When Two Different Worlds Collide

I reiterate what I said before: college is a bitch.

Ugh, sorry. I'm so busy and then I'm like "shit you haven't updated in three months what the hell Abbie".

Blah blah filler chapters, blah blah defining Hermione's capturing, yadda yadda details….

There weren't really any reviews this past time, so no commentary there….

Mkay. On with the story, then!

Disclaimer: If I owned this stuff, I wouldn't be writing fanfiction.

7) The Imprisoned Passenger: Part Three

She couldn't have been asleep again more than an hour when she felt a large, calloused hand shaking her shoulder, not too roughly, rousing her back into the waking world. She wanted to complain on instinct, on being pulled once more from her slumber, might have had her brain not instantly provided her with a sharp reminder of where she was and who she was with. Her brain had been so fuzzy in the past times she'd woken in this odd, terrifying world, and she was thankful that, for once, she didn't feel so displaced in her own body and brain at awakening. She forced herself not to yawn as she let her eyes flutter open, not even trying to stretch, even if it would have been a useless attempt, considering that she was still tied to the bark of a large tree.

When she got her vision to clear, blinking rapidly for a good ten seconds or so, the figure before her finally came into view, lit up some from behind by the orange fire flickering a couple of meters away, though the details were fuzzy due to the lack of light that had come with the dark evening. She squinted, brain picking out a tall, lean figure, adorned in clothes in varying shades of brown, a knife's sheath buckled at his waist. The man was shorter than the rest of his band, his hair dark and cropped short to his head, skin a dark, rich color. Hermione managed out a pair of dark brown eyes, deep as her own, a nose that sloped downward in a long hook, and a set of thin lips, turned down in a frown that almost seemed like curiosity. She'd seen him before, and it took her a moment but she put a name to the man – nay, more like a boy, perhaps not much older than herself – and her shoulder seemed to give a phantom throb when she thought Yvet, the one that had shot her in the woods just the day before.

She smelled the food in Yvet's hand before he held it out, but he'd already thrust it out once he realized she was awake and aware, that same look of strange curiosity still on his features, eyes glued to her face. She tensed, stiff as she watched him through the darkness. "Here," he grunted, in a voice that, like his build, was not as course and developed as the voices of the other men, significantly older than himself, most definitely in appearance. "Take it."

Hermione eyed the food cautiously. The bowl was small and misshapen, chipped and cracked in places, like some kind of pot that had been well-crafted for the first half of its making, then left to its own devices for the second half, perhaps in a lack of interest on the maker's part. Inside was a stew, of sorts, something that smelled of fish and vegetables, though Hermione couldn't quite determine which ones had been put into the mixture. Two roughly cut slices of bread were alongside, half dipped in the soup to keep from falling out of the bowl. There was even a spoon, and hanging from Yvet's arm was a water skin, water drops dribbling down the side of it, signifying its recent filling.

Yvet cleared his throat pointedly, and Hermione blinked, realizing she'd been staring for a good, long moment, perhaps too long. He, however, just held the bowl out a little closer to her. "Take it," he mumbled again, no more forcefully than he had before.

Hermione took another moment to linger in caution before finally, carefully, reaching up with her good hand, taking the bowl from the young man and placing it in her lap, figuring that, even if the food was dangerous, could it possibly be worse than what was later in store for her? The chances were somewhat practical. She settled the bowl in the dip her crossed legs made, making sure the warm stew wouldn't spill onto her clothes or skin, before adjusting again and reaching up for the water skin he held out to her, mouth suddenly feeling incredibly parched, now that she thought over it. She clutched to it tightly, eyes never leaving Yvet as she placed the skin at her side, choosing to keep her famished state to herself until he turned his back.

He stared at her for a long moment, however, as if attempting to read her mind by will alone. She could feel the back of her neck tickling uncomfortably, and her muscles tensed, but it was only a moment more before he finally blinked and turned away, loping back toward the group of silhouettes Hermione could see grouped around the fire, all eating and talking in low voices, words to each other indistinguishable to Hermione (not that she minded, necessarily, unless they were discussing where and when to stab her in her sleep).

