Hermione kept her gaze low as she was marched through the Atrium. A restraining field had been erected to keep the workers from accessing the middle of the Atrium, where the statue of the Founders stood. It was sacred, it seemed; no-one was allowed within thirty feet of it.

No-one except Draco, Hermione, and the two Aurors escorting them to where an empty throne-like chair waited. Perhaps she should have been braver, but she squeezed her eyes shut until that sickly voice signalled the arrival of Voldemort.

"Draco," he greeted, "how long it's been."

"My lord." Draco shifted into a bow beside her, his hands still clenched around her wrists.

"I see you've brought me a gift."

"Yes, my lord. I was able to follow her after that night Potter fled Hogwarts — I've been hoping she would tell me where to find him, but she has been most… uncooperative."

Voldemort hummed thoughtfully. "As, indeed, Mudbloods often are, are they not?"

"Indeed, my lord."

"But why, Draco, were you unable to contact your master in all this time since you left school? I have been most curious, you see. I never got to hear your account of Albus Dumbledore's death."

"I — I held her to too high a standard, my lord. I thought she would eventually have no choice but to return to Potter, at which point I would call you, but —"

"My dear Draco," laughed Voldemort coldly, "it appears your father has not taught you well enough. You should know better than to count on a Mudblood over your duty to the Dark Lord."

"Y-yes, my lord. Of course —"

"Say it."

He straightened beside her. "I know better than to count on a M-Mudblood over my duty to the Dark Lord."

"Good boy, Draco. Now, let's see what she knows, shall we? Perhaps she will be a little more forthcoming to the Lord Voldemort than to a schoolmate." His laugh was cold. Hermione had stopped breathing long ago. She saw the dark material of his robes come into view as she stared at the floor. "Miss Granger — Hermione, where is Harry Potter?"

She didn't look up, but her chin jutted out. "I don't know." It was not a lie — Harry could have apparated halfway across the country; he could have been standing right behind her.

"Lies!" hissed Voldemort, spittle flying. "Tell me where he is, Mudblood, or you will be sorry."

"I don't —"

"Crucio!"

It was unlike anything she could have expected. She was not on fire, she was not being skinned alive — it was beyond all that. She was being cleaved in half, right down the middle, her organs spilling open in white-hot pain so intense it nearly left her numb. Nothing in the world, she knew, would compare to this ever again.

She didn't know when it stopped, only that one moment she'd been standing and the next she was in a crumpled heap on the floor, certainly with bruised knees and a twisted ankle, though she couldn't feel any of it. All she knew was the memory of the pain and the searing agony still alight down her chest. She opened her eyes, barely able to make out the figure of Draco standing above her, unmoved. A hoarse whimper escaped her throat. No-one noticed.

"A pity," said Voldemort. "Let's allow her a moment to collect herself, shall we? Then perhaps she will be more willing to share." He turned to Draco once again. "Now, Draco, I have been waiting for some time. Tell me about the death of Albus Dumbledore."

Hermione knew then that she was going to die, that she would not live to see the end of the war. She could only hope for her death to be clean and quick, with enough of her left behind to bury. Her sensations were flooded by pain from her chest; it was only the sound of her body hitting the floor over and over which told her she must be shaking.

She had never given much thought to what it would be like to die. Even when the odds had been against them and morbid thoughts had tempted her, she had always been strong enough to keep them at bay. After all, what was to be achieved by ruminating on such things?

But her body and mind were preparing for it now. Her body had gone numb to protect her from the impending pain — the damage which would take her life away — and her brain was sending her the most pleasantly distracting hallucination.

She could hear Harry. His voice hovered above her, speaking nonsense, but it was him.

"Get ready to grab her… run… the Floo…"

Hermione wanted to laugh. She blinked several times, the bright light blinding her, but she could see Draco's profile, still, and then Voldemort, too. His flat, reptilian face tugged at a fear so primal she thought she might be sick.

