Author's Note: Hey everyone. This story was written for the In Another Life Fest - myself and Kyonomiko had a blast coordinating this fest, and we're grateful to everyone who participated! This is complete and will be shared to FFN in three parts.

Prompt: High Fantasy AU (Tier 2): Cursed to a Faerie realm, rescue doesn't seem to be on the way. Time to find a way home.

Since this is a High Fantasy AU, the backstories of the main characters are different, and therefore their interactions with one another may differ from canon characterization.

Alpha credit to Kyonomiko; beta love to CourtingInsanity.

Disclaimer: I do not own any part of the Harry Potter franchise.

A curtain of mist hung low in the lush, verdant canopy. Far ahead, Draco could just see the first rays of sun peeking through the cloud cover above as the sun reached its zenith in the pale sky. The air was humid, leaving him awash with discomfort as he lounged in the crook of an ancient cedar, its trunk sturdy enough it could have been lived in, if not for its remote location, so far from the court of Hawthorn's Hazard.

Remote enough that tracking him down would be difficult.

It was here, in the vast and wild depths of the forests of Timbervale, that Draco sought refuge from the people of Hawthorn's Hazard — high above the world and the expectations by which he had become disillusioned.

Even the endless beauty of the realm around him fell flat; Draco was bored and in need of a change. A break, away from Timbervale, and away from his parents. He frowned, allowing his eyes to flutter shut as he leaned back on the thick branch. It would never be allowed.

He was grown now, an adult fae in his own right, and he ought to be able to do as he pleased. To practice his wielding without admonition, and to explore the vastness of the world — beyond Timbervale, and beyond The Nearby — as he had longed to do since he'd been a child, full of dreams and hopes for the future.

But now twenty-three, Draco felt the pressure closing in on him. Those dreams had all but vanished, the hopes dried up and drawn from him as poison from a wound through the passing of time. It was a bleak future ahead of him now — a life trapped in bureaucracy and the cage of Hawthorn's Hazard, between an ancient copse and a sheer cliff face. There, he would dwell for countless centuries, until the toll of age would finally take hold. His fatigued body would no longer be able to explore, no longer able to travel and to see the other realms of the world, about which he knew so little. The histories had been long buried.

Scowling, Draco fixed the hood of his forest cloak beneath his head, his eyes blinking open. He lifted a hand and with an intense moment of focus, he was able to summon the sparks of magic that lay beneath his skin.

He could feel the magic in his blood awakening, stirring and swirling as it pushed from his fingertips with a mellow sting.

There were realms out there — he knew there were — where the practice of magic was still a noble and honoured tradition. Here in Timbervale, wielding had become so rare it had all but died out — and it was frowned upon by those who had not been blessed with the ability. The practice of magic had even been outlawed in Hawthorn's Hazard.

He had long been discouraged from speaking aloud about his own, faint ability, despite that he knew it came from his mother's lineage.

With a harsh exhale, the sparks — golden and bright — fizzled and fell away, leaving his hand cool and the stir in his blood quiet. He stared at the tips of his fingers, the smudges of dirt and bark trapped beneath his nails from the trek and the climb, and when the hint of his magic failed to return, he dropped the hand to his stomach.

The last of the mist had all but dissipated and the sun was breaking through the canopy above with a shining warmth now, casting streaking shafts of brightness through the trees, to land on the moss and scrub far below.

Draco sighed, letting his eyes slip shut again. He'd need to return sooner or later, and he quite thought later to be the optimal choice. Perhaps he would catch a lazy afternoon snooze and dawdle in returning to the Hazard.

His eyes snapped open at the crack of a branch on the ground below and Draco tensed, one hand reaching automatically for the dagger sheathed at his waist. But when he peered down from the edge of his branch, he sneered, rolling his eyes.

"What do you want?" he called down, settling himself back on his branch. As an afterthought he added, "And how did you find me?"