Hermione waited until Yvet had settled down by the fire again before picking up the water skin, uncapping it and putting it eagerly to her lips. Her bad shoulder moaned with aching pain, but she ignored it, both hands holding up the skin so she could drink from it. Her brain told her firmly to save some of the wonderful liquid, because she'd definitely want some later, but she drank down at least half of the water before forcing herself to stop, gasping softly as she pulled the water skin from her mouth, taking in some deep breaths before closing the skin and setting it beside her thigh.

She eyed the stew, then, stomach giving a rumble that was somewhat muffled by the water she'd drunk down in a mild frenzy. She picked up one of the pieces of bread, first, tearing off a section and nibbling carefully at it, taking in the somewhat bland but not horrible taste, before stuffing the whole of the piece into her mouth, chewing in earnest. Her consciousness had been in and out for the past couple of days, but she knew that this was her first meal in nearly a day and a half, and her body was aching for any food she could get her hands on, and this meal was much nicer than she'd ever expected to receive in this situation.

She finished the piece of bread quickly before considering the stew, brushing bread crumbs from her lips with the back of her good fist. Her shoulder wasn't aching as bad as before, now that it was relaxed against her side, but it still throbbed with (thankfully manageable) pain, so Hermione sighed, choosing to make do rather than strain her shoulder any worse than it already was. She grabbed her spoon with awkward but mostly reliable precision, dipping it into the stew and carefully raising the bite to her mouth. She blew a couple of cooling breaths over the spoonful before timidly sipping the stew from the spoon, swallowing down the warm liquid. Like the bread, the stew was somewhat bland, but it was better than Hermione had ever expected, and she smacked her lips a little before bending in for another spoonful, swallowing it down earnestly.

I can't believe they're even bothering to feed me, Hermione thought, somewhat idly, as she ate, taking the stew considerably slower than she had the bread and water.

It's only because they think you could be useful, her brain reminded her, and this time Hermione didn't even bother being concerned with talking to herself. They're making sure you stay alive long enough to interrogate you. If they knew we weren't useful, they would have killed us already.

Yeah, Hermione thought dryly, I'm aware of that.

They want information from us that we don't even have, anyway. So we'll die either way.

Glad to see you're being hopeful.

Hope and practicality are two completely different things, her brain said, a little snidely. Anyway, why haven't they questioned us, after all this? Why bother dragging us all this way?

I dunno. They said something about taking me to their 'Chief', or whatever, didn't they?

Yeah, but that's not very specific, is it?

What is, in this world? Hermione mentally huffed, swallowing another spoonful of stew. All I know is that we're in some place called Narnia, wherever and whatever that is, that animals talk here, and these people seem to think that I'm some kind of spy, or something. They seemed surprised that I managed to be in this world, or at least where I was when I got to this world.

The squirrel was afraid of them, her brain considered. Of Khandis and the rest.

Well, yes. For a talking animal, he seemed nice, and these people don't really seem to be that way, do they?

Point taken. Either way, that leaves us to wonder what kind of bad people they are, since that's what they appear to be.

What kind? I don't think what kind of villains they are is going to matter when they run me through.

Maybe.

Hermione didn't resist rolling her eyes, putting her spoon back down into her half-eaten bowl of stew, reaching for the water skin to take another hearty drink. She set it back down with about a third of its original contents left, grabbing the other piece of bread in her bowl and tearing off a piece like she had with the first. Her stomach was getting close to full, and she felt slightly nauseous from the influx of food, however soft in nature, but she pressed on, knowing this meal might be the last she had for another while (if not the last she had, period, depending on how much longer their travel would be).

There must be a way to get away from them, her brain insisted. We're Hermione Granger. We've never given up before, we can't give up now.

