Remembering you how you used to be
Slow drowned
You were angels
So much more than everything
Hold for the last time then slip away quietly
Open my eyes
But I never see anything

Pictures of You - The Cure [1989]

Hermione's entire being was consumed by the burning sensation gripping her lungs, and the deafening thrum of blood pounding in her ears. Her laboured panting was constant, and in spite of how loud it must have been, she couldn't hear it, the noise drowned out by the intense screaming inside her mind. Incoherent rambling and curses, the likes of which she would never have even dreamt of using, rushed through her mind like a torrent.

She had never run so fast, or so far, in her life, with a pang that threatened to bring tears to her eyes Hermione realised the futility of her predicament as she felt her knees throb, she couldn't hold out much longer. Her worn out body was no match for the determined pace, months of malnourishment had meant the decline of her admittedly low level of fitness.

A sudden contraction in her stomach made her wince. The small dinner they had managed to forage together the night before was now at risk of being expelled.

Hermione could feel the lack of sleep in every thud of her feet on the unforgiving ground, her much-worn trainers offering little in the way of cushioning.

Blind terror began to creep in at the edges of her brain, the effort required to stop herself from transcending into the spiral of a panic attack, made her less able to negotiate her surroundings accurately. As she continued running ungainly, Hermione repeatedly collided with branches and tripped over rocks, till she had abrasions covering her face and arms. She dimly registered that she would be forever be marked by the road her life had taken, since joining Hogwarts.

When Harry had first uttered Voldemort's name, they had acted immediately. They started off in the same direction, but over time the three of them had fanned out, they must now have been fairly far apart, it had been several minutes since she had seen either of them. Every now and again Hermione registered the sound of other people, but had no idea if they were friend or foe. She couldn't risk turning her head to the side, she was trying to dodge too much.

Her silent yells, willing her body to keep moving were interrupted when she heard the unmistakable sound of Ron falling to the ground; it had to be Ron due to the litany of swear words that fell into the air, from somewhere to the right of her.

She knew it was over then.

It was over.

It was over.

They were going to die… Would it be qu... STOP! She commanded herself.

None of them would leave the others, Hermione desperately wanted to get Harry to safety, but they couldn't leave Ron. She raced through her brain, trying to think of anything at all that would make this situation less dire.

Gathering the last of her strength Hermione ran towards where she believed Ron had fallen, Harry had just reached him, and without warning she shot a Stinging Hex straight into Harry's face. He dropped to the floor, yelping in pain, and Hermione averted her gaze from the knee-jerk accusation in his eyes. There wasn't time to explain now. She could already hear footsteps approaching them, and moved to stand in front of the two boys on the floor, she wouldn't be much of a barrier, but it was better than none while they were both trying to gather themselves off the ground. Hermione could hear Harry whimpering in pain and felt her throat constrict, before looking over at him and pointedly making a vague gesture towards her face with her hand and he nodded in understanding, at least Hermione hoped it was, tears were still streaming down Harry's face from the unexpected attack.

"Hermione," he whispered, his voice distorted from the inflammation of the right side of his face. "I'm sorry." Even with Harry's face looking so unfamiliar the despair he felt was easily readable in his eyes and she tried to morph her face into an expression that would provide comfort.

"Me too Harry, me too."

Hermione was lying prostrate on the cold stone floor. She speculated as to whether she was still in the very centre of the room, or whether she had now moved from where she first landed. Her vision, what was left of it, was a sea of varying shades of grey. It was oddly beautiful in a way, like standing too close to a charcoal drawing, Hermione couldn't make out the overall picture, only vague shapes, directions of lines, more impressions of movement than anything else.

Hermione had made a string of silent promises when they first got into the imposing reception room, so far she had only managed to keep two, she had kept her eyes open, and not told them anything about the Sword. It had hurt her pride when she had not been able to hold on to the other pledges, but she would face this ordeal like the Gryffindor the Sorting Hat had said she could be, and she would maintain her loyalty to those who had earned it.

Not that any of the broken promises mattered anymore. She was dying. Hermione felt it as surely as the certainty she had in her first Charms lesson, when she had been so desperate to show that she deserved to be there that she had levitated the crisp white feather to the classroom ceiling. She had known how to do that charm, known it way down to her bones, as she knew now. She knew she was fading.

Hours ago, was it hours? While she had been running through the forest, the thought of death had her heart rate spiking; it had triggered a thousand negative thoughts to cascade through her mind.

They still had objects to destroy; she still had to sink into the murky pool of information on the Deathly Hallows, and find out how that slotted into Dumbledore's Magical Mystery Tour.

She would never see her parents again.

She would never see Luna again.

She would never see him again.

There was no more panic now, Hermione could still feel the pain but it was duller, further away, she couldn't isolate precisely where the cuts were being made anymore. She puzzled groggily if this was the beginning of the separation of mind from body.