"I've been sent to summon you, My Lord," Theodore Nott — one of the royal messengers — called up. "You are to hold an audience with the king."

Draco huffed a long, drawn sigh, entwining his fingers across his chest. "I'll be back in a while."

He didn't need to see Theodore to know the man was shifting on the forest floor, torn between a desire to leave Draco be and his own interests in returning successful. "The king said it was a matter of haste."

"Bully for the king," Draco grumbled, rolling his eyes. But he shouted, "Fine!"

He began his graceful descent from the tall cedar, dropping from six feet up with a heavy crunch of underbrush beneath his boots. He met Theodore's hazel gaze with a smirk. "How did you find me?"

Theodore's lips twitched. "You leave a trail, My Lord, to one who knows where to look."

Draco frowned, even as he squinted at his oldest friend. "I do not."

Breaking into a grin, Theodore shook his head as he began the long trek back to the cliffside city of Hawthorn's Hazard. "I guess you'll never know. Sometimes it's handy, being able to find you. Never mind that the king sent me out three hours ago."

Draco felt a twinge of smug satisfaction at the thought. He swept the hood of his cloak atop his blond hair, the heavy fabric catching on the peak of his ear. "At least I haven't made it too easy for you."

Draco scowled at the floor as he sat, stiff-shouldered, in his seat.

"— These childish habits of yours —" the king was ranting, waving his hands, his long blond hair perfectly in place "— sneaking off, hiding away all day long, exploring in the wilds — it needs to stop!"

He pressed his lips shut, careful to refrain from rolling his eyes.

The king halted and turned to stare at Draco with bright grey eyes — the same ones that Draco possessed. Lucius Malfoy, the King of Timbervale — and Draco's father. He wanted nothing more than to retreat to the wilds once more. He was accustomed to sleeping up a tree by now, and if it was up to Draco he would walk into the woods one day and never return. He would escape from the crushing expectations of the people of Hawthorn's Hazard — and those of his parents.

His mother was watching with a downturn to her painted lips, the skin around her eyes drawn tight. Her hair was tied into an elegant blonde twist. Narcissa Malfoy, the Queen of Timbervale.

"Draco, as the Crown Prince of Timbervale —"

Draco loosed a petulant huff, ignoring the frown of his mother. "I know." He waved a dismissive hand, having heard the lecture more times than he could count. A bitter twist to his stomach curled his lip. "I have certain duties to uphold."

His mother's eyes flashed. "Draco, it is an honour," she snapped, her tone leaving little room for argument. "The people of Timbervale look up to you and you will one day lead them — but a far cry from a leader you are now. You will observe the customs of this realm, and that is final."

He felt a cold emptiness settle in his soul when he thought of the life he would have to give up when he stepped into a seat of power in the Hazard.

It was tradition in Timbervale for the Heir Apparent to commence their rule upon their twenty-fifth birthday, regardless of the remaining youth of their parents. It would be the only way he would be able to leave the throne — to thrust it upon his own heir one day. But Lucius and Narcissa would never leave the royal house and court of Hawthorn's Hazard, even when Draco stepped into power.

It wasn't a life he wanted for any child of his own, and Draco had no interest in selecting a proper lady to sit at his side and produce his heir. His dreams were so much greater in size and wider in reach.

Despite that, the King of Timbervale was a lofty position and many in Timbervale were not so fortunate, the seat of the king was not truly so powerful when he had to fulfill the bleak interests of the court — most of whom had been in power so long their desires had exceeded corruption.

His father had been in power for two centuries already, and Lucius Malfoy no longer recognized justice from greed, or malice from beneficence.

The small, restricted cliff-city of Hawthorn's Hazard was a far cry from the endless glory of the wilderness of Timbervale.

Draco clutched the fine silver fork in a tight fist. Sucking his teeth, he loosened his grasp and let the fork fall to the intricate embroidery of the tablecloth. He turned baleful eyes on his mother, unable to look his father in the face in a gnarled blend of disappointment and shame.

