She stumbled on her feet, still held half up by the fierce grip on her hair, the Death Eaters" words washing over her as they decided the best way to get her out – through the doors, past the Order which could be laying in wait with back up, or out the ceiling, and apparate from the roof? She couldn't make much sense of any of it – her left ear was ringing from one of the backhanded blows to her face, and she was dizzy and nauseous and all filled up with mind-blanking terror. She knew what it would mean if they took her. Torture in all its different forms – and her skin crawls and she wants to die – and then if she was lucky, death. She refused to contemplate Harry risking his life to save her, as part of some sick deal – Hermione didn't want him to die for her. She wasn't worth it.