Whisked Away

A/N: My dear readers! I apologize for such a long wait. Real life got a little too busy for my tastes :) and the muse got carried away with a few other things. I hope the next chapter comes much sooner.

As always, I'm very grateful to potionsmistress23.

***

Sleep didn't come. Her mind was cobwebby with a mix of confusion, hurt and a mild pain potion Snape had given her for her throbbing head. Pain and hurt she could deal with, but confusion was something Hermione Granger hated with a passion. She liked to compare her own mind to a neatly organized library. Everything was always sorted, labeled, referenced and kept neat. Or stuffed into her own Restricted Section for later consideration. But when she had to deal with confusion, it was like an onslaught of the simpering first-years searching for their first ever reference materials. Thoughts stuck into wrong frames, baffling contradictions created by leaks of emotions.

Her current source of confusion was, of course, her mentor. Even though she was quite used to his vile treatment in class, she also had become accustomed to and...she couldn't but admit it...fond of his still reserved and acerbic but absolutely not unkind persona that surfaced when she passed through the claustrophobic corridor and the door to his private quarters closed behind her.

"People get used to good things very fast," her father often said, and when Hermione gave it a pondering, she realized how fast she had accepted Snape's hidden persona. She was feeling rather disgusted with herself for the way her confidence buckled under the suddenly heavy weight of his barbs and vicious temper, although, if she were honest with herself, it was nothing less and nothing more than he usually bestowed on his students in class.

And yet, she was unexpectedly raw with hurt. It smarted worse, seeing how his gentle treatment of her head belied his harsh verbal lashing. He had initially called her to give an excuse slip for the next day's outdoor class with Professor Sprout, which he had stuffed in her hand, together with the pain potion, before he ushered her out in haste. It was signed by Professor McGonagall, and Hermione was to present it discreetly to the Head of Hufflepuff somewhere after breakfast and never leave the castle until further notice. This piece of news was piled on top of her little tower of things that couldn't have gone more wrong, but not willing to flirt with his temper more than she absolutely had to, she held her own fury back. She could tell that his mood was getting sourer by the minute and was grateful to be dismissed so quickly.

She spent her evening trying to decipher Snape's temper swings and could only come up with one thing: he was worried sick for her safety and had a twisted, yet very characteristic way of showing it. Her own conceit surprised her, but she still couldn't think of anything more plausible.

~ooo~

Her own mood descended together with her feet, which dragged her down the enchanted stairs and into the Great Hall. She had got up early and was one of the first to enter the enchanted chamber. A house-elf, one of the many scuttling about Hogwarts in the wee hours of morning, cringed at her facial expression and popped away with a tiny squeak of terror, but she didn't even bother to feel ashamed. Missing one of the most promising Herbology classes of the semester did not particularly constitute a sunny disposition.

"Rough night?" Ginny asked casually, plopping down next to her after Hermione had been pushing a piece of scrambled egg around her plate for a good twenty minutes.

"More like a shitty morning," she grumbled in response, thinking of the blasted roll of parchment that confined her to the castle. And Fred and George never wrote back. Not that she could go meet them.

"Too much to study?" Ginny offered with automatic sympathy, her eyes already on the entrance door, where Harry was slumping his way somberly to the table.

"Oi, Ginny, it's considered something rude to say if you're talking to Hermione," Ron said with a bit more snark than she could tolerate on this particular morning.

Hermione shot him a death glare, and Ron cringed away.

Harry approached the table with an absent face, mumbled a half-hearted good morning and plopped down next to Dean.

"Any success with Harry?" Hermione asked, stomping on her wish to smack Ron upside the head for being his usual, tactless self.

"Not really," he replied with defeat. "He wouldn't talk. He brushes me away. Not that you would have any success, either," Ron added and looked at her meaningfully. Apparently, her own secret-keeping antics still rubbed him the wrong way quite a bit.

Looking into his honest, blue eyes, Hermione felt a sudden desire to hug him close, like they were still best friends, and everything was not so complicated between them.

It probably showed in her eyes, because Ron suddenly looked all of thirteen, and a crooked, wistful smile tugged at his face.

