamming into the side of her head nearly obscured his words. Thomas slid past her and knelt down next to the man.

"Sir?" he asked, much more quietly than Minho, "Mister?" Pausing, he added, "Can you hear me? Can you talk?"

The man blinked slowly, opting to remain silent. Newt shrugged out of the circle and squatted down next to Thomas. "This guy's a bloody gold mine if we can get him to talk about the city. Looks harmless, probably knows what to expect when we get in there."

Thomas whispered something back.

"Keep trying," Minho put in loudly. "You're officially our foreign ambassador, Thomas. Get the dude to open up and tell us about the good ol' days."

"Okay," Thomas replied, showing hints of a smile. He leaned closer to the man, hovering just over his head. Hermione bit down hard on her thumbnail— this seemed fishy. "Sir? We really need you help! We need you to tell us if the city is safe to enter. We can carry you there if you need help yourself. Sir? Sir!"

The man raised his head to look at the boy, who brightened and began speaking more rapidly. "My name's Thomas. These are my friends. We've been walking through the desert for a few days, and we need more food and water. Do you think we…" He trailed off, furrowing his brow. "We won't hurt you. We're… we're the good guys. But we'd really appreciate it if—"

The man's arm shot out from between the blankets, clasping Thomas' wrist, whose face had paled as he glanced around the circle. "Let go!" Thomas yelled suddenly. "Get your hand off me!" The man shook his head slowly, his lips parting. Thomas bent over to catch the whisper that escaped them. "What'd you say?"

The man leaned into him, muttering again into Thomas' ear.

"Once more, please!"

"Storm coming… terror… brings out… stay away… bad people," the man croaked loudly enough for even Hermione to hear. Shooting upwards, the man released Thomas and began to shriek. "Storm! Storm! Storm!" He repeated the word over and over again in a voice that chilled Hermione to the bone. Thomas scooted on his butt to flee as Minho waved his arms. Go. They scurried away as the wind began to pick up speed, whirling and smacking against them.

Catching a last glimpse of the man, Hermione turned to find him curled up in the fetal position, blankets stolen by the wind.

As they packed together like sardines, Minho pointed at the city and broke into a dead run. The wind yanked at her shirt as she fell in with the others, the clouds deepening in color as they thickened. Vibrant purple gave way to a solid black sky, painting despair across the horizon.

Thomas began jogging behind her, his steady pace urging her to continue on.

Run, Hermione, she begged herself. And as her calves burned with effort, she felt a last surge of energy rush to her.