"Everything you can imagine is real."—Pablo Picasso

Chapter Two: Sienna

In an imaginary place in the deep corners of Hermione's mind, there was no gravity. Up was down and down was up, and neither was distinguishable as a surface to place her feet. Nothing made sense, nothing stood by the laws of logic. She could swim in any direction, only to find her knees grazing the clouds and her mouth in the sand.

That nightmare was real, tangible, in a way she couldn't have known before now. At that moment Hell had a taste: it was salty like the underside of a skipping stone, speckled and fishy like the foam of Venus. It was smooth, fluid in the beach air, and that weightlessness permeated the breeze, sickeningly warm like a blanket on a humid day.

The beach was beautiful; at least it should have been. It should have been something anyone would desire. It was the backdrop to polished models on holiday, carefree children unburdened by the woes of how they got there and where they would go next. The sea held endless promise of dreamy solitude with a wisp of curiosity, as though the waking world was there beyond to discover.

Hermione's hands shook as she grasped the sand beneath her; it should have been darker, much darker, but it was a blinding shade of white despite the growing darkness, despite the looming intensity of the sky overhead. She stood slowly, forcing her gaze up to the suspended frame, hovering unmoving just beyond the licks of the shore.

She had been doing something, not thirty seconds ago. Time had seemed to stop but how could it? She could see the remains of the library she had toiled in all morning through the frame, around Malfoy's dumbfounded face.

All at once, her helplessness took shape, filling the cavities of her body, swirling behind her irises, until finally -

"What the hell did you do to me?!" she screeched, grabbing either side of the frame and pushing; it didn't budge from its fixed position in the air.

Draco shook his head, eyes wide, sputtering uselessly.

"Malfoy, what the heck did you do?!"

"I—I don't know!"

"Well, figure it out and fix it! Or I'm gonna fix you!"

"I'm trying—give me a second!" he yelled back, feeling the edges of the frame like there was some sort of hidden toggle there that would reverse whatever this was, transport them back in time to a place where she was annoying and he was painting and they were stuck together, yes, but not stuck.

"Malfoy, you complete—I'm in your bloody painting! Where—where is this?"

"Alright, alright, shut it! Just let me—" and he jabbed his fingers into the canvas desperately, then pulled his hand away, cursing. "Ugh, damn paint is still tacky—"

The air next to Hermione warped with color and texture, like the very fabric of reality was twisting, and Hermione scrambled away from it, falling to the sand.

"AH!" she screamed as the sand beside her flew into the air as though kicked; she fell back, just in time for a rush of seawater to crest on top of her.

Draco watched in horror as she resurfaced, her hair plastered to her head and slick with water, eyelashes glued together with drops as she coughed.

"Shit, I—"

"Malfoy!" she scathed, spitting salt water out of her mouth like she was cursing at the devil, "don't do that again!"

"Well, I didn't know that—"

"You can't just stick your fingers in—"

"I'm trying to—"

"—you're such an imbecile, I can't believe you've—"

"Give me a bloody minute, I'll figure it out!" he shot back, wiping his paint-smeared hand unceremoniously on the carpet next to them as he inspected the frame. Breath shallow, he searched for any clue to what was happening, any possible loophole that gave a clear explanation.

But there wasn't any; he had no idea how she'd ended up in the painting and no idea how to get her out. With the disbelief came an amnesia—what had he done? He'd casted the charm, but what had been different beyond the frizzy Gryffindor standing there? It wasn't possible, it couldn't be possible that he'd messed this up.

"There's... I mean, there's no portkey, no hole, nothing..." Draco muttered, his hands shaking as he skimmed the edges.

The painted figures behind Draco murmured in their respective scenes, craning to look at Hermione. Their chatter wafted over Draco, and he could feel their curiosity and scandalized disapproval. He glanced behind him; he would have typically liked to tell them off, tear into them to claw his way out of inferiority, but nothing was connecting for him. Nothing made sense, not his position on the floor or the paint smearing his hands, not the beatific seaside scene he poured so much soul into. And certainly not the patch of sienna in the center of that pristine beach, huffing and coughing as she dragged herself to her knees.

Hermione got to her feet clumsily, sliding in the wet sand as her soaked clothing dripped, heavy drops plopping and denting the beach. The water was lukewarm, and in that sense it was unlike any seawater she'd ever touched; she felt as though someone had just dunked her in old bathwater. Was the water supposed to be that warm?

"Wait, wait, okay. Step away for a second," Hermione said quickly, smoothing her wet hair back.

As Draco hastily moved aside, she pressed a dripping palm on the painting of the destroyed Hogwarts library; it felt like the underside of a canvas, rough and tight.

