A World Apart

There are places where the fabric of one world gives away to the design of another; places where one might step seamlessly from one world and into another. Azkaban Prison was one such locale.

Down it's twisting hallways and seemingly endless staircases one could travel, and witness it's ancient age; carvings in a language none upon Earth could now translate.

Eventually, however, one would come upon stairways which one again led up, dark and dingy cells giving way to hallways which branched off to spacious rooms, beautiful paintings and piles of ancient books and scrolls which had somehow withstood the ravages of time. And everywhere, that ancient language of runes which none who traversed the halls of Azkaban Prison could have any hope to decipher.

Still upward one could wander, past spacious living quarters and kitchens all held in pristine condition, as though their inhabitants had simply stepped out for a moment and would soon return. Up, ever upwards until your legs ached and you found yourself short of breath. Now, by this point one might wonder - did it take me this long to descend? For surely there were limits to the size of Azkaban Prison, even with the aid of magic.

The blending of Free Magic and Charter Magic had created the impossible in this place; twisting the laws of time and space. What might otherwise have remained an impossibility, then, became commonplace.

One might wander for hours, and never come upon the set of rooms in which Hermione Granger and Harry Potter now stared at one another, the silence stretching between them until Harry stepped forward, his fingers etching out a small rune in the air. Before the question could form on Hermione's lips, however, that rune was already at work, dismantling the magic which held her prisoner.

Still Harry said nothing, his arm falling to his side. His green eyes soaked up the sight of his young friend - now a good decade younger than him, but still as beautiful as he remembered her.

Time had softened his memories of Hermione; when once he might have shied away from thinking of her as a female, as beautiful, he no longer did. His memories of his loved ones held nothing but beauty in them now, so far removed from the Wizarding World and it's bigotry. The horrors of Azkaban Prison, and his time within it's cells as a prisoner, had made all previous transgressions by his friends and family pale in comparison. Even his treatment at the hands of the Dursleys no longer seemed quite so horrible as it once had . . . not when he held it up against his time as a prisoner, subjected to the tender mercies of the Azkaban guards.

The Sendings - those translucent creatures made of magic, light and runes - had provided garments for Hermione - Harry could easily made out the runes along the cuffs, though he didn't let his eyes linger long enough to decipher their exact meaning. All of that could wait - for now he just wanted to look. To find all those things that the passage of time had erased from his memory.

He knew, intellectually, that he should be questioning not only Hermione's presence here, but also her age. While he had aged a good decade, Hermione remained the same - he should have been worried, perhaps even frightened, by this discrepancy.

Yet Harry couldn't bring himself to care about any of that. The sight of his best female friend, just as he remembered her ... it took his breath away.

Harry had never thought he would see his best friend again. It had been over half a decade since he had been left to rot in Azkaban, and though he harbored no ill will toward his friends and family for their silence, he had long ago given up any hope of rescue.

Hermione's presense, of course, rose more questions than answers. As happy as he might have been to see her, Harry couldn't shake the feeling that her presence here would being naught but disaster.

In the years since Harry had first woken in this strange place, he had searched long and hard for a means to return to the world he had left - the world that had condemned him. But all he had found was more questions.

Oh, he had left these halls - their twisting passageways had seemed confusing at first, but over time he had come to work out a pattern to their construction. But what he had found beyond these walls had not been what he had expected.

"Hermione..." Harry stopped, uncertain what he had been about to say. Uncertain what he could say, in a situation like this.

But the longer he stared at his friend, the more memories were beginning to creep up on him. Not memories of Hogwarts, or the times he had shared with his friends - no, those memories he had gone over in his mind thousands of times, keeping his friends close in his memories, as he could not in life.

No, it was other memories that were pushing to the forefront now. Memories of that dark cell, of the fear and anguish he had felt at being left alone. Memories of what had been done to him in that cell, of everything that had been taken from him. Memories of being helpless, alone, and scared - of being at the mercy of men stronger, faster, and larger than he.

