Hermione hated dungeons.

She knew it was useless to pace, and yet she couldn't keep still. They'd thrown her down into the bowels of Hogwarts three days ago, and she'd been going crazy with worry every hour that passed. She'd been mentally preparing for a round of cruciatus, at least, but now she wondered if their intent hadn't been to drive her insane with mere fear instead.

A cackle came from somewhere off to her right and echoed off the stone walls, causing a ruckus to sound from a half dozen other cells around the huge dungeon. Hermione shuddered. She estimated it could hold forty prisoners, based on the size of her own cell and the echoes from her neighbors. Three of the four walls of her cell were made of stone, so she couldn't see more than the cells immediately opposite hers, but they were terrifying enough.

The cell she could only see a sliver of on the left-hand side held a handful of goblins, and not the somewhat civilized type she'd met at Gringott's. No, these four or five took turns stacking on top of one another to try and squeeze out the six-inch gap between iron bars and stonework. When they inevitably fell, they fought with each other until someone started to bleed. The next one directly across from her was empty except for a pair of great, unblinking eyes which followed Hermione in her pacing. The last one on the far right held a creature she hadn't yet seen the entirety of, just a human-like arm that perpetually hung outside the cell door and was made of rotting flesh and bone.

Having tired herself out, Hermione crouched down and pulled her thin jumper tight around her shoulders. She'd used wandless magic on her first night to start a fire, but the vicious commotion that had caused among the dark-loving neighbors ensured she wouldn't try it again, no matter how cold she got. In any case, the last rays of sunlight were fading. Their jailer would be bringing some food down shortly. Eating something would help her body warm up.

Time passed, though, and still there was no sign of the jailer. They'd come to expect three regular meals a day, and the other prisoners were getting restless. Finally, after listening to what must have been a series of transformations due to a full moon, a set of footsteps was coming down the stairs.

"All right, you lot," a young boy's voice sounded from the middle of the staircase, "I've got some portkeys for you all. But you'll just have to wait your turns. You're going up one at a time."

The prisoners weighed in on this, loudly, and Hermione heard the boy whimper.

"The Dark Lord," the boy yelped, trying to cut through the howls and shouts, "has finally decided what's to be done with you all. You ain't got a choice."

Hermione pressed her face as close to the iron bars as possible and she could just barely make out the right side of the boy. He wasn't more than a first year, she guessed, grimacing. Those who survived the Battle of Hogwarts lived with knowledge of the worst sort of cruelty, without exception. Hermione had come to pity the living and envy the dead. The world without Harry Potter was not a bright one.

The boy started passing out the random objects she'd come to associate with portkeys. The first cell received a toothbrush. After waiting a minute or so, he handed out a chewed-up top hat. Then the death-hand got a musty yellow blanket. And finally it was her turn.

She held out her hand, awaiting her object and preparing herself with a mental list of every defensive spell she knew wandlessly, but the boy passed over her.

"Sorry, Miss. He says you go last."

Hermione looked at the boy as he passed. If he really was a first year, there's no way she could have known him. She was horcrux hunting while he was dodging unforgivables from the Carrow siblings. He'd known nothing but fear from school, she thought, and her heart went out to him. As a rule, she did not like think about the things she didn't do and the people she didn't save, but sometimes her failures were shoved right in her face.

The Battle for Hogwarts did not go as planned. She wasn't even sure how Harry or Ron had died, but the house elf who saved her assured Hermione both had passed. As soon as they realized which side had won, the house elves had claimed and hidden as many wounded students as they could in the room of requirement, and tried as best they could to nurse them back to health. Hermione was the last student to wake from a month-long magical coma before they'd all been discovered. The physically able had been thrown into the dungeon. Cho had been in the bed next to her with a nasty gash on the head… she shuddered to think what had happened to those still injured.

The dungeon was nearly silent now, except for the boy's footsteps coming back up the hall towards her. His pale, little face came to her cell, and she was reminded of Neville in his first year. The boy held out a rusty tin can with his chubby hand, not looking at her. She felt her heart speed up, knowing this portkey could open up over the Atlantic ocean or above some island volcano. She hesitated.