"Is that all?"

The Queen of Timbervale clicked her tongue and shook her head. He could feel his father's gaze on his cheek and he felt a cold shiver chase the length of his spine. "That is all."

With a tight nod, Draco stood from his seat and returned to the quiet, constricting shell of his chambers.

It was a new experience altogether, to break through from the realm of Cascadia into the mythical land known only as The Nearby. Hermione had heard of its great vastness, the heavy mist that hung in the air and cast everything into a thick, ubiquitous cloud, but never had she seen it with her own eyes.

The divide between The Nearby and Cascadia hadn't been easy to breach — it was unintended for one to leave the realm of their birth after all, these days at least — but after months of study and research, she had managed the feat.

It wasn't that she hated Cascadia, with its pale beaches and rolling waves, sparkling pools and crashing falls — it was just that she needed something else. The world was too wide, its realms too many for her to whet her appetite for adventure staying in just one place. The persistence of the sun was wearying, and the mountains treacherous in their endless mass and beauty.

She would return, one day. Her parents would understand, for she knew they had seen it in her demeanour of late. The need to do more. There were other realms, that much she knew, but about them there was no information to be found. It was to discourage the young citizens of Cascadia from crossing into the harsh and unforgiving land of The Nearby.

Hermione now knew why — the mist was thick, a smoggy haze, and it clung to her skin and clothes like a dark cloud. In the distance and all around her, she could hear the realms beyond. A faint chirping of birds, the crunching of twigs, the whisper of leaves in the trees and the crashing of waves — perhaps from within Cascadia itself.

But most disconcerting of all was the utter silence of the magic within her veins. Since she had broken through Cascadia into The Nearby, her magic had gone quiet and she couldn't bring forth even a trace. She wasn't certain she was ready to admit what that meant, but couldn't keep the thoughts from drifting through her mind.

Her magic was as much a part of her as her chocolate eyes, or her wild curls. She felt both disarmed and naked, neither of which were reassuring.

Did it mean that the other realms had no magic — no wielders? Were they perhaps not realms of fae at all, but mortals?

Swallowing the thick lump of trepidation that had formed in her throat, Hermione patted her hands dry on the thin material of her knee-length trousers. The cool, damp air of The Nearby traced the exposed skin of her arms and legs, bringing goose pimples to her flesh and a chill to her soul.

Taking a step forward before she could chase back through the rip in the fabric of Cascadia, fighting the urge to ensconce herself in the warmth by her favourite creek or bask by the hot springs, Hermione ventured further into The Nearby.

She heard it all sharper now, the distant sounds. But above all the rest, the blended murmur of thousands of voices. The people and creatures of the realms — whether fae, human, or otherwise — were speaking to her. Calling to her.

The haze of the realm between realms rolled on in wisps of cloud as far as her sharp gaze could see, the sounds echoing both without and within. But still she paced forward, her steps growing quicker as the cool air turned to a breeze, and without warning, began sweeping past her in fell gusts. Hermione pressed on, hands clutched to her sides and shoulders tensed, wishing beyond anything else that she could feel even a hint of her magic swirling through her veins.

She had brought only the satchel on her back, filled with food and essential provisions, and the few weapons she possessed — a modest silver dagger and a handcrafted bow with a dozen arrows in her leather quiver, their fletching imperfect and bent from reuse and age. She was an expert with neither; the wide and watery lands of Cascadia had long been quiet of enemies. Her best hope would be to locate a source of water — she could fashion a hook and rod with the simplest of materials.

She froze, sensing the whisper of a realm ahead. The rustling of the wind called to her, leaves and branches dancing on the cool breeze of The Nearby. Taking another deep breath, Hermione crept forward until the other sounds had faded away but for the endless waltz of the forest. She stood on the precipice of the realm, and the instinctive understanding of it came from somewhere deep within her, and ancient. From times when fae freely traversed the lands between realms. Before the politics and long-standing rivalries among the realms had cast such stark divisions as those which now stood.