If you haven't noticed, we're tied to a tree. We're also injured, and considering these men don't seem to have an extensive selection of medications or treatments, we have no idea if my shoulder's infected or not, Hermione insisted past a mouthful of bread. Even if we did, by some miracle, manage to get away, what then? I don't have my wand, I don't even have my cloak. If they caught me, they'd probably kill me on the spot, information be damned. If they didn't, I wouldn't know where to go, and I'd end up starving to death. Escaping is probably the worst of our options, right now.

What else do we have? To sit here and wait for them to kill us?

Hermione wanted to groan. It's a quick death or a slow one, at this point. I'm not important enough to them to keep around and torture forever.

We're important, her brain insisted fiercely.

Not to them. Not to anyone in this world. There's no one to help me… Me.

But—

But nothing. I know what the odds look like. Like you said, huh? Hope and practicality aren't the same thing.

That almost seemed to quiet her brain, some, and Hermione took a moment to just not think, chewing idly on the piece of bread in her mouth, fingers gently pulling the rest of the bread into bite-sized pieces as she stared at nothing, the distant fire and its inhabitants mere specks on the outskirts of her distracted mind. She considered, eyes flickering up to look at the sky, stars peeking out, bright and white in the dark expanse of the late evening.

I wish I could say goodbye, she thought. I wish I could see Mum and Dad again, and Harry and Ron, just one more time. I wish I'd known so I could have said goodbye.

She swallowed, eyes stinging. They'll never know what happened to me, or where I went, or for how stupid a reason as-as curiosity. Harry and Ron will be in danger, they'll need my help, with Voldemort and that odd book and making sure they don't do anything completely and utterly stupid… even though I guess that's practically unavoidable, isn't it? We're all practically magnets for bad luck. I seem to be a prime example at this moment, don't I? Getting myself into a situation like this. And alone, no less. Who else, right?

She sniffed weakly, rubbing at her nose with a hand, dipping a section of her bread into her remaining stew before stuffing it into her mouth, chewing slowly. What would they all say if they could see me now?

She almost snorted at the first thought that came to mind. Ronald would say something ridiculous, no doubt, talking as if he's got any idea what this is like. He's so dense all the time. No help there. She sighed to herself, shaking her head idly. He'd be concerned, though, I know he would. And Harry, too. Harry definitely. He's a bit daft at times, but he'd be fighting to help me. Too reckless— no. Selfless. Too selfless for his own bloody good. Always has been. Then Mum and Dad… they'd be so terrified. So upset, but-but they'd be right at my side. I know they would. They'd be doing anything they could to help.

Hermione barely noticed rubbing at her cheek with the back of her free hand, moisture coming away with it as she went back to tearing at the bread, lower lip quivering a little. She groaned internally. You can't cry, damn it, she insisted fiercely to herself. This is exactly the worst time to have a go at crying, and I won't have it.

Her internal talking-to seemed to give her eyes a bit of strength, keeping sobs from coming, but it couldn't stop the few tears that dribbled their way down her cheeks, falling off her chin and landing in the lukewarm stew balanced just right in her lap. She didn't bother to stop them, knowing that they'd just fall faster if she became resilient, so she just let her stunted heartache run its course, chewing up the rest of her bread and swallowing it down with the rest of the meal that she'd been given.

She managed through the rest of the soup and water, feeling grossly full but appreciative that she no longer felt as though there were a big, bottomless hole in the pit of her gut. She was torn between satisfaction and regret when the food was finally all gone, but one thought of the Great Hall and its delicacies that she was missing also made the situation a little bitter, and so Hermione set the bowl and skin aside and decided not to think about the food at all any longer. She relaxed as best she could against the trunk of the tree she was tied to, wiping one last time at her eyes, the running tears finally stopped. She sighed as she let her hands drop back into her lap, eyes slowly drifting upwards, finding the stars.

She barely had time to be, frankly, somewhat disappointed that even the constellations were different here, when a large shadow came into her distant line of sight, standing over her. She tensed on instinct, blinking to focus on the character before her, squinting fiercely until her eyes could pick out that Khandis was the one looming overhead, a bag dangling from his giant fist (Hermione had a sudden, wondrous thought that his hand might be the same size as her head).