"Take it!" he shouted, closing his eyes tighter and shaking the can at her.

No, Voldemort wouldn't have kept her locked away only to toss her over a cliff. He's been waiting to make an example of her. She gritted her teeth and grabbed the can. Instantly, she felt the yanking sensation from the middle of her gut transport her out of the dungeon.

"And there she is," an amplified voice boomed around her, "tonight's Mudblood of honor. I know you'll all give a warm, Hogwarts welcome to Hermione Granger!"

A deafening round of applause went up as Hermione blinked rapidly, trying to get her eyes to adjust to the floodlights pouring down from above. Once the spots and fuzziness dissipated, she recognized where the portkey had landed her- the middle of the quidditch pitch. She tried to twist her head towards the announcer's box to see who was in the crowd, but found she was caught in a fully body-bind. So instead, she surveyed what was in her line of sight.

It didn't look good. She was dead-center field, facing one set of goals, with a minefield of dangerous creatures spread out. She spotted the goblins spaced a few meters apart, along with what was definitely a vampire, a giant, and a half-dozen other creatures she only had a partial view of. Interspersed between them were various students, some she'd known, but most she didn't recognize. She couldn't do more than swallow down the bile rising in her throat before the announcer's voice came on again.

"For those of you on the pitch unfamiliar with our midnight game, this is Wizarding Gladiatorial Melee!" the voice said, pausing for everyone to cheer before he continued, "The rules are simple. On my signal, survive for as long as you can! The last creature standing will be given his or her freedom….for a time. If you become a crowd favorite, which usually happens by being particularly bloodthirsty, you can call for a five minute timeout at any point."

"And, I think that's all. I mean, it is rather simple. Are you all ready?" the crowd roared once more, and Hermione took one long, slow breath. If she just kept her wits about her, she'd do fine.

A whistle blew and Hermione spun around. This half of the pitch wasn't any less crowded. A pair of centaurs and Ernie Macmillan were backing into a corner under the shadow of a gigantic troll, a flock of thestrals were taking to the skies, a different vampire was running from a haggard werewolf, and an acromantula was chasing after a young girl.

"Hey!" Hermione shouted, throwing her best, wandless protego out between the giant spider and the girl, "You leave her alone!"

The spider bounced off her shield and rolled backwards into the troll, but the girl was still running. Hermione started to follow her, knowing she wouldn't last long among some of these creatures, but a hair-raising howl stopped her cold.

She turned around. A huge, hairy creature was stalking toward her on all fours. She knew it wasn't a werewolf, since it didn't look exactly like Professor Lupin's form, but it was similar. Regardless, she aimed a confundus followed by a blasting curse towards it and then took off, ducking and weaving between the various squabbles. She scanned the chaos, looking for an ally. The only creature on the pitch currently not fighting was the giant, who was lying on his side. It looked like he had already died. Hermione felt bad for the poor thing, but she raced even faster to get behind his body for some much-needed coverage. The crowd above once again roared its approval and she heard a high-pitched voice wail. She didn't turn around.

When she finally reached the far side of the giant, she was panting. If she'd been thrown into this mess while she was still on the run with Harry and Ron, she would have been fine physically. But she'd been on a bed, out cold for the last month, and the last three days specifically had seen very little sleep and food. She tried to ward the little alcove made by the curve of the giant's fallen body, but her hands were shaking too badly, and the complex spells really required a wand.

A growl came from the far off to the right side of the pitch, and Hermione shrieked. It was that were-thing. A cat, maybe? It had pointed ears and whiskers, plus a long, fluffy tail. It was also hurt, Hermione noticed. Both its back legs looked broken and twisted at horrible angles. Still, she didn't think she could out-run a werecat, even if it was injured. She looked up and saw the coast was clear on top of the giant, so she started to climb. His flesh was still warm, but cracked and dry like concrete, and it chafed as she hoisted herself up.

