The air in the chamber, usually still and heavy with the scent of ancient stone and forgotten enchantments, was alive with a frantic, stolen energy. It thrummed against Hasel Potter's skin, a discordant symphony accompanying the blinding, sickly green flash that erupted from the shattered time-turner. One moment, she was lunging, wand outstretched, a desperate shield charm forming on her lips as Hermione, her brilliant, beloved Hermione, wrestled with the rogue Ministry official who'd sought to weaponize the Department of Mysteries' most volatile artifacts. The next, the very fabric of their reality tore.
It wasn't like Apparition, that familiar, uncomfortable squeeze. This was a violent, wrenching expulsion. The polished marble floor of the Ministry vanished, replaced by an impossible, swirling vortex of color and sound. Hasel's scream was swallowed by the roaring chaos, her hand, locked tight in Hermione's, the only anchor in a world unmoored. The taste of ozone, sharp and metallic, filled the air, and a pressure built behind her eyes. Images, too fleeting to comprehend – alien skies, impossible architecture, faces that were almost human but unnervingly other – flashed before her.
Then, as suddenly as it began, the violent transit ceased. The landing was jarring, knocking the breath from Hasel's lungs. She lay gasping, not on smooth stone, but on something uneven, slick, and cold. The acrid smell of damp earth, coal smoke, and something else, something rank and unfamiliar, filled her nostrils, a stark contrast to the sterile scent of the Ministry. Rain, cold and persistent, plastered her hair to her forehead.
Groaning, Hasel pushed herself up, her body aching. A dull throb pulsed behind her temples. Beside her, Hermione was stirring, her usually composed features etched with pain and disorientation. "Hasel? What… what happened?" Hermione's voice was a strained whisper, her eyes, wide and unfocused, struggled to take in their surroundings.
Darkness enveloped them, a thick, cloying blackness punctuated by the faint, flickering orange glow of what looked like… gas lamps? They were in a narrow alleyway, the towering brick walls on either side slick with rain and grime, disappearing into the oppressive gloom above. The cobblestones beneath them were uneven and treacherous. This was not the Ministry. This was not London as they knew it.
A low murmur of voices, guttural and unfamiliar, echoed from the alley's entrance. Hasel's heart lurched. Instinct, honed by years of fighting for her life, screamed danger. She fumbled for her wand, her fingers closing around the familiar yew wood with a surge of desperate relief. "Hermione, on your feet. We're not alone."
Hermione, ever the pragmatist even in shock, was already pushing herself up, her own wand materializing in her hand. They stood back-to-back, a familiar defensive posture, peering into the oppressive darkness.
Figures began to emerge from the deeper shadows at the mouth of the alley, their forms indistinct in the dim, flickering light. They moved with a predatory grace that sent a fresh wave of alarm through Hasel. These weren't the clumsy, power-hungry Death Eaters they were used to, nor the stiffly uniformed Aurors of their world. These individuals were cloaked, their faces obscured by hoods, and as they drew closer, Hasel caught the glint of metal – not wands, but blades, long and sharp, some visibly strapped to their arms, others hinted at beneath their dark, practical clothing.
One figure, taller than the rest, stepped forward. The hood was thrown back to reveal the face of a woman, her features sharp and intelligent, her emerald eyes narrowed with suspicion as they raked over Hasel and Hermione. There was an undeniable air of command about her, a hardened edge that spoke of countless battles fought and won. Her accent, when she finally spoke, was sharp, clipped, and undeniably of this city, yet from an era Hasel only knew from history books.
"And who might you be, then?" the woman demanded, her voice low and carrying an undercurrent of threat. "Stumbling into places you've no business being. Lost your way, have you, ladies?" Her gaze was intense, missing nothing, from their strange, soot-stained clothes to the wands clutched in their hands. The other figures fanned out slightly, a silent, menacing cordon.
Hasel exchanged a fleeting, terrified glance with Hermione. How could they even begin to explain? That they were witches from a different time, a different world perhaps, thrust here by a magical cataclysm? It sounded insane, even to her own ears.
"We… there was an accident," Hermione began, her voice trembling slightly despite her efforts to keep it steady. "At the Ministry… we were… transported. We don't know where we are."
A harsh, disbelieving laugh escaped one of the cloaked figures. The tall woman, however, merely tilted her head, her expression unreadable. "An accident, you say?" She took another step closer, her eyes fixing on the wands in their hands. "And those little sticks? What are they for? Fancy knitting needles?"
The implied threat was clear. These people were not friends. They were armed, suspicious, and on their own turf. Hasel's grip tightened on her wand. She wouldn't go down without a fight, not after everything they'd survived. The air crackled with unspoken tension, the only sounds the relentless patter of rain and the distant, mournful clang of a city bell. They were adrift, in a strange, hostile world, with unknown dangers lurking in every shadow.