"I need to clean your wound," Khandis drawled quietly, eyes watching her cautiously, as if she were the one that were free, that were strong or powerful enough to attack and have even a chance of taking down any of the men before her. A deeply bitter part inset in Hermione's heart wanted to reject him, wanted to refuse any treatment that he could offer, but the rational part of her insisted that she needed something, less her shoulder become infected or worse. He probably would have forced treatment on her anyway, had she rejected, but she figured it was easier just to be compliant again, rather than argue, especially with the one in the group that had been most considerate with her life over the past day. She still set her jaw a little as she nodded.

Khandis didn't hesitate, sinking into a crouch at her side, loosening the rope around her waist only slightly so that she could lean forward, allowing him to unwrap the bandages wrapped around her shoulder, hands immediately going to check how the stitches were doing. Her shirt and sweater sleeves had been cut and torn away a while ago, when Khandis had first cleaned and dressed her wound, but she hadn't even really been cold, she realized, nor overwhelming hot since she arrived in this world. Even the distant fire seemed more like a light than a warming mechanism, something to keep the darkness of the forest around the group from descending on them.

Hermione felt a rush of cold, then a sharp stab of heat in her shoulder, and she hissed in pain, jerking on instinct, looking quickly over. Khandis raised his brows, as if what Hermione had done were simply a minor annoyance that he was used to dealing with on a daily basis, gesturing almost lazily with the damp cloth, indicating that the pain she'd felt had come from him cleaning the wound of its dried blood. Hermione didn't relax, not by a long shot, but she sat back stiffly the way she had been, eyes flickering anxiously back to her lap as Khandis went back to dabbing at her wound with the wet cloth.

Ask him about this world, Hermione's brain thought suddenly, and the thought was so abrupt that Hermione almost had to bite down on her tongue to keep instant questions from leaving her mouth.

Are you kidding? She hissed internally. Not a chance! This is a— a delicate situation!

A delicate situation that you could at least get answers for!

There's no need for answers if I'm going to die anyway!

All the more reason! We can at least die not totally unknowing!

That's a stupid reason!

Is not!

Hermione wanted to hit her inner self a bit. Even if I asked, what if he got irritated, huh? She thought bitterly. I really don't need to get— get impaled again.

He's not going to stab you.

Easy for you to say.

They still need you. The worst he can do is ignore you.

Or gouge my eyes out. I don't need my eyes to be questioned, Hermione thought, almost paling herself at the gruesomeness of her mind, frustrated, and not for the first time, at her fierce need to be something of a know-it-all.

Come on. Don't be a ninny.

Being smart and being a ninny are not the same thing.

You'd be smarter if you knew some more about the situation.

Shut up, you—

"You're not from this world," came Khandis' voice, so suddenly that Hermione almost jerked again in surprise, startled from her mental (in more ways than one) argument. She blinked, looking up and round, eyes finding Khandis' dark ones and actually managing to hold contact, though her nerves bristled, wanting to push her gaze away from the one watching her with a mix of intensity and curiosity.

Jackpot, whispered her brain. Hermione grit her teeth.

The man raised his brows, and Hermione blinked, then realized abruptly that not only had a good twenty second passed by, but that yes, he was actually expecting an answer. She cleared her throat uncomfortably, voice a little rough with disuse when she spoke.

"No," she croaked, quiet, and Khandis seemed to take in this information as if it were a great feat, before nodding. He looked again to her wound, dabbing at it with the cloth, newly dampened from the water skin beside his feet.

"Where are you from, then?" Khandis asked coolly, and Hermione paused, actually intrigued that Khandis was questioning further.

"A faraway place… I think," Hermione said, swallowing. "London."

Khandis blinked this time. "London."

"Uh. Yeah."

"That's a… strange name," Khandis said carefully.

Hermione wanted to retort with something about the names around this place, but she forced herself to keep her tongue very well in check. "I mean… I guess," she said, awkwardly.