"Hey, you know what we can do? That Herbology class today, the one in the Forest. Sprout is just going to blather on about leaves and sticks and roots, and we can, well, ambush Harry and just be blunt?" he asked, hope dancing in his eyes.

"Oh, Ron..." If she could possibly get more upset, she did. "I... can't go. I have an excuse slip from McGonagall," she said and clasped her hands together apologetically.

"You do?" Ron asked, doubtful at first, but then hope ebbed from his eyes and contempt clouded them. "Oh, I get it. Don't ask, right? Your secrets again?"

She was about to cry and looked away from his dear face, trying to focus on something else, something neutral. Instead, her gaze landed on Draco Malfoy's face. He was passing the Gryffindor table on the way out of the Great Hall, his ever-present retinue of Crabbe and Goyle teetering clumsily behind him.

Something had made him halt his step, and now he was looking at her with confused anger, as if she were holding clues to some particularly tricky question and was not budging. Before she could process what was happening, Crabbe and Goyle, who were muttering something between themselves, bumped into Draco's back, making him stumble. Snapping out of whatever trance he was in, he whipped around, wand drawn, making his goonies recoil. Hermione watched the scene unfold with an uneasy tension and closed her eyes, suddenly remembering the harsh, violating feel of the little ferret's forearm pressing across her throat. When she collected herself enough to go back to the world around her, Draco was gone.

She got up, suddenly having the need to move, flee somewhere and calm. Breakfast was not over yet, and she still had time before she had to go to Professor Sprout and get excused from the class. Her feet automatically took her to her usual sanctuary.

The Owlery was quiet; most birds were slumbering after a long night of hunting. Only a few drowsy hoots met her when she wiggled her treats of bacon strips and toast. She waited for a minute for her usual, dotty dwarf of an owl to come down. It never did, and she gave it a few more minutes, politely declining an offer of an outstretched leg from a frazzled, elderly barn owl. Sometimes, she wished the school birds had names. Another owl, indiscreet and gray, glided down and offered its service, and Hermione hastily tied the note to the twins, which said that she had to postpone their plans for the meeting. She watched it take off out of a tall window and thought of the tiny, speckled creature, which resembled a sparrow more than an owl. Perhaps, morning caught it chasing a mouse in the forest, and it hid in a hollow tree.

Heaving a heavy sigh for the bird, whom she had come to think of as sort of her own little messenger, Hermione looked at her Muggle watch and started for the Herbology classroom. She still had time before the sixth-year Herbology students were to assemble in the Entrance Hall for the class.

She reached the level where she had to turn for the Hufflepuff part of the castle, finding her way intuitively among the winding corridors. Immersed in thoughts, she paid little heed to her surroundings, and as she was rounding yet another corner, she suddenly collided with something heavy.

Landing on her arse, she watched in dismay as her bag burst, and the numerous books, notes and rolls of parchment went flying out and rained down on her in miserable disarray.

A high-pitched snigger and a few barking, booming guffaws startled her from watching the world that fit in her bag collapse. Crabbe and Goyle, the two oafs, were looming above her, looking like two stone giants beside Pansy Parkinson, who stood observing her smugly, her beady, wide-set eyes dancing in amusement.

"Oh, clumsy!" she crooned with mock sympathy.

Hermione started to get up, discretely fingering her wand in its pocket.

"Here, we'll help you pick it all up. I am a Prefect after all, and that's what Prefects do." Pansy's mean, little voice sounded in her ears, its practiced condescension churning her.

"Don't bother, thank you," Hermione muttered through gritted teeth and conjured a bag for her things, unwilling to make a scene or suffer another minute of uneasiness alone with Draco Malfoy's little clique.

"Don't be so proud, Granger. It's quite unbecoming in a Mu... It's unbecoming," Pansy retorted, her little slip obviously deliberate. "Well, boys? Help!"

Before Hermione knew, the three of them started gathering up her notes and books and various know-it-all paraphernalia that filled her bag. Coy, meaningful looks were exchanged, and she realized that she was not being let in on something. Stuffing her belongings into her makeshift, substitute bag, she hurried away, mumbling an absolutely not heart-felt thank you.

