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They gave her a thirty-second head start. Laughable, really, but fuck if she wasn’t going to take it. Thirty seconds to run like hell. Thirty seconds to save her life. Thirty seconds for every dreadful, miserable moment of this year to play on repeat inside of her head.
Thirty seconds for Hermione to get ahead of the pack.
A part of her wondered if, like with bears or panthers or other beasts, it was better not to run. Like a rabbit caught in the sight of a snake, it might be better to freeze. Or in that dinosaur movie her mother loved, when the screaming people had to stop all movement because a Tyrannosaurus Rex supposedly can’t see you if you don’t move.
The moment Fenrir Greyback grinned that sharp, yellowed smile, Hermione knew that it didn’t matter. What was a rabbit, anyway, when hunted by a wolf?
“Run, little mudblood,” he growled.
And she did.