She'd nearly made it to the top when a searing pain tore into her calf muscle, making her scream in pain. She looked down, the werecat dangling a few inches off the ground with its jaws wrapped around her leg. She summoned every last bit of energy she had and blasted the creature right between the eyes. The force of the blast worked, making the werecat let go of her leg, but the ricochet also sent Hermione flying up and over the top of the giant.

She crumpled on the ground on the other side, and she could hear the crowd on its feet, cheering what they assumed was her death. She gritted her teeth, sucking in air as best she could against the pain. It was coiling through her bloodstream now. The full moon shone high in the sky tonight, and even though Hermione knew the bite must be infected, she couldn't focus on that now. The werecat was more important. She didn't think it would be coming back from that last blast, though, so maybe she would have a moment to recover.

Such a gift isn't found in a melee, however. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a limping, stumbling figure coming towards her with an outstretched arm of rotting flesh and bone. She snapped up, ready to defend herself despite the flaring agony in her calf which made her cry out. The pain in her leg became secondary, though, when she saw who the creature was.

Her bun had come loose. It was the first time Hermione had ever seen it down. Her robes were torn to ribbons, and the withering stare she was known to give to Malfoy was replaced by an empty, dead gaze. Hermione wanted to squeeze her eyes shut, unsee what was in front of her, but she needed to get away first. She didn't want to think about what would happen if the inferius McGonagall reached her.

Knowing she was weak and easy prey, she chose a tripping jinx for the inferius. If she could just keep it away long enough to climb back on top of the giant, she might have a chance. A quick glance at the rest of the melee told her more than half of the participants were lying dead on the ground, and almost all of those remaining were all-out brawling in a mass of arms and legs to the excitement crowd. So far, no one seemed to notice Hermione and her former professor.

The tripping jinx worked, sending the inferius tumbling towards the ground, but it also made something sparkle from underneath the scraps of fabric. A small golden chain was tucked underneath the collar of what once were robes.

In a moment of clarity, she cast a full body-bind on the inferius, though it was pathetic and merely made the creature move in extra slow-motion. Even though the spell was terribly executed, Hermione collapsed in fatigue. Any more attempts at magic could send her into magical exhaustion, she realized. All the more reason to see what was dangling at the end of that necklace.

Hermione dragged herself over to the body of Professor McGonagall and reached out two fingers, trying not to touch any of the decaying skin as she moved aside the flapping fabric. It was her old time turner, she saw with undisguised relief. Hermione knew it had belonged to her former professor, but she hadn't known how closely McGonagall kept it. Before the jaw on the inferius could unhinge or bite Hermione in slow motion, she looped the chain over its head and hobbled away.

Sorry, Professor, Hermione thought, pulling the necklace over her own head and preparing to count the turns. Four or five hours should give her enough time to get away before any spectators started showing up, right? But she looked at the rotting body of the woman she'd considered another mother, and she knew she couldn't leave her in this state. With the last of her magical reserves, she whispered incendio towards the body and began spinning the time-turner as she watched the inferius catch fire.

She was completing the fifth rotation and sagging to the ground as exhaustion set in when a strangled growl came from above her. She looked up to see the werecat, cross-eyed and broken, launching itself from the top of the giant's body towards her. She cried out and twisted away, losing her grip on the old time-turner in the process. It began to spin wildly out of control with their momentum, but neither Hermione, the time-turner, nor the werecat ever hit the ground.

The familiar dance of time started around her, characters weaving in and out at the speed of light. It all blurred, the sun rising and setting fast enough to make her sick, and she closed her eyes tightly against the onslaught of images. When the world stopped spinning minutes later, Hermione landed and promptly vomited, right on someone's highly polished quidditch boot. Voices came and went, and someone started shouting for help.

Well, if they're trying to help me they can't also be trying to kill me. Hermione thought this was an excellent piece of reasoning for someone in her condition. She hoped that logic was sound, because as soon as she thought it, she slipped away into unconsciousness.