"Okay," she murmured, "so I can't just push through..."

"Try your wand," Draco commanded.

Hermione looked around the wet sand; her wand was sticking out of the ground next to her, and she snatched it up and wiped it on her shirt.

"Okay... uh, aguamenti."

"Wha—the water spell? Try something more useful!"

"I will, just... aguamenti!"

She fell silent as she looked at her wand; there should have been a steady stream of water jetting from the end, but nothing was happening. In fact, she should have been able to feel the magic activate like she did anytime she casted a spell; usually, it felt like her body was releasing a burst of energy, almost like a sneeze, and she could feel the magic working, the specific shape and texture of that spell. Her wand should have been an extension of her arm. But now, her body felt nothing beyond the breeze as it cooled her water-speckled skin.

"Magic... doesn't seem to be working in here," she said in wonder; it was a ludicrous thought, as magic shouldn't have anything to do with a location, it was the individual who channeled the magic...

"Magic isn't working? But how is that—"

She shook her head. "I don't know, it's—periculum! Ah... rictasempra!" Nothing happened—no sparks, no light, no indication that anything changed. She might as well have been brandishing a stick.

"Can you apparate? Charm anything?"

She shook her head, staring down at her wand. The fear she'd felt initially seized her heart again, that feeling of utter weightlessness and frightful confusion; if she couldn't use her wand, couldn't apparate, and couldn't move the painting from its fixed point...

"I... I really am inside the painting," she murmured. "I didn't portkey here... this place isn't in our known world..."

Draco pointed his wand at the painting and said, "Finite incantatem."

The painting shimmered briefly, but then was still.

"Did you seriously think that would work?" Hermione admonished, crossing her arms.

"Well, it was worth a try. Always do the simplest thing first," he defended.

That was a fair perspective; despite the result of her earlier attempt Hermione raised her wand and said, "Finite incantatem." As expected, she felt nothing, no spark of impending change, no indication that anything had happened.

Malfoy scratched his temple. "I don't understand, I've seen wizards casting spells in other paintings, all the time—"

"Yes, but they were all paintings of wizards, in the wizarding world..." She looked desperately around the beach; to her right was a pile of ashy dirt partially encompassed by jagged terra-cotta... a dead potted plant, likely the singed ficus tree she had been standing next to not a few minutes before. Nestled in the dirt was a book, and judging by the deep burgundy cover it was that old copy of A History of Magic by Bathilda Bagshot. This one was outdated and soiled, though repairable.

As she raised her gaze up, she jumped back at the sight before her.

A few paces away, the beach was shrouded in darkness, like a dark fog closing in.

She stared, her body shaking as she waited one breathless moment to be consumed by the darkness, whatever it was... but the dark expanse didn't appear to be moving; it stayed there, ominous in its silent, consuming depth.

One glance to the right told her that the void was on both sides, framing the scene around her in hellish darkness. She shrank down unconsciously, looking up at the sky; this place felt less like the natural world and more like the inside of a snow-globe, like the edges of reality were just a few steps away.

Hermione's hands tingled; what would happen if she touched the black? Would she disappear, just like the edge of the beach? What was waiting there in that void?

And where in the world did something like the black fog exist?

Hermione cleared her throat pointedly, her heart slowing its furious beating. "Oh god... w-where is this place?"

When she received no answer, she looked back through the frame to discover Malfoy staring blankly, his eyebrows knotted together.

She narrowed her eyes at him. "Malfoy, what's that look?"

"I..." he shook his head, trailing off.

Hermione straightened up, stepping into the wet sand; Malfoy was unmoving in the center of the suspended canvas.

She stepped closer, knowing that the lukewarm water was going to lap at her feet and not caring; something in Malfoy's expression was strangely dead, as if he'd found something.

"Malfoy... what is it?" she repeated.

"They're gonna snap my wand," he said finally, his eyes widening, his voice hollow. "They're gonna send me to Azkaban. I've... I've killed Goody Granger."

"Don't call me that," Hermione sputtered, "and no one is going to snap your bloody wand! How can you be so selfish right now?!"

"They're gonna—"

"I'm not dead, Malfoy, we can fix this—"

"I don't—what am I supposed to do?!" he raged, gesturing at her. "This is not normal!"

"I know, but just—"

"You're going to be like that forever," he said in the same hollow tone, his eyes far away.

"Whoa, whoa!" Hermione exclaimed, "You can't just keep me prisoner in here!"

A cold feeling flooded Draco's chest as he was involuntarily thrust back into his memories, memories of a particularly awful day a few months back, when he watched his former classmates tortured and battered in his drawing room, watched the girl in front of him writhing in pain on the marble floor he used to play on as a child.