It hadn't been like that for long, for such a long time the pain had been violent, unending and maddening, but then a sense of calm had come over her, wrapping her in a blanket like her dad had done when she was poorly as a child.

The serene sensation had spread, enveloping Hermione in a feeling of safety that she couldn't quite quantify, like when Antonin pulled her close to him, his chin resting over hers, his arms around her.

Warm, content, safe.

Hermione had a vague recollection of reading something about a consciousness similar, in one of the medical journals her mother insisted were dotted around her parent's dental practice. Her father had hated those magazines, said that 'visiting the dentist was depressing enough, without having to read about the increase in heart disease in the over fifties, while sitting, sweaty palmed, waiting for a filling'.

The article had collated stories from people who had near death experiences. There was a whole section with examples from those who had come close to drowning, in their recounted tales almost all spoke of a desperate struggle for air, while their mind devolved into a state of complete distress, before a sense of peace washed over them.

Hermione felt warmer at the thought of her parents, and their mild bickering, it took the edge off the cold from the floor that had been eating into her bare back. Small flashes of everyday life flashed before her eyes, and she sagged.

She didn't know if there was an afterlife, if there was, when her parents got there would they remember her? Even if their memories hadn't been restored? Hermione waited for the chest crushing sadness that came whenever she thought of her them, but it didn't come.

Hermione felt peace.

Total ease, a feeling so unfamiliar and yet so beautiful in its simplicity. She mused that she might finally understand what drove people to take mind altering drugs. If the kind of mental freedom they were chasing was anything like what she was experiencing, it explained a lot about the billion pound industry.

She had been fighting for so long, and she was so very, very tired.

Fighting for acceptance.

Fighting to have a voice.

Fighting for others without a voice.

Fighting for Harry.

Fighting to live.

It would be nice to stop, to have a rest.

Everyone would be fine.

Hermione was sure they had figured out most of it by now anyway.

A particularly sharp pain permeated the growing fog in her mind and Hermione flinched, or at least she thought she did. She could make out a dull cackle, and a glint of silver invading the grey of her world, but she couldn't hold onto it. The impressions slipped through her mind like age old dust, between stiff fingers.

How long before she would break? What good would she be then?

She didn't want to be a burden.

What would Hermione Granger be useful for without her much-lauded mind?

No, she was sure it would all be fine, she could let go soon.

Once the Snatchers had tracked them down and interrogated them, quickly seeing through their paper thin identity deceptions, the trio had been told they were being taken to Malfoy Manor.

Hermione lamented that she hadn't had the foresight to come up with better aliases in advance, not that it would have mattered. Between Harry's scar and her and Ron's distinctive hair, any duplicity would have been short lived, and even if they had come across a group of Snatchers that had believed their story, it was unlikely they would let a group of school age children go, whoever they said they were.

News of the destination didn't prompt a reaction from any of them, on the one hand, they were resigned, what did it matter now? They weren't escaping, so they might as well be taken straight to Voldemort rather than being forced to sit around and wait for the axe to fall. The other part was pure Gryffindor stubbornness; they would not show their fear.

A Snatcher, Hermione heard one of the others call Scabior, moved to her side as soon as they began walking. He pulled her to him as they led the group out of the anti-apparition wards, the rough, possessive gesture, reminded her of Antonin, and Hermione's heart dropped a little further when she thought of the feared Russian she had come to think so much of. She had been amazed by the passion he had brought out of her at their last meeting; no one had ever made her feel that much fire. As she had regarded his dark chocolate eyes, and marvelled as they darkened, she had felt desirable and invulnerable. Safety was a concept miles away from her now.

Hermione was nudged from her mental 'happy place' as Scabior's hands touched her face, his grubby fingers poking out from the ends of much worn, fingerless gloves. Bile rose in her throat as she regarded the dirt lodged under his uneven fingernails. Scabior pulled the hair away from the side of her face and began whispering a non-ending trail of filth into her ear. Hermione fought the tears that threatened, and actively attempted to stop her body from betraying a reaction to his words. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction of showing she was affected, or worse still, revealing her inexperience.

When his words provoked no reaction the Snatcher began touching her; he ran his hand over her cheek, and down her neck, Hermione heard Ron shout in protest followed by a dull thud and a yelp of pain. She wanted to bellow at them to not worry, that she would be okay, but she couldn't get her mouth to co-operate. Probably because she didn't believe it.

As Scabior's rough hands greedily continued their relentless movements Hermione forced herself to think of something else, if they made it to Malfoy Manor she would see Luna, they could try and get her out, she just needed to push aside her fear and think of a plan.

