Hermione didn't have the first clue where she was when she finally regained consciousness. Somewhere cold and dark and dreary. Her broken arm had been mended. The taste of Skele-Gro and some other foul potion likely used to ease her pain still lingered on her tongue. Was it a good sign that her captor tended to her injuries? As much as she hoped so, she could also remember there were plenty of times that she'd ordered Healers to look after one of her prisoners on Level Eleven only to end their existence in a painful interrogation days later. While she didn't think Rodolphus would hurt her, she'd been wrong before. The problem with trying to predict the actions of a crazy person was they were entirely unpredictable. She should know.