"I'm not going to keep you prisoner," he said quietly.

Hermione sputtered, gesturing wildly. "Well—then figure out what you did and undo it!"

"I... I don't know what I did..."

Hermione leaned on the frame heavily, cradling her sodden head; Draco looked on in morbid fascination as the brush strokes changed directions as she moved, morphing and blending as she ran shaking fingers through her sopping hair.

"If you don't know what you did..." Hermione mused, her voice tight, "then we need to ask someone who will know."

"No one knows how to charm the paintings, Granger," Draco exasperated. "Why do you think they had me doing this in the first place? The only one who even knows the history of the paintings is... Binns, maybe. Or McGonagall."

At Granger's silence, Draco eyed her suspiciously. She was wringing out her hair thoughtfully, her eyebrows furrowed in an expression Draco had grown to recognize over the years. She always had that look on her face whenever she was puzzling through something, coming up with a reason to question her teachers or classmates. If Draco could paint her, he would undoubtedly concoct a pose with that expression firmly in place.

Whatever she was about to say, he wasn't going to like it. In fact, if the only two people that could help them were Binns and McGonagall, then she...

Oh hell.

"Don't even think about it," he said lowly.

"Why not?" Hermione asked.

"Because—she'll kill me!"

"You have to take this to McGonagall, Malfoy, don't be daft!"

"She's going to turn me in!"

Hermione sighed, rubbing her temple. "Look, I get that it was a mistake, I can explain that to her—but you have to fix this. We have to fix this."

Draco shook his head, running a hand through his hair.

"Come on, Malfoy, it's the only way!"

"Maybe if I just—"

"Go to her office!" Hermione stormed, and Draco stepped back in alarm.

Despite her anger, Hermione couldn't help but notice the flicker of fear in Malfoy's usually impassive expression, before it disappeared behind a scowl.

"Why—what's wrong with the headmistress's office?" she asked evenly.

Malfoy didn't reply, just stood, his expression carefully guarded. For one breathless moment, Hermione studied him, trying to determine what he was thinking... she'd barely wasted a thought on what might be tumbling around in his brain before, but with such an overt show of fear, she couldn't help but narrow her eyes at him.

But then he turned, as if to walk away. The moment passed, and Hermione grabbed either side of the gilded frame once more, pressing her nose to the canvas as he retreated. Before he completely vanished from sight she cried out desperately, "Malfoy, please! Go find McGonagall!... Malfoy!"

He didn't turn back. Hermione watched as her only hope, her only chance at getting out of this mess, the only one who could help her, grew smaller and smaller until his form disappeared off the edge of the frame.


He could be walking faster, he knew. He could also have remembered to bring his useless wand with him, or recognized that despite being the only one within reach of the school who could restore the art collection, he wasn't anywhere near qualified to do so.

He could also try to remember what he'd done wrong to end up in this mess, but it was oddly foggy, existing somewhere between confusion and certainty.

There was a lot of things he could be doing differently, in fact.

This was it, though. This was infinitely worse than throwing a half-hearted Cruciatus curse at Potter, or cursing Katie Bell with a necklace, or poisoning some mead. If they didn't figure out how to fix her... Granger was stuck like that for life.

And while he didn't care for Granger specifically, he did care about himself... and he knew that McGonagall, and the inevitably the Wizengamot, were going to crucify him for this.

He couldn't help the squirmy eel of annoyance in his gut at the thought of Granger, bringing a hurricane of trouble with her wherever she went. She couldn't just keep her bushy head down, could she, she always had to bring dysfunction and destruction upon everything she touched. While it had been clear before that Potter was usually the cause of all the mad nonsense constantly harassing this school, Granger was always one step behind him, invariably ruffling the curtains, blowing smoke into the hollows and making it impossible for anyone to go about their business.

Urgh, Granger had looked positively absurd in the middle of his painting. With that cosmic crimson and lilac sunset, glowing white beach, she'd stuck out like a smear of mud in the center. She always found a way to ruin everything…

Draco tried to ignore the uncomfortable air looming over him at that thought—whether he wanted to acknowledge it or not, she'd done nothing to provoke this. But the idea of her mucking around in his landscape irked him, and despite his guilt a dark part of his mind thrashed. Draco wanted to snarl at her like the monster he was.

All of this directional anger was doing a decent job of distracting him from the real issue, however, and like a dragon's eye in a cauldron it resurfaced, slipping back into his consciousness to ruin his self-indulgent tirade: once again he'd made a bloody mess. And he was going to pay for it.

He stopped in the dusty hallway, his oxfords sliding on the stone, the sound reverberating down the corridor.