Mulling over potential ideas, Hermione became increasingly aware of discord between Scabior and Greyback. Hermione knew she had seen the wolf when they had first stopped into the clearing, but she had forced herself not to think of it, not to panic. She wasn't the same girl anymore, the one that had hidden in the empty corridor at Hogwarts, hoping that the feared werewolf wouldn't find her. That wasn't to say that he didn't terrify her, he did, but she had seen too much now to continue to believe that she would come out of this unharmed.

The procession of Snatchers and detainees stopped as the two men became more embroiled in their outburst. Angry words and threats of reprisals culminated in Greyback lunging forward suddenly, knocking Scabior several feet back. Without warning the intimidating wolf clasped Hermione around the shoulders, pulling her away from the others and into his body, her back to his front. She felt his nose pushing into her hair, and then a deep inhale, that heated the back of her sweat lined neck. There were several more shouts back forth, from the assembled Snatchers, and then they began walking again.

"I thought I recognised you," Greyback breathed into her ear, shifting her body, so Hermione was curled up on his side. "I remember you, from the corridor in Hogwarts; you smelled wonderful that night." Hermione shuddered in spite of herself. "Your fragrance is lovely, but when mixed with your very obvious fear it is simply maddening," he leant forward, his teeth resting on the soft skin of her neck, she couldn't suppress the wince, and he let out a low chuckle. "You are so wonderfully responsive, Hermione."

She felt herself shiver at the delight in his tone; there was no way this would end swiftly now. From the little she had picked up of Scabior's manner it had been reasonably likely the Snatcher would have been far from gentle, but with everything she knew about Greyback she was confident he would rip her to pieces.

"If I had any idea that night who was behind that curtain," he continued, whispering as if his words were honeyed promises, for a cared for lover, "what you looked like, what you would smell like up close, I wouldn't have let Rabastan chase me off."

Greyback spent the rest of the journey rubbing himself all over her, stopping regularly to inhale her scent. Hermione tried her best to ignore most of his comments, as her increased terror seemed only to arouse him further.

A lifetime later they made it to the gates of Malfoy Manor, and onto the impossibly long drive. Hermione looked around at the magnificent gardens and peacocks strutting about the place. This was where Draco had grown up? It looked like an evil castle from a Disney film, which was strangely fitting.

Hermione had thought that being caught and held possessively by Fenrir Greyback would be the worst of the day's misfortunes, but when the main entrance clicked open, and they walked into a reception room, that would not have been out of place in Satis House, to find Bellatrix Lestrange waiting to greet them, she knew that the bad luck was only just beginning.

Then began an identification sequence that would have been funny had their lives not been at stake, as Lucius and Bella fought over the right to call the Dark Lord. Then the most surprising scene of all came courtesy of Draco, who claimed he wasn't able to identify Harry, and even Hermione, with her admittedly terrible deduction abilities, knew he was lying.

She saw Draco's gaze flick to where she was being held against the wolf, one of Greyback's claw-like hands holding her neck the other at her hip, the hip that Antonin had marked. Draco's eyes looked vacant, almost expressionless; they reflected none of the cold, smirking cruelty she had expected.

At some point, they found the Sword of Gryffindor, and the atmosphere seemed to blacken. Hermione thanked Merlin that they had destroyed the Diadem before returning to the campsite. Bella was so enraged following the discovery, that her face contorted to the point she barely looked human. The harridan demanded that the boys be sent downstairs, they struggled and kicked and fought, but they were removed. Ron screamed the whole way, his yells audible for minutes after he was no longer in sight. Harry grappled against his opponents but he never spoke a word, his eyes never leaving Hermione's, and she returned his stare, desperate to hold on to warm eyes as long as possible. They had long been able to communicate so much with a look, in the way of great friends. Harry's face implored her to hold on, hers for him to survive.

"Give her to me dog!" Bella commanded when the commotion had died down.

Greyback snarled, the wolf was very reluctant to let her go, but Bella promised he could have 'what was left of her'. He seemed mildly subdued by that, and raised his hand to Hermione's jaw, pushing her head back before tracing his nose from her neck down to her shoulder. "Not long now little one," he spoke into her ear. "I think I might like to keep you a while," he mused before placing his sharp teeth around her earlobe but didn't bite down. "Leave her face Bella," he barked.

"Why do you care? It's not like you'll leave her pretty."

Bella yanked her out of Greyback's arms and immediately threw her to the floor, as if touching her skin would contaminate her. Greyback bared his teeth at Bellatrix before retreating to lean against a wall, just off to the side. Any chances of an immediate death had faded long ago, but even in Hermione's worst imaginings, she had never considered being a toy for Bellatrix Lestrange and then a reward for Fenrir Greyback.

Hermione hadn't been sure what to expect next, and when the first Crucio hit her, with a crippling force she hadn't had a chance to prepare herself, not that more time would have helped, she was wandless and weak.