When she reached her destination, a tiny sliver of worry started ticking in her head. The door to the classroom gave under her nudge and revealed a very Sprout-less room. A seventh-year Hufflepuff boy, who was always so indiscernible that even she could not remember his name, despite the fact that he'd been Sprout's unofficial assistant during the last two years, stopped clearing the blackboard and dropped his wand.

"Oh, hello. I'm, uh... I need to talk to Professor Sprout, erm..." She fidgeted.

"Elias," the boy supplied, with no obvious offense taken.

"Elias," she echoed and looked around the room.

"She's not here. She had something brought to her attention and left immediately after breakfast. She has a class with... well, with you, so you may as well find her there half an hour."

"She's not here? Maybe I can catch up with her, then," she said half to herself absently.

"Don't think so. Draco Malfoy came here right after breakfast and told her that she is required at the lesson site immediately," the boy answered and eyed her unrest curiously.

"Yes, well... thank you, uh, Elias," Hermione said, turning on her heel. She still had good twenty minutes before the sixth-year Herbology NEWT class had to assemble for the trip, and the little gears in her head meshed and ground, set in motion by a gut feeling of something being off.

She rushed down into the Great Hall where a few Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs were already waiting like docile little doves, casting mild protection and warming spells onto each other.

"Have you seen Professor Sprout?" she asked Hannah Abbot and was surprised how frantic her voice sounded.

"Oh, no, she's not here yet. Is something the matter, Hermione?" Hannah, ever the concerned one, asked, giving her a searching look.

"No, no, everything is just fine," Hermione replied, staring around her, as if the very walls of the Great Hall could help her out.

As her gaze skimmed the entrance door, she spotted Pansy Parkinson, looking smug and extremely pleased with herself. She walked towards the ever growing group of sixth-year students, flanked by Crab and Goyle, both of whom somehow managed to get into the class, and the very sound of her clicking heels seemed arrogant.

Suddenly, something else clicked...in her head. She rummaged in her conjured bag and pulled out her destroyed one, looking for clues. Soon enough, she noticed the slightly frayed edges of the ripped seam, which signified very neat spell work. Horror rushed like a hot wave through her in the wake of understanding, and she continued searching for her excuse scroll.

It wasn't there. Hiding discreetly in a nook behind an arch, she upturned the entire contents of her bag and even tried to Accio the scroll, but in vain.

Why would Pansy need it? And how did she know that Hermione had one, in the first place? Her mind obligingly provided an image of Draco Malfoy scowling at her as he passed by just when she was telling Ron...

Oh, bugger.

She flew out of her little hiding place, ready to drag the pug-nosed bitch into a corner and demand her slip back.

"There you finally are, Miss Granger," a low contralto said right behind her with mild annoyance. "We've been waiting for you, and now that everyone is here, I'll escort you to your class.

Hermione turned around and gave Professor Sinistra a wan smile.

Aurora Sinistra was not Hermione's favourite teacher. And since she had taken it to mind to pass Astronomy OWLs with flying colours in her fourth year, the sentiment was returned by her Astronomy professor in spades. After Hermione had the audacity to point out a mistake in one of Sinistra's astrological formulas, which was later confirmed by Professor Vector and even by McGonagall herself (who was quite a dab hand in Astrology), there was no love lost between the teacher and the student.

"Sorry to have kept you waiting, Professor," Hermione apologized, trying to keep her voice neutral and quiet. "I actually have an excuse slip for the class and..."

"Do produce it then, Miss Granger. I haven't got much time for dawdling: there's a class of third-years waiting for me."

"I, uh... actually, I lost it but if you..."

"Well then, it looks like you don't have it," Sinistra said sweetly and turned to address the rest of the students, "Class, please follow me."

