Hermione came to consciousness slowly. This was not unusual for her; she had never been a morning person, though she had always fought to hide this fact from her friends. She woke before most of her dorm mates, her nose buried in a book by the time they fought their way to wakefulness and began to get ready for the day.

There were, she had discovered, never enough hours in the day. And if she was to help her friends with their studies on top of her own academic hurdles, she needed to be as alert as possible by the time they made an appearance.

So no, the fact that she was not immediately alert on awakening did not alarm the young Gryffindor. What did alarm her, however, were her surroundings upon finally opening her eyes.

Hermione had expected to find herself in her dorm room at Gryffindor Tower, before remembering that she had chosen to leave Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry in an attempt to fight for the freedom of her best friend.

The decision to leave Hogwarts had been an easy one. She hadn't expected it to be - all her life Hermione had been taught, and had fervently believed, that her education was tantamount to her success in the world, whether that world was magical or otherwise. When it came time to make a decision, however, Hermione had found it easy to choose her best friend over her own education.

Her parents had been surprisingly supportive in this decision, though she knew they did not fully agree with how far she had gone for Harry. But they trusted her, and her plan had been well thought out; tutors came three times a week to her parents muggle home, and the other four days Hermione spent with Remus Lupin and Sirius Black, working to find some loophole, some law, some person who would fight with them to ensure Harry's eventual release . . . or at the very least a trial.

But the sight that greeted Hermione was neither of the Gryffindor Tower, nor of her bedroom in her parent's house. Instead, she found herself facing stone walls covered from head to toe with tapestries depicting various battles against hideous creatures that would have given Hermione nightmares, if her dreams weren't already filled with the horrors she had read about in regards to Azkaban Prison. She had enough fodder now to fuel her dreams and transform them into nightmares for the rest of her life.

Slowly pushing herself upon one elbow, Hermione's brow furrowed as she stared around the room for a moment, before she swung her legs over the side of the bed. The bed itself was made of a dark brown wood that the Gryffindor could not name - but then, her studies had never led her in the direction of carpentry, so that didn't surprise the young woman.

It would have surprised her to learn, however, that the wood could not be found in England, nor the rest of Europe, or even the world. The trees from which it had been made had been felled in another world - the sort of world she might have imagined in her dreams, had she an overactive imagination. And though Hermione's imagination had helped her through many trials and tribulations in her childhood - most of which had been visited upon her by the mean-spirited children of her former muggle primary school - it had never quite dreamt up such fanciful notions as travel between worlds - particularly not with a doorway between such worlds existing as a famed and feared Wizarding Prison.

As her bare feet touched the cold stone floor, Hermione frowned down at her feet. She had been wearing shoes before, she was certain of it. Now that the bushy-haired teenager was beginning to gain some coherency and wakefulness, she remembered the events which had brought her here - and with it, her fear and confusion as she had lost consciousness earlier.

It was with a great deal of trepidation and caution that Hermione touched the long gown in which she was now dressed. Though made of an incredibly light material, it reached down to the floor when she stood up and covered her hands completely. It had obviously been made for one much taller than she, and Hermione was forced to reach down and lift up the skirt as she made her way to the open archway which served as a door to the room.

She tried desperately not to consider the fact that somebody else had dressed her, and had thus seen her naked. She could only hope that some sort of spellwork had been involved, because the only other alternative was too mortifying to even contemplate.

Hovering near the 'door', Hermione surveyed the room beyond with one hand pressed against the wall next to her. Though pristine in its cleanliness, the room beyond seemed somehow wrong to her, though the young woman couldn't quite place her finger on why. It was only after several moments of quiet observation that Hermione came to understand just what was so unnerving about the room beyond.

It was too perfect. Too pristine, too clean, too devoid of life. She recognized none of the symbols she saw adorning the scattered scrolls and books that adorned a long wooden table in the very center of the room, and though they had been left as though their peruser would return at any moment, their arrangement was a little too perfect. There was no slant to the books that always came about when Hermione herself was reading, no ink or quills to accompany the half-written pages, no mug of tea of plate of biscuits.

Making a move to step out into the eerily quiet room. Hermione frowned as her hands encountered a barrier. Though invisible, no matter how hard she pushed she found that it wouldn't budge, and Hermione found her earlier fear returning tenfold.

Deep beneath the complex now referred to simply as 'Azkaban Prison', Hermione Granger was finding that she could not leave the small room in which she found herself confined. She was, however, also finding that a large tray filled to the brim with various fruits she had never laid eyes upon before had appeared before her, as well as a sharp, tangy drink she was fairly certain was alcoholic.

No matter how she wailed upon the invisible barrier which held her locked inside, however, and no matter how she called out into the room beyond, no help appeared to be forthcoming.

She was not alone, however, and as the minutes ticked by and became hours, Hermione began to notice small signs of habitation in the room beyond that she had not noticed before.

There was an upturned cup pressed against the table, and she could just make out a damp ring around the edges; proof that it had been used recently,

There was no dust in the room, though Hermione supposed that could have been due to some magical spell or another. She had never found housekeeping spells to be of particular interest, though the former Gryffindor had to imagine that such a spell existed. She had certainly witnessed Mrs. Weasley slinging about spells to clean her house on more than one occasion.

