Wilde Hunting

Summary (extended): In the present, after Voldemort has been defeated and the war over, the Wizarding World is at the cusp of a major collapse from a subsequent power struggle ensued by people trying to exert their control over the community, where there is now no one to claim certain positions of power and influence. Before his death, Dumbledore hypothesized that Lyra Wyldt would become a crucial part in helping stabilize and guide the newly liberated Wizarding community, but she must first piece together the fragments of her past that would allow her to lay claim to her birthright.

A/N: Keep in mind that this story pulls a lot of details about an OC from another developing story that I have yet to organize and post, so I apologize if things don't make sense or don't follow. I know I should've done the other one first, but the muse would just not leave me alone, and this one had to come out. I will try my best to explain as much as I can in this story without sounding too pedantic.

1. Where

Loud crack. Big Flash. Horrid nauseous feeling.

Disorientation. And vertigo? Loads of that.

Eyes, blurry. Legs, shaky. Flighty feeling in the pit of the stomach. Hands clutched tightly to the chest, chest expanding and contracting erratically. Something wet and drippy. Not good.

Follow instructions, remember. One breath in, okay. Two breaths, better. Back straightening, eyes clearing. Standing at full length, glancing side to side. Movement, but moving away. Danger? Not imminent. Three, four breaths, relaxing and lowering hands.

The cobbled alleyway was dark and empty, allowing for a quick break to catch one's breath in peace and privacy. It was different here. Much more so than previously expected. Though as much should have been foreseen, expectations were built from spotty, far-off memories from senile old men that were starting to lose themselves.

Leaning against the wall, primary inspection. Vision now clear enough to discern that initial blurriness was caused more by early-morning fog than by secondary effects from the process. Vertigo partly to be blamed on the uneven cobblestone street. The stiffness was terribly uncomfortable, but something that must be worked off by walking. Nothing to be done about that now. Breathing now equalized to its normal rhythm, chest no longer heaving as much as before. But there was still something wet and drippy.

Lifting both loosely closed fists, one of them streaked bright red. Deep breath. Hand open. Broken pieces of glass and gold. Now empty chain hanging loosely across the chest. This was also expected, based on the wisdom of wise old wizards with much more knowledge and experience than she, though the implications were no less terrifying. One more deep breath. Deep, shaky breath.

Glancing around one last time, much more alert now, Lyra quickly took out a kerchief from her coat pocket and emptied the bloody fragments of the now-ruined Time-Turner onto it. She used one end to hastily wipe the blood off her hand before tying it up into a bundle and gingerly putting it back into her pocket. Turning her back to the street, she silently slid out her hand from her sleeve and mended the cuts as best as she could. However, it seemed as though pieces of glass were still embedded in her skin, and combined with the magical nature of what caused the lesions, it was proving much more difficult to heal anything at all. She'd never been very good at healing magic in the first place. The best she could do was to stop the bleeding with a haphazard spell and let the slack sleeve of her dark woolen coat dangle over her hand to obscure the injury to public eyes.

Lyra slid her wand back into its resting position inside the sleeve of her uninjured hand and glanced toward the bustling street just outside her quiet alley. Despite the fog, she could see people passing by, unaware of the oddly-dressed, disheveled young witch in the dark backstreet, both engrossed in their daily business and also partially blinded by the London fog themselves. She had to get in motion, there were things to be done now that she was here. She pushed off the wall with momentum and intention when something made her take pause.

Catching glimpses of the women passing by, Lyra was strangely thankful she had decided to cut her hair above her shoulders, then noticed she was more out of place than she realized due to a very particular and previously overlooked detail.

She had an innate knowledge that fashion would most definitely be different here, but worrying about all the other preparations she had to ready and all the other information she had to memorize, she never bothered to research about it. It seemed almost unimportant, but, with bitterness, she now admitted it was equally important to her mission to not walk out in public in a coat, mini-skirt, and t-shirt. Hastily scanning a couple of young women as they passed, she decided to copy one of their outfits almost completely. Wand out again, she ran it down the front of her torso, silently willing her clothes to Transfigure into a knee-length, shapeless, deep blue frock dress. Concentrating, she metamorphosed her hair from her natural waves to a neat, straight bob just under her jaw. Her boots dissolved down to low, black Oxford flats. Definitely not the height of fashion, but it would have to do for now. There were more pressing matters to deal with, and an indescribable sense of anxiety starting to bubble inside her.

Once again concealing her wand, she started toward the main street again, mustering all the fake confidence she could to hide the fact she wasn't supposed to be there at all. Stepping out into the street, the first thing she noticed is that sidewalks were not very prominent, nor were traffic rules or laws, for that matter. People were crossing the street where they pleased, and automobiles simply had to deal with them. As it was still quite early, it wasn't nearly as busy or chaotic as she'd imagined it to be, though there were a good number of people hurrying off to work.

Lyra was so distracted, curiously inspecting the people and buildings and other artifacts she'd only seen in photographs before, that when the disorientation found her again, she entered into a small, sudden panic that made her pause in her tracks and jerk her head around in paranoia, causing a young gentleman walking behind her to run into her. Both lost their balance, but the young man was able to catch himself and put two steadying hands on Lyra's shoulders.

"Oh, terribly sorry miss. Are you alright?" he asked, bringing Lyra back to her senses.

"Yes, I'm so sorry," she mirrored his tone and accent, remembering herself. "Was my fault. Going the wrong way." She shrugged and gave him a soft smile. The young man smiled and nodded, stepping around Lyra and going on his way.

Lyra made her way to the side of a building, in a spot where she could stand still and get her bearings. Looking around, her injured hand began to pulse with pain, her heart began to race, her stomach to fall, her mind to spin. Her breath got away from her, and her wide eyes scanned the unfamiliar street. She had no idea where she was, or where to go, had no one to talk to or ask for help, had only a mission but no way to complete it. She struggled with her runaway thoughts, the screaming pain in her hand, and the panic spreading cold through her veins when an instinct overcame her and made her break off at a brisk pace down the street in the direction she had just come from. She found the alley she first appeared in, walked in, summoned some fog about her to conceal her, then quietly Disapparated.

A/N: Did I mention this is actually my first story on this site? It will take me a while to get used to the formatting, so bear with me! I realize this might be a bit short for a chapter, but I promise they will get longer. More explanations coming throughout the next couple of chapters, so hang tight!