The pain was unbelievable, Hermione was flat on her back, her body contorting in unnatural positions within seconds. If you hadn't felt it before you would never be able to understand it, a macabre 'Mexican wave' of bones breaking, reforming, and breaking again, flowing up and down her body. At times it felt as if her flesh was being slowly removed, like she was being stabbed by a thousand knives. Time seemed to stop altogether; she had no comprehension of how long she had been under the Curse.

When Hermione was capable of maintaining a thought, her mind conjured the spider.

The spider Professor Moody, or well Barty Crouch Jr, had enlarged in the fourth year, during their inappropriate lesson on the Unforgivable Curses. Hermione remembered how gruesome it had looked when all of its legs had stuck out at funny angles, how much pity she had felt for that tiny creature. How Neville's face had paled, and how she had stood from behind her desk, screaming at her professor to stop.

At some point Hermione realised she wasn't replaying the begging in her head anymore, she was begging, out loud, pleading with Bellatrix to stop. The first promise she had made herself fell like ashes to the floor.

Some time later the pain abruptly stopped, and Hermione breathed in heavily, her lungs filling with much-needed air.

The reprieve was to be short lived.

When she refused to answer any of the questions directed at her, Hermione felt a knife against her skin. The cold point being almost as jarring as the slate at her back. First, it was dragged idly around her body, in movements that could almost have been described as lazy, before a quick, deep incision was made on her forearm. As soon as the knife drew fresh blood, Greyback reacted violently, rushing forward and unseating Bella from her position, ranting and threatening until he was ejected from the room. Bella didn't let the disturbance put her off her course, and a twisted pattern formed; interrogation, refusal, Crucio, interrogation, refusal and knife.

After an unknown period Hermione could feel that tears were leaking from her eyes, and repeated bouts of the Curse had resulted in the loss of control of her bodily functions, two more promises burned. Hermione had wanted to remain brave, and to keep her dignity, they had taken that from her.

The Crucios began to abate, as the knife became favoured. By that point, the Curses left Hermione silently shaking. But the blade could still make her scream. Hermione could just about discern that the majority of the cuts were being inflicted to her forearm.

Dimly she was aware of a shape being carved; the routine went on, she had no idea how long she had laid there.

Distantly Hermione registered that some of her clothing must have been removed, she could detect that her torso, in particular, felt colder, she was sure she could feel the slate slabs of the floor directly on the skin of her back.

Hermione stopped begging after her throat gave out, she could taste blood and was just able to turn her head to spit it up when the copper taste made her stomach roll. She could feel it trickling from her nose and her left ear, the sensation irritating her chilled flesh.

Her head repeatedly thumped against the hard surface of the floor; Hermione couldn't control the impulse to thrash, she could feel soft spots forming over her skull, tiny patches that felt they could cave in with another hard push.

But she never told them anything.

They would kill her anyway.

Hermione knew Professor Snape had sent the Sword, but while his side wasn't clear, he had proved he was loyal to her, he had kept her safe, she wouldn't betray him to save herself.

A particularly strong Curse threw Hermione back slightly, and her head lolled to the side, she caught eyes with Draco. Hermione wondered if he was thinking of the spell he had cast on her after her detention with Umbridge in the fifth year, the one that deepened the cuts on her hand, spilling what at the time, had seemed like a lot of blood. Hermione was sure they both had a better understanding of what constituted 'a lot' now.

When she could make out his face it didn't look like Draco was thinking much of anything, his skin had gone even paler than normal, if that could be believed. He looked almost opalescent under the lights. Surely she was losing her mind now if she was likening Draco's skin to the sheen of a precious jewel?

Hermione wasn't sure if she minded.

It hurt so much.

So very, very much.

'They would be ok', a voice in her head started suddenly, 'you can let go, Hermione'.

It was her mother voice, how was she here?

'You can let go now, baby, Antonin and Yaxley will help them get out of here and complete the task. Professor Snape will help too'.

Hermione relaxed her aching body, letting her mother's comforting words wash over her.

'It will all be ok; you can let go now'.

Minutes or hours later Hermione felt pressure on her stomach and managed to control a flick of her eyes long enough to see Bellatrix climb on top of her. She had been almost rabid during the early interrogation, but now as she leant forward and began cutting into her arm she was completely focused. The maniacal witch's movements were forceful, deep and unyielding.

Bellatrix was singing, the words were lost to Hermione, but the mocking tone was easily discerned.

The knife went back over an already raw piece of flesh, and Hermione threw up, the movement taking the last of what she knew was a dwindling energy reserve.

The calm was so lovely; Hermione was ready to accept it now.

Mum are you there?

'Of course, I am, I'm right here with you'.

Will it hurt?

'Not at all, all the pain will go away. It's ok love you can let go now. You've been so strong baby; I am so proud of you, you can let go'.

Mum

Hermione gave in to the sensation creeping over her limbs, letting herself flee from the room, the cold and the pain.

Everything went black.