The signs were small, but they were there - enough to know that somebody had been here recently, even if the area wasn't one they often visited.

A part of Hermione itched to know what was in those books; there was a reason why Hermione Granger had often been teased that she belonged in Ravenclaw, and her love of books was a large part of that. It wasn't simply that she was studious at school - she honestly loved to read, to learn, to discover the hidden worlds that waited, ready to be discovered within the bound pages of a book.

But Hermione could also be practical. There was a time for learning, and a time for action. There was a reason, after all, that there existed both lessons in theory and practical applications within a controlled setting in most of the muggle sciences, and even the more advanced potions classes she had begun to take part in during her scheduled class days. Knowledge was useless without a practical applications to apply it to.

So for once in her life, Hermione ignored the books scattered about the room beyond her. Instead, she claimed a seat at the table in her own room - her own prison, as far as she was concerned, and began a silent vigil. If anybody - or anything - came through here, she would know it.

It was over an hour later, as Hermione was picking idly at the plate of fruit before her and steadfastly ignoring the - likely alcoholic - drink before her that the sound of movement first caught her attention. Sitting up straighter from the slumped position she had fallen into, the bushy-haired Gryffindor

The figure that stepped into view of her room was slim, with a full head of dark hair and pale skin. Unlike the majority of Wizards, he did not wear a robe - instead, black pants had been tucked into knee-high leather boots, with a tunic that reached beyond his waist adding a splash of color the ensemble - a design Hermione had never encountered before decorated the back of his dark grey tunic, the white of the symbol standing out sharply and drawing her curious eyes to it's design. It was remarkably similar in design to many of the runes Hermione had encountered in her self study of Ancient Runes, though this specific symbol had never been encountered by the bushy haired witch before.

As the man leafed through the pages of one of the books lying on the sturdy wooden table in the room beyond, Hermione took a moment to study what she could see of his features.

His dark hair was unruly, falling in slightly curly waves down to his shoulder. His clothing, though atrociously old fashioned, was also in good condition - he was obviously comfortable in it, which only solidified in Hermione's mind the idea that this was no stage prop - these were the ordinary clothes which he wore on a daily basis, of that she was certain.

Slipping quietly to her feet, Hermione approached the invisible barrier she knew would bar her from the room beyond. That the man took no notice of her movement helped Hermione to breathe a little easier; though still wary, she could only surmise that a Dark Wizard would have been more cautious around a known supporter of the Light . . . even if she couldn't find it in herself to truly support Albus Dumbledore any longer. He had let her down in the worse possible way when he had left Harry to fend for himself against the Ministry.

The symbol, Hermione decided, was what was causing her the most worry. It was obviously a signifier of something ,but as to what . . . Hermione couldn't say. It didn't match up with any of the runes she had studied, though the simplicity of the design led her to believe that it was a root symbol - the more complicated a rune, the more complicated the design. For such a simplistic design, the bushy-haired former Gryffindor assumed that it represented a single thought - root runes were combined in a multitude of different ways to form more complicated runes, though by themselves they could also prove powerful.

It was also clear that this symbol was considered to be important in some way, for it to adorn the back of the man's clothing - a signifier of something more than a runic equation, certainly.

As the man shifted his stance, Hermione held her breath. He was only shifting his weight, however, and never even glanced in her direction, so the witch was left to study him at her leisure.

'He doesn't realize I'm here.' Hermione realized with a start, her brown eyes going wide for a moment before they narrowed in thought. 'But how could he not?'

The only logical explanation, of course, was that he had not been the one to bring her here - wherever here was - and deposit her in this opulent prison cell. And that thought alone was enough to send a thrill of fear through the teenager. One adult wizard she felt reasonably certain she could handle ... but more than that?

Hermione slowly backed up until she felt the backs of her legs hit the bed, slowly sitting down on the rumpled surface. It was only when she heard the springs squeak ever so slightly that she realized that she had made a mistake.

The man turned so quickly that he nearly fell out of his chair - a quick grab at the table was the only thing that saved him. As he straightened to his full height, Hermione rose from the bed, a slight blush staining her cheeks as she remembered just how she was dressed - in the girliest, frilliest dress she had ever worn, yet one that was reminiscent of the sleeping gowns she had witnessed in more than one historical book read as a child.

Hands balling into fists at her side, Hermione met the man's startlingly green eyes with her own surprised brown ones. Yet another reminder of Harry - why did this man have to have so many similarities to her best friend?

Similarities. Her heart skipped a beat, and it was madness - that was the only word for it. It was pure madness which brought Hermione to glance up at the man's forehead, to seek out the shaded lines of a lightning bolt scar that shouldn't have rested there. He was too old by far; easily into his twenties, if not beyond. And yet her eyes could easily make out the lines of the scar upon his otherwise smooth forehead - it was inflamed and angry, worse than she had ever seen it, and that worried Hermione more than she cared to admit.

Almost more than the fact that Harry was a good five to ten years older than he should have been.