"I've heard the name before," he said suddenly, as he pulled the cloth from her shoulder, peering at the wound almost surreptitiously. "London."

Hermione blinked. "You have?" she asked, genuinely surprised.

"Yes."

Hermione considered this; he hadn't looked back at her. He still didn't look as she spoke again. "I'm… surprised by that."

Khandis nodded. "Perhaps."

Hermione blinked— 'perhaps'? What did that mean?— but he was already speaking again, as his hands moved from her skin to draw a vial from his bag, as well as another cloth, this one dry. "What is London like?"

Hermione just felt astounded. She kept talking, if only to keep her fervent confusion on the inside of her head. "Um… it's… big," she said lamely. "And… different."

"Different how?"

"I mean… just… different?" Hermione said, wanting to smack herself a little. Khandis was dipping a twisted section of the cloth into the vial, smothering the twisted part in a clear but thick substance. "It's got a lot of people… not too many… forests… or anything…."

Khandis hummed, pulling the cloth from the vial and pressing it to the wound. Hermione instantly felt a sort of numbness go through it, and she felt both relieved and horribly panicked, mouth going again without really thinking it over. "What is that?"

Khandis didn't speak for a moment, and Hermione almost asked again, throat swelling up with fearful words, perhaps an octave higher than normal, but then his lips moved, finally explaining. "It's a medicine," he said coolly. "It numbs the pain."

"Yeah," Hermione squeaked. I can see that. "H-how?"

"It's been blessed," Khandis said, a statement that seemed somewhat broad. "It can only be applied in small doses after long periods of time. Otherwise you could lose your limb." He shrugged, not seeming to hear the way Hermione's heart pounded loud and fast. "But when you're careful, it's very soothing."

"… r-right," Hermione managed weakly, anxiously.

"I will not harm you," Khandis said easily, rubbing the paste further into Hermione's numbed shoulder. It was the strangest experience; Hermione could easily feel everything else, her fingers and arm, joints and tensed muscles, but there was just this feeling of nothing in her shoulder where there had been agony, this one spot where her skin and bone just seemed disconnected.

Hermione swallowed past the lump in her throat, cursing herself quite fervently before forcing words she wasn't sure she wanted to say past her lips, her voice breaking in places where the rational, flight-y part of her brain wanted her to shut up. "You said-said you'd kill me," she choked, heart racing horribly as she felt Khandis stop moving the rag against her shoulder.

Khandis' eyes finally flickered back up, and Hermione froze, feeling pinned under the gaze, his eyes dark, almost cold in the night's blackness, brown and set deeply into his face that felt even sharper in features as Hermione's eyes picked past the lack of light to make out his features. Finally Khandis looked back to her shoulder, but Hermione felt just as stuck, just as still as he spoke again.

"I said I'd kill you if you attempted to run," Khandis said flatly. "Which you haven't done."

Hermione barely relaxed.

"Yet."

On second thought. Hermione tensed again, heart pounding, voice very quiet. "Um… y-yet?" she breathed, unable to feel that, once again, Khandis had stopped moving the rag against her injury. His eyes were already finding hers again, cool, cold.

"Of course."

"I… I don't understand," Hermione mumbled, honestly. "I'm… I haven't…."

"You said you were from London," Khandis said abruptly, and Hermione blinked, thrown for a whole other loop, still rotating wildly on the first one.

"Y-yeah?" What?

"I've heard of it. Of London."

"I— I don't—"

"That's where the Kings and Queens of Narnia are from, after all," Khandis said, then, suddenly, and Hermione stopped, unsure of what to feel beyond a mix of total confusion and fear and wait, what? The who were from where?

"Who?"

"The Narnian rulers," Khandis said smoothly, sitting back on his haunches, like a predator ready to pounce, like Hermione were a mouse in a maze, looking for cheese when the only prizes lying in wait were mousetraps. "They're from London." He cocked his head, like some sort of bird. "Does that make you an accomplice? It must."