She heard the sound of his voice but could not discern the words. It was clear, though, what was about to happen. The Dark Lord's long fingers came to Draco's chin, who gallantly did not flinch, and tilted his head back. Voldemort was going to look into his mind, and even if Draco had all the time in the world to prepare for it, he would not be able to construct a believable replacement for the last year. Perhaps he would be strong enough to withstand the initial assault, but he would not be able to conceal. Voldemort would know they had destroyed Horcruxes, he would know Draco was no longer a faithful servant…

He would see her as Draco saw her. All their intimacy, every moment she'd shared with him in their lab and their bedroom. Hermione knew, then, that this was worse than dying. She watched the tell-tale stiffening of both of their bodies as Voldemort silently invited himself into Draco's mind —

Everything went black. It was a rich, heavy blackness which settled across her skin like sand. She must be dead, she thought. But no — her sense of sight was so perfectly stifled that everything else seemed to amplify; she was aware of shouting, of hands roughly dragging her to her feet and pulling her relentlessly forwards, even as her knees buckled.

"Can you carry her?"

"No —"

"Outgoing Floos are locked — we'll have to go out the way we came —"

"Come on — run — you've got to run!"

She tried, even though she couldn't see, even though the world was now filled with the sound of cries and spells ricocheting off tile. She stumbled more than once, but still she was pulled onwards.

"Please — don't make me use Imperius," Draco pleaded. "I'll do it to keep you alive if I have to, but please —"

No, thought Hermione vehemently. She may be broken, but she would not allow the last morsels of her dignity to be taken like that. She tried to run.

The darkness began to fade until she lived in a world of shadows, illuminated only by flashes of spells. One came dangerously near their heads. "Protego!" Draco screamed, and Hermione realised with a jolt of fear that he still had her wand. She was entirely defenceless.

There were people in front of them, too, charging through the crowd and blasting people out of the way. They were passing the rows of Floos; people arriving to work cried out in fear and surprise as they materialised in darkness with Unforgivables flying over their heads.

It was Ron, she realised. He was clearing the way. A beam of green light nearly struck him square in the back and she tried to scream, but nothing came out. Beside him, Harry's floating head, flushed and sweaty, appeared, bobbing in mid-air as he ran.

"Oi, you lot! Better not use the Killing Curse — you might hit me instead!"

His taunting worked; there was a roar of anger from their pursuers, but only one more bolt of green. She spotted it just as Percy stepped forward, a look of fury on his usually polite face, wand aimed at Ron. Ron saw him, too, and a bellowed ferocious "Stupefy!" which hit Percy square in the chest, knocking him backwards into the rushing Killing Curse. Hermione watched in slow-motion as the green light wrapped around him like a lover; by the time he hit the floor, he was still, his expression forever held in a gasp of surprise.

There was no time to do anything but keep running. The darkness was fading, abandoning them in full view of the Aurors. Hermione was sure her body must have been ripping apart at the seams. Draco's grip on her wrist was bruising. They'd run past the stairway they'd come down, where crowds of people were cowering in fear. The only thing Hermione saw in front of them was a blank wall.

But behind her, she heard the dry slithering of heavy scales across the polished floor. Ron looked over his shoulder and Hermione saw his eyes widen in terror. Nagini was advancing behind them. Hermione could sense her presence growing nearer, hear the low hiss and the flaring of her hood. Soon, they would be cornered by her against the wall, where a line of Aurors waited with their wands drawn.

Just when she thought she wouldn't be able to keep up anymore, Ron broke away with a rush of speed. He was going to run head-first into the wall, Hermione realised, but then his wand arm rose and he shouted, "REDUCTO!"

The wall exploded. There was no other way to describe it; there was a tremendous bang, and then pieces of brick and tile flying everywhere. There was the sickly sound of something heavy colliding with something living, followed by angry hissing. Hermione nearly tripped on the rubble rolling across the ground. It was only Draco's firm grip on her wrist that saved her, pulling her relentlessly forwards, even as shrapnel sliced her leg. "Protego!" he cried just in time for a boulder to bounce off his Shield Charm.

Daylight was visible. To Hermione's addled brain, it didn't make sense: How could there be daylight underground? Despite the chaos around her, the primal part of her which cared only for survival had forgotten how magic could work.

The grey winter sky seemed impossibly out of reach, clouded as it was by dust from the debris.

"Get ready to jump!"

Hermione tried to look at Draco but didn't dare stop moving forwards. "What?"

"I said get ready to —"

Just as they arrived at the massive, destructive hole, a spell hit the juncture between the ceiling and the wall above them, causing hundreds of pounds of stone to rain down. Draco's arm wrapped around her waist — he leapt into the open space where the Atrium met open air —

A tug behind her navel and everything went dark.