Harry stepped back, his fingers curling his hands into fists as he regarded the young woman before him with a far more critical eye now. "Hermione, how are you here?"

Hermione gave an almost shrill laugh at that, an edge of hysteria to her words. "I was about to ask you the same question!"

Harry pressed his hands flat against each other, pressing the side where his index fingers met against his lips as he turned away from his childhood friend. Breathing in deeply, Harry closed his eyes for a moment as he struggled to compose himself.

"None of this makes any sense, and I think I deserve some answers." Hermione's voice was calm, but there was an undercurrent of panic to it. A sense that Hermione Granger was one wrong word away from full blown panic.

Had he ever seen Hermione panic before? Harry didn't think so. It took quite a lot to cause such a reaction from his best friend - that Harry remembered quite clearly.

But he supposed he could understand her reaction, as much as it still shocked him. She had woken in a strange place, in strange clothes, to find her best friend years older than her. And as much as Hermione had been able to come to accept the presence of magic, she was still very much a creature of logic.

And nothing about this - about ANY of this - was logical.

Harry could understand Hermione's shock, and if she was anything like him, a healthy amount of fear. He remembered clearly when he had first woken here; the fear, the confusion. Only there had been nobody here to greet him, nobody here to help him understand what was happening.

But he could do that for Hermione. He could help her understand - help her accept.

Drawing another deep, calming breath, Harry turned toward his childhood friend. Forcing a smile on his face, Harry held out his hands. "'Mione, please."

Hermione approached him warily, her trepidation clear upon her features. Harry's smile turned genuine at that,

For her part, Hermione's gaze held … not wonder, or even joy at seeing friend, but rather fear. Fear at the changes staring her in the fact, fear at the unknown. Her logic, her knowledge of magic, could not explain this. In fact, both were telling her than it was summarily impossible.

Before she had learned of magic, Hermione had never had much of an imagination. Though she loved to read, her particular choice of books had always been those which held some new information for her. Biographies had been a personal favorite, though historical books had also caught her attention. The point was, she had never been very imaginative; unlike other children her age, she had never indulged in "what-if" fantasies, and those novels which explored such scenarios - alternate histories, choose your own adventure, historical romances and the like - had never caught her fancy.

Because of this lack of an imaginative spirit, Hermione had never considered the idea that time itself might be subjective; that it might behave differently, that one might manipulate it to suit their whims. Time travel as it existed with Time Turners was logical, with a defined set of rules which she could understand. That was the only explanation that made any sense to her now - that her friend had somehow gotten his hands on a Time Turner. But there were simply too many variables left unaccounted for; too many questions left unanswered.

Harry suddenly smiled, taking a step toward Hermione, who remained rooted to the spot. Her brain was screaming at her to run, that something was wrong, that this entire situation was far too dangerous. But she simply couldn't seem to make her feet work.

One hand reaching out, Harry tentatively took Hermione's left hand in his right one, seeming almost startled when his fingers met actual flesh, as if he had expected to find that she was an illusion. That startled reaction snapped Hermione out of the daze she had found herself in, and she jerked her hand out of his, taking a step back into the room that had served as her prison these past several hours. "What's going on?" She demanded, her features twisted into a scowl.

Harry simply laughed, shaking his head. He didn't seem upset that she had pulled away from him, but rather amused at her demand for information.

"You don't really think I have any clue what I'm doing, do you 'Mione?" Harry's voice was rough, and he rubbed a hand across his throat now with a wince. Put quite simply, he didn't have many reasons to speak these days - there wasn't much point, when he knew that nobody was around to answer him. The Sendings which saw to his every need could't hold a conversation; they had no true physical forms, nor the ability to communicate. Though they understand rudimentary commands, they quickly became confused by anything more complicated than a direct request. They kept him fed and clothed, but were of little help beyond that.