Not knowing where the path would take her, Hermione settled her countenance and broke through The Nearby.

Her first night in the depths of the forest was dark and harrowing, the ominous echoing of creatures all around her as Hermione failed to find any respite from the new world in which she had found herself.

This place was nothing like Cascadia with its hot sun, wide beaches and towering peaks.

It was forest as far as the eye could see, a deep woodland realm of ancient, towering trees, their lush canopy so thick they nearly blocked out the sun — and so much cooler than the warmth with which she had grown up. At the break of dawn she had risen from her makeshift bed, pitched beneath a hastily constructed tent of thick canvas, packed her bag, and carried on.

It was nearing midday when Hermione saw the first hints of a landscape beyond the trees — a meadow, its fields lush and green, speckled with an array of wildflowers. A rolling stream veered towards her as she neared the glade; one of the only skills of her magic that had come into this vast forest with her, she discovered, was the ability to cleanse a water source.

She filled her skein and drank deeply, the water cold and fresh, before carrying on.

The sun was both brighter and warmer as she broke from the canopy of the forest and into the meadow. There she had lingered, basking in the beauty of the meadow and the foliage that grew there. A pack of rabbits chased past, too quick for her to consider catching, and after too long she rose to continue on.

She hadn't seen a single soul — mortal or fae — since breaking through The Nearby.

And so it came as a great surprise when Hermione broke back into the forest and found a gleaming arrowhead in her periphery — a furrow in the brow of its owner, visible beneath the hood of a heavy green cloak, and the rest of the face cast in shadow.

"You drank from the king's stream," the bowman said, his voice sharp and accented in a way she had never heard before.

Hermione froze and as she considered making a move for her dagger, she heard the rustle in the forest; her eyes caught the movement of others.

"Speak," the man demanded, his bowstring drawn tight. "Explain yourself."

"I didn't realize!" Hermione gasped, every muscle tensed as her brain turned over his words. "I didn't know the stream was —"

"Sacred," the man grunted and loosened the string of his gloriously crafted recurve longbow as his dark gaze remained fixed on her. "Everyone knows the king's stream is sacred. And the king's meadow."

"I didn't, I promise," she breathed, eyes darting to the woods once more. Other archers materialized, on the ground and in the trees. "I — I came from The Nearby. A day ago."

"The Nearby." The archer blinked, dropping his bow as he stared at her — she could see his wide hazel eyes and he dropped his hood, exposing pointed ears. Fae, then.

"Yes." Hermione nodded, her throat dry as she forced a swallow. "I came from Cascadia."

The archer scowled but stowed his arrow into a lavish, embellished quiver and swung the longbow onto his back. "Cascadia." His lip curled into a sneer. "Another realm, is it? How'd you get into The Nearby anyway? No way to get there from here that I've ever heard of."

Hermione swallowed, a sear of panic seizing her chest. "And where is here, might I ask?"

The archer blinked and shook his head, fixing her with a curious stare. The other archers approached — four of them in total — and Hermione tensed, shrinking into herself. The first one answered, "This is Timbervale — the woodland realm."

"Timbervale," she breathed, testing the word. She had never heard of such a place.

"Right." The archer shared a look with his comrades, his face grim. "And you'll be going to see the king at Hawthorn's Hazard."

King Lucius was both intimidating and regal, his long pale hair tied with a ribbon at the back of his head, an entwined crown of silver twigs perched atop. His wife was the most beautiful woman Hermione had ever seen — Queen Narcissa of Timbervale — and she hesitated before them both.

The daughter of Cascadian merchants, Hermione had never met the royalty that lived far on the other side of her own realm.

She had been thrust before them, high upon their dais upon matching thrones of silver branches twisted amongst exotic forest woods. The archers who had found her explained her crimes — drinking from the stream and passing through the meadow — although to Hermione both of those seemed rather innocuous and harmless, and quite like things she would have done on a daily basis in Cascadia to no consequence.