Did he... did he have to tell McGonagall? Tell anyone? He could lean his painting towards the back of the pile, tell people Granger had gone home if they asked, and then figure out the spell on his own... he didn't want other people's help, he didn't need it.

He could figure it out himself, in secret... or better yet, just leave her there...

No, no, no! This was exactly why he was in this situation to begin with. It had been hammered into him during his trial; over and over they'd asked, 'why didn't you seek the help of your teachers?' The answer at the time was clear: because they would have locked him up, obviously! Was he supposed to believe that the Hogwarts shepherds would've just rapped him on the knuckles, begrudgingly admitted that they were glad he said something, then sent him on his way? No. But despite this Draco knew that these Gryffindor-blooded aurors and lawkeepers cared about things like forthright honesty. And in his current position, shackled to his penance and unable to escape it without retribution, he could hardly do otherwise.

What he had to do now was get up, brush the dust off of his sense of right and wrong, and fix this. At the very least, so he didn't go to prison for the foreseeable future.

Draco started down the corridor again, his steps quickening as he marinated with his decision, knowing that it was a mistake, but not one he might regret for the rest of his life.

He made his way into the main wing of the castle and out the unhinged double doors to the courtyard. A row of wizards were raising stones and rubble in a line, trailing up one hundred, two hundred, three hundred feet in the air, disappearing as the stones filled in the gaping hole in the side of the Astronomy Tower.

Draco stopped, suddenly at a loss for words as he watched Professor Flitwick, Terry Boot, and Professor McGonagall lead the string of stone blocks into the air.

"Did you need something, Mr. Malfoy?" McGonagall asked, still concentrating on her wandwork.

Draco nodded, finding his throat to be oh-so-conveniently dry at this crucial moment of delivery. "Ah... there has been an accident in the library," he said vaguely.

"Then take care of it," she replied.

"I... I'm not certain—"

"Then look it up. Use your brain, Malfoy, that's what it's there for."

"I... Professor..."

McGonagall finally looked over at him, wand still raised, and a flicker of concern passed over her features as she took in his expression.

Draco ran a paint-smeared hand through his hair, feigning nonchalance, but it was too late; McGonagall fixed him with her steeliest glare and said, "What kind of accident?"

Oh Merlin, this was it. Draco swallowed to wet his dry throat, and managed to croak out, "Granger... is trapped in a painting."

"Trapped? Trapped, how?"

He was quickly losing resolve as he watched his professor's face twist from mild annoyance to contempt, her lips pursed.

"She's... uh... she's in a painting."

"And how did that happen?"

"Ah... well, I'm not—"

She held up a hand. "That's enough. Take me there, please."

Draco turned on his heel, knowing that his ears were red; he hated looking incompetent in front of his teachers, it didn't matter that her opinion would mean very little in a few months, or that she wasn't technically his teacher anymore... Draco burned with embarrassment as he led McGonagall through the courtyard and into the castle. As he walked, barely keeping pace ahead of the professor's sharp steps, he tried not to feel like he was walking to his own grave, but he was certain that the ruins of the castle were going to swallow him whole as soon as the professor saw what he had done.

He slowed down as they passed through the broken archway of the library, the light horrendously bright through the hole in the wall. Draco squinted, his gaze downcast as he trudged to the painting.

Once they stopped, McGonagall crossed her arms as she stared at the red and purple landscape. Hermione tucked a curl behind her ear, looking between McGonagall and Malfoy.

"Well, you've been busy, haven't you?" McGonagall said through her teeth. Draco shrank back unconsciously.

"I... it was an accident," he muttered, avoiding Granger's eyes.

"I'm okay, Professor, I just want to get out," Hermione reasoned, wiping her face with the back of her wrist.

McGonagall took in Hermione's saturated clothing, sandy arms and damp curls, the fuzz just starting to return as her previously soaked hair cooked in the heat.

"You don't look anything close to 'okay,' Miss Granger!" she snapped. "And you," she said, rounding on Draco, "I leave you alone for one week and already you're making a mess of things!"

"I was minding my own business when—"

"I don't want to hear your excuses, Mr. Malfoy. You did this—own up to it!"

Sweat broke under Draco's collar; if his ears weren't red before they certainly were now. He bowed his head, confused and hurt, at the mercy of the discomfort of being wrong.

"It didn't seem like it was on purpose," a voice said; it was the painting directly behind Draco, of a young knight in armor, perched astride a bridled chimera. His front-row, first-class-with-extra-legroom seat to the mess instantly made his contribution worth teasing out, and the rest of the painting-bound spectators joined the professor in eyeing him.

"I saw the whole thing. Miss Granger was there—" the