Hermione blinked, lips parted slightly in soundless, stunned confusion, but he was already talking again, slowly standing, eyes never leaving her form.

"You've played this… odd part very well," he drawled, "but I won't be fooled. I knew you were funny all along. And so stupidly, hm? You've revealed yourself."

"I don't—"

"There's too much truth in your eyes for it to be a ploy," he said, voice brisk, cold, enough to make the hairs on the back of Hermione's neck stand up. "Perhaps it's exhaustion, or you're just very, very stupid. Stupid enough to think that we're stupid." He cocked his head back slightly, chin up, looking down his nose at her. "But we have done our lessons well. We aren't fooled or unknowing of strange names, especially London."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Hermione managed, feeling somehow breathless, talking quickly, in a natural state of defense, feeling suddenly like she was caught in a web, the spider descending on her with nasty, snapping pincers, an evil entity again a mere, confused being. Her heart thudded painfully in her chest, almost worryingly fast.

"You thought you could trick me, child," he hissed coolly, grabbing his bag, his fists clenched. "You thought you could sneak past our lines and spy on us, but now I see the truth." He sneered. "You stupid, useless little girl."

"I don't know what you're talking about!" Hermione insisted again, voice pitchy almost too loudly. "I—"

The clearing exploded in screams.

It was so sudden that all Hermione could do was jump, interrupted, jerking in shock as a sudden barrage of people came flying out of the tree line surrounding the clearing, wielding battle cries and weapons, attacking the people sitting around the fire, who'd barely had time to grab their weapons at all, much less jump up to defend themselves. The forest, so quiet just moments before, was suddenly in the midst of chaos, metal and skin colliding, sounds echoing throughout the clearing, screams of pain and triumph and battle, the sight of a small war started so quickly that all Hermione could do was stare, transfixed, totally shocked, totally and utterly confused. It was such a phenomenon, so quick and odd, that Hermione couldn't even really believe this was happening. But it was, and so Hermione stared, mouth falling open ever further, eyes bulging out of her head.

She didn't even see Khandis move, didn't see the bag, his heavy doctor's bag swinging, and she saw a figure racing up from behind said man just as his bag hit her over the head at full force, carting her into a horrible, nauseating dizziness, vertigo coming on in a horribly crash. Her vision blurred, black spots erupting past her eyes, and she choked out a gurgle, eyes fluttering. Whatever had been in the bag was heavy and hard, and Hermione felt something warm dripping down the side of her head just as she felt darkness closing in, her heading buzzing with pain, her vision swimming.

She vaguely saw, in her whirling vision, Khandis raising the bag again, one hand now suddenly holding a knife, insane glints in his beady eyes—

Her eyes caught a sword raising high above Khandis' head, swinging down, and then there was nothing but a black and dreamless world as she fell into unconsciousness.

Dammit, Hermione faints so fucking much. I need to get some different endings, huh guys? Hopefully those'll be coming up.

Still pretty filler-y, and I honestly don't extra extra like the ending b/c it's so fast and over so quick and I'm too tired of my own writing to edit it and make it more dramatic, but I like this chapter significantly more than the last. Lemme know what you guys think, huh? Really. Feedback's awesome for me, and I'd really like to know how this chapter looks from yalls' points of view, and how you guys are feeling about the story.

There's fun stuff coming up! (Finally, I know.) Feel free to ramble a bit in a review, I love hearing where readers think that the story is going to go. The next chapter should and hopefully will be leading into some great, more plot-moving developments. Don't worry, this stuff really is important, and I'm not just flourishing everything because of a lack of ideas. I have this whole thing planned out, no worries.

Still lovin' Hermione's brain.

Also! If you are into Merlin, or know anyone who is, please check out my fic Virtue of a Shade. I've been working very hard on it as well, and I'm really enjoying it, so I'd like it to get some more attention. Please and thank ya'll!

Reviews are admired, appreciated, and amazing, so please drop one! Thanks guys!