Timbervale, it seemed, was different and the city of Hawthorn's Hazard was as fearful as it was dangerous, perched high upon the edge of a cliff and surrounded by a thick wall and an endless grove of hawthorn.

Her gaze caught a stir of movement in her peripheral vision and she found the grey eyes of a male fae across the room — his expression was startled for the briefest of moments before it was schooled into stoic boredom. By his pale hair, she could only surmise him to be a relative of the king and queen — a son, perhaps — although despite his position, he didn't wear a crown but rather a simple hooded forest cloak like the archers.

The son strolled to the front of the room, his eyes following the proceedings with mild, standoffish interest.

King Lucius' eyes were cold as he stared at her. "Visitors from The Nearby are not welcome in Timbervale. You will be released with just this one warning — if you break any more of our laws, the penalty will be far more severe. You will travel back to the tear through which you arrived, perform whatever sorcery brought you here, and return to your own realm."

Queen Narcissa's icy blue eyes were fixed on her, and the pale eyes of the son tightened, his expression betraying nothing.

"Understood," Hermione choked, her mouth dry. She didn't know that she wanted to stay in Timbervale anyway, after the way she'd been received.

But the problem remained that she didn't know whether she'd be able to access the magic that had brought her to Timbervale. The spell she'd used to enter The Nearby was still active when she had entered the forest, but to get back could require more magic than she had.

If King Lucius was willing to let her go, however, she wasn't going to belabour the finer points. She was going to go. Hawthorn's Hazard was a dark and gloomy place, and she longed to return to the vast wilderness of the forests.

With a wave of the king's hand she was dismissed — and she fled.

Hermione sighed as she paced the beaten trail through the woods, her eyes flickering back and forth as they fixed on the trees ahead of her. Trying to find her way back to the place through which she had entered from The Nearby was proving to be a challenge, and she had already spent hours searching.

Everything was starting to look the same, endless sprawling groves and woods with the occasional small glade — and each time Hermione's heart leapt into her throat in case she had returned to the king's meadow once more.

But still she trod on, the dampness in the soil beneath her feet seeping into the soft leather of her boots. The sun was obscured by a thick layer of cloud cover and a pale mist had descended between the trees of Timbervale. Hermione slung her traveling cloak over her shoulders, but it had been crafted for the more temperate lands of Cascadia and she feared it wouldn't keep her warm enough come nightfall.

Huffing a breath, she stopped and drew a slice of crusty bread and her water skein from her pack, nibbling the bread as she walked and being careful not to consume too much of her water. She didn't know by what means the archers had found her earlier that day and wasn't keen to run into them again. She doubted the royal court of Timbervale would be lenient a second time.

Hermione wasn't certain whether she would be able to enter The Nearby as she had before, but being exiled from Timbervale left her little option but to try.

And if she couldn't… well. She quashed the nerves rising at the very thought and quickened her pace. She had brought the book she'd utilized the first time, so maybe there was another way through.

She nearly leapt from her skin at the sound of a smooth voice above her. "You do realize, of course, you've been down this path three times now."

Her hand flew to the dagger at her waist, drawing it from its sheath as she stared around, and into the tall canopy. Her senses were usually sharper than this — but everything about her had been out of sorts since leaving Cascadia.

Eyes widening in fear and hand gripping the hilt of her dagger, Hermione watched as a hooded someone dropped down in front of her, a smirk curling his lips and the rest of his face kept in shadow. He swept the hood back from his head and she was seized with both surprise and hesitation to see it was the blond fae from the court. The one she had guessed to be the son of the king.

But even as she considered his appearance, his words registered and she felt a flush paint her cheeks. "I'm leaving — I promise. I just need to get back to where I entered so I can reach The Nearby," she stalled, hoping he would believe her words.

But the blond simply waved a hand towards her dagger and Hermione sheathed it once more, despite the warning bells pealing in the back of her mind. He chuckled, turning from her and glancing behind him.

"You aren't leaving if you can't find your way." He snickered and Hermione felt a flare of indignance despite her circumstances.

"I'll find my way," she challenged, catching her lower lip between her teeth. "Eventually. How long have you been following me?"

"Since you left court. Don't look so embarrassed — I know these woods better than anyone, and the ways to keep unseen." He stared at her, calculating, for a long, tenuous moment before folding his arms across his chest. "Tell me your name."

She scowled at him, debating the merits of either refusing or lying and determined neither would get her out of the situation. "It's Hermione."

"Hermione," the fae drawled, as if testing the word on his lips. "Fascinating. And where did you come from, Hermione?"

She squared her shoulders, staring him in the eye. "Like I told your king, I came from Cascadia. By way of The Nearby."

He hesitated, a shock of pale blond hair hanging across his grey eyes as he stared at her, his lips parted. "No lie, then? You came from another realm?"

"No lie," she agreed, fighting the urge to roll her eyes. "Now will you let me go so I can leave your blasted woods? You don't need to tell your father, or uncle, or what have you —"

"My father," he clipped, the word delicate as if distasteful. "Here's the thing, Hermione — by Timbervale law I am to report your lingering presence in our woods."

"I'm lost, then, alright?" she ground through her teeth. The fae — the prince, apparently — waved a dismissive hand.

"I don't care if you stay," he said with a shrug, the words blunt. "I'm not going tell my father you're still here — but you're going to do something for me in return."

She felt her lip curl as she released a sound of irritation. But he held up a hand before she could make a remark.

His next words sent a shocking thrill racing through her. "You're going to take me with you — into The Nearby."

She nearly choked. "I can't take you with me! If your king was ready to punish me for passing through a meadow I can only imagine the penalty for abducting his heir!"

"Death," the fae said, his voice soft. His cloudy stare was hard on her. "The penalty would be death."

"Absolutely not," she breathed, shaking her head. She began to make off down the path again before remembering she was still lost. She released an angry huff of a breath. "Please just tell me the way. Even if you can direct me back to the meadow, I'm sure I can find it from there."

The prince pursed his lips, his eyes narrowing. "If you won't help me, why should I help you?"

"That is incredibly self-serving." Hermione sighed, fixing him with a glare. "If your king's archers find me again what's to say they won't shoot on sight?"

"They will," the prince informed her. "Unless you're with me." His lips twitched, but something shone behind his eyes — something honest. "I know you don't know anything about me — but please. Show me how to reach The Nearby, and I'll grant you safe passage through Timbervale."

It was at that point that Hermione realized he wore a pack of his own — as if he didn't intend to return to Hawthorn's Hazard. An elegant recurve bow and a quiver of the finest arrows hung from his shoulders. She met his eyes, searching for a hint of a lie beneath them. She breathed, "You're serious about this. What is your name?"

"Draco," he said, his brows hopeful. "And you really have no option — these woods are a maze even if you're familiar with them. An outsider won't stand a chance."

"Draco," she echoed, twisting her lips. She hesitated for a long moment, before sighing. She might come to regret it, but it was best to let him know now. "I don't know if I can get either of us into The Nearby. My magic hasn't been working since I left Cascadia."

His eyes shot open in surprise. "You're a wielder?"

"Yes." She blinked at him, cautious. "Are you not? Is there no magic in Timbervale?"

"There is," he breathed, his voice low, "but it's rare. No one speaks of it, because the magical lines have all but died out."

She huffed a breath. "That explains a lot. Regardless, I'll need to study a different method to access The Nearby — and so you're aware, it may take some time."

His pale stare caught her again. "I'm not going back to the Hazard, Hermione. However long it takes."

Steeling her countenance, she gave him a crisp nod. "Then lead the way."