January 7th

One of the first lessons Hermione learned when she was on the run was that Muggles were often entirely too trusting. Even in the large cities she sometimes took refuge in she could easily find a car that had been left unlocked. Sometimes it took a few tries to uncover one. Especially if she'd wandered into a nicer neighborhood where all of the cars were likely to have alarms. More than a few times she'd been forced to run as quickly as she could into the shadows of the night to keep out of the clutches of the Muggle authorities.

When there was little money to be found or she wanted to keep an even lower profile, crawling into the backseat of a car could provide her a relatively safe and quiet place to sleep for a few hours. She tried to pick out her targets carefully. It wouldn't do to go through all of the trouble of finding an unlocked car to relax in only to have the owner come back a couple of hours later to find her in it. She'd been caught doing so on three different occasions. None of them were moments she would care to repeat.

Long after the midnight hour when the streets began to quiet down, she picked her target. Belonging to a man who'd climbed out of it covering his mouth with his hand to hide his yawns, she felt confident that he wouldn't be back any time soon. He appeared in as much need of sleep as she was. After a quick scan of the area to ensure she wasn't being watched, Hermione checked the driver's door. Mercifully, it was unlocked.

She didn't waste time finding a comfortable position in the back to lay down. Beyond her strangely deep nap on the pew of the church that morning, she hadn't had time or opportunity to relax. The moment she pillowed her head on her arms and closed her eyes, she was asleep.

There was no easy way to tell how long she'd been asleep when she felt the tug at her feet. Based on how exhausted she still felt, it hadn't been long before she was discovered. Worried that it was going to be another night in a Muggle jail or that she was going to have to expose her position by using magic, Hermione came to her senses immediately.

Whatever darkly dressed figure pulled her out of the back of the car to land painfully on the pavement below wasn't familiar. Large enough to only be a man, she worried that it was going to be worse than it usually was. What other reason would someone have for attacking a solitary woman in the middle of the night if not for nefarious purposes?

"Let me go," she ordered when the stranger yanked her off of the pavement by a painful grip on her upper arm. "What do you want?"

He didn't speak as he dragged her away from the scene of the crime. Even though it would be dangerous to attempt, Hermione tried to reach into her pocket to remove her wand. She wasn't going to let anything happen to her without a fight. Hermione Granger was a lot of things, but a victim most definitely wasn't one of them. Before she could reach the object that could save her, the stranger thrust his hand inside her pocket to remove it first. So, clearly she wasn't dealing with a random Muggle. She wasn't sure if that realization should encourage her or not.

Fighting with a man who was at least a head taller and a good seven stone heavier was never a good plan. Magically speaking, they might have been on an even par. She likely would've been even more powerful in her desperation to get out of the sticky situation she'd found herself in simply by falling asleep in an empty car. Physically, however, she was limited. Terribly limited. Embarrassingly limited even. She would have to wait for an opportunity to kick him in a sensitive area of his body.

Her assailant didn't drag her far. Just until they were in a hidden corner where the possibility of being spotted by an innocent walking by was minimized. Wandless and powerless, Hermione briefly considered screaming out for help. Even if there were nothing but Muggles about, surely one of them wasn't going to be completely useless. Right as she made the decision to take her chances with shouting, she felt a hook behind her navel.

Only Death Eaters and those who were friendly with the followers of the Dark Lord were ever authorized portkeys. The trip might have only taken a few seconds, but that was long enough for her mind to travel to all of the horrible possibilities of just who had caught her. Eight months on the run utterly alone wasn't half bad really. Many others with much more support didn't make it that half that long. She thought maybe she should be proud of her accomplishment.

They landed in a dark room that smelled of mildew and something else she didn't want to give a name to. The fact that she wasn't taken directly to her master and thrown at his feet to await her punishment was a small comfort. A lot could still happen. She'd managed to escape before.

Her captor struck a Muggle match to light a nearby candle. Wherever they were clearly didn't have any kind of working electricity. Hermione tried to soak in as much of her surroundings as possible. If the electricity wasn't working, it was most likely that they were in an abandoned building. That would explain the smell. The fact that he wasn't using magic to light the area was also another clue to his identity. He wasn't a Death Eater despite having access to a portkey. Another fugitive from the law.

"Who are you?"

He released his grip on her arm to pull his hood down off of his head. With the freedom to inspect the man more clearly, she could see that he was dressed entirely like a Muggle with one of those sweatshirts that helped conceal his identity. She saw his smile before she saw the rest of him. Waiting for him to be revealed in the dim light was torture. What game was he playing?

The man from the launderette. She should've left the city the moment she felt unnerved by him days earlier. Her instincts rarely failed her. Why didn't she listen to them?

"Someone very much wants to speak to you, Granger. Wants to know what you're doing in our city. You know you're not welcome here."

"Who are you?"

"Doesn't matter. You'll stay down here until he gets here."

He set the candle down on a rickety wooden table that Hermione was half-convinced would catch fire immediately. Gesturing to a spot in the corner, the stranger pointed out a camp bed that at first glance didn't look too dirty. In fact, compared to some of the places she'd been forced to lay her head recently, it looked downright luxurious.

"He'll be here soon. Get some sleep."

Without any further explanation, he began to ascend a staircase that creaked and groaned with each step. To remind her that she was at his mercy, he spun her stolen wand between his fingers. She itched to curse him, the loss of her weapon profound. How was she going to get out of that?

"I'd take the opportunity to sleep if I were you, Granger. You look like it's been a long time since you had any."

He disappeared up the stairs. The clang of the door slamming behind him and the click that could only belong to a lock echoed in her cell long after he was gone.