"Hermione, how did you get here?" Harry hadn't intended his question to come out so sharp, so accusatory, but Hermione bristled at the tone of his voice. As she stiffened at the question, Harry frowned, all traces of mirth gone from his countenance.

"I don't — something grabbed me." Hermione hated herself for that stutter, that hesitation. It wasn't like her. But none of this was making any sense, and she was FRIGHTENED.

Harry rubbed a hand across his chin, sighing. He hadn't shaved this morning, and the small growth of beard he had accumulated over the night scraped roughly against his hand. He enjoyed the sensation, though - he always had. Well, ever since he had first experienced it a couple of years ago. It served to ground him now, as he took a calming breath.

"Come on, let's get you sorted." Harry sighed in defeat, holding out his arm and gesturing for Hermione to proceed him, raising an eyebrow as she refused to budge.

"I'm not going anywhere until I get some answers." Hermione insisted, a stubborn set to her jaw and her eyes flashing in defiance. Harry knew that look, though it had been years since he had last witnessed it. Hermione had placed a small stool between herself and Harry, and seemed ready to use it to defend herself, if need be.

"I'm not sure how many I can give you," Harry admitted softly. "It's not that I don't want to!" He hastened to add as Hermione's scowl only intensified, though he couldn't help the small grin that lit up his features. "But I don't understand this any more than you do, 'Mione."

"Stop - stop calling me that." Hermione demanded, fighting against the urge to step back, put more room between herself and this man who reminded her so much of Harry - but couldn't possibly be her friend.

"I .. just. Stop." Hermione stammered, taking a step back away from the man before her; a man who couldn't possibly be Harry. Every last shred of her logic insisted on it.

Harry sighed, a look of pain settling on his features. He had never been particularly good at hiding his emotions, and that hadn't changed since he had found himself in this place - if anything, it had gotten worse. There was nobody here to hide his emotions from, and those few he had had contact with had admitted that they found the honesty of his expressions to be preferable to the alternative.

"Hermione Granger, the smartest witch of her age." There was a fondness to Harry's tone now, though also a sadness. "I know that this is confusing, but I am not the one to explain it to you. Please, let me take you to somebody who can."

Hermione paused, considering. "Can I at least have some normal clothes, first?"

Harry glanced at the long gown that Hermione was dressed in, a small chuckle escaping his lips. "I suppose that could be a bit hard to walk in. I'm just going to step over here and find you something else to wear, okay?" As he said the second part, Harry held his hands up, in what he hoped was a placating gesture.

After a moment, Hermione jerked her head in a nod, watching as he moved to the side of the room and began digging through one of the chests pushed back against the wall. There were several of them, each as beautiful as the next. From this particular chest was pulled various articles of clothing, which were then placed upon the bed.

"I'll leave you to it. When you're ready, I'll just just outside." That said, Hermione was left to her own devices, though she noticed that the opening to the room was not closed off to give her any privacy.

Still, she had to hope that if she couldn't see him, he couldn't see her.

Several minutes later, Harry glanced up at the sound of movement from the room he had left Hermione in, blinking at the sight she made.

The clothing had been a surprisingly good fit for her, though the pants were perhaps a bit too long.

The clothing Harry had provided was a long, tunic that extended halfway to Hermiones knees, with the same symbol he had found elsewhere within these rooms - a symbol he had come later to recognize as an ancient symbol of the Clayr - a symbol that had long since been abandoned for the one they new used - a symbol they had used for over one thousand years.

The trousers, though fitting snugly around Hermione's slim waist, became much less form fitting as they fell in soft waves down her legs, barely brushing against the floor as she walked. Her feet were dressed in soft slippers whose design matched her tunic, whose long sleeves feel almost to her fingertips.

"A bit too big, but it will do for now." Harry teased gently, though Hermione made no response other than to eye him warily. "Come on, there's somebody I want to introduce you to - and they should be able to give you better answers than I could."