Hermione felt blood rushing from her face, ringing like annoying rusty bells in her temples. Magicking her bag ripped, luring Sprout away under some undoubtedly fake pretense, stealing her slip, having Sinistra to accompany the class...she was positive that there was a carefully orchestrated scheme at play. Part of her wanted to run and hide and deal with it later, when the mad beating of her heart stopped. And when Snape was out of classes, her mind slipped in. And yet, her other part, the one that still could not reconcile with all the shifts in her existence that Mageness brought about, rebelled. What possible danger could come to her within Hogwarts grounds? Under the supervision of one, possibly two professors? Amidst a couple of dozens of students? All she had to do is be cautious, not cause a scene, follow Sinistra and explain it all to Sprout. Who would be much more inclined to believe a Gryffindor Prefect.

Imagining that her resolve was made of steel, she held on to it and followed her classmates, now trickling out of the Great Hall and scurrying to exit the castle.

As her feet carried her, following some blind crowd instinct that had moved humans to follow their peers mindlessly for ages, Hermione tried to pep-talk herself into a calm state. She'd broken rules and regulations before, and she wasn't even breaking any right now...just going against her mentor's caution...and she'd almost always got out unscathed. Trying to take her mind off the nagging worry, she wondered if she could come up with an Arithmantic equation in her mind, to calculate the possibility of something happening to her while technically still in Hogwarts. Shuffling constants and variables about in her head, she kept going past the Greenhouses and down a gently sloping hill to the outskirts of the Forbidden Forest.

A small, moving dot in the sky caught her attention. The dot rapidly grew and gradually took on the outlines of a bird. A small, frantically flying owl. Squinting slightly, Hermione recognized the ever ruffled, freckled form of her little owl friend and was suddenly very happy to see the poor mishap of a bird. Even before her brain registered it and her eyes saw the proof, she knew that the owl was carrying a missive for her. Must be from Friend and George, she thought with elation, and as soon as the bird was close enough, she reached out to snatch a roll of parchment, tied neatly with a red and gold band.

It was only when she was opening the letter that she noticed how the pattern of the dots on the owl's head was a off, and the colour was not... exactly the same. Not her bird, no definitely not.

And it was only when she touched the inner side of the blank parchment and instantly felt a sickening tug at her gut, and the world whirled out of focus that she remembered that Portkeys only didn't work within Hogwarts' actual walls; the grounds weren't protected with the Anti-Portkey wards. The magic took her somewhere pitch black, and without being able to see where she was landing, Hermione fell down in a heap, successfully knocking herself out in the process.

~ooo~

When she came to, she couldn't tell how long she had stayed unconscious, because there was no daylight to indicate the passage of time. The space around her was cold and soggy, the very air damp. She touched the floor and her fingernails scraped on moldy stones. Dungeons? Surely not. Despite being rather creepy, the dungeons of Hogwarts had never instilled such a strong feeling of wrongness in her. It was like the very building or place she was currently in rejected her presence.

There was a very dim beam of a slightly lighter air, coming from somewhere above, and by its length, Hermione could tell that the ceiling was rather high. Standing up, she felt her head spin and held her hand to the wall to prevent herself from falling down. It would be useful to know how big the place was, she decided, and started walking along the wall, dragging her palm over the rough stones. Immediately, her fingers ran into some kind of indentations, which had a certain pattern to them: six vertical strokes, crossed out by a horizontal one. Her brain was suddenly attacked by a rush of images and alien sensations: hunger, fear, despair, hope, despair again, not being able to understand, mother, missing, monkeys in palm trees.

Hermione walked faster, counting the stroke patterns on the wall, until she had reached the count of fifteen and her feet bumped into a body.

Two screams ripped the air, one of which was hers and the other belonging to someone sitting close to her. She finally remembered that she was a witch, reached for her wand and lit it up. The light was very dim, which made her suspect that the room or a cave or wherever they were, was protected by some kind of anti-magic wards: only basic spells would work, and they would be weak, at best.

In front of her stood a rail-thin, jaundiced boy of no more than twelve. He had ragged, black hair which probably hadn't seen shampoo or even water in months, olive skin and a look of a small, caged animal in his eyes. And just like she knew that she was Hermione Granger, Gryffindor Prefect and a Middler Mage, she knew clear as day that in front of her stood Fazeem Noorta, aged thirteen, speaking not two words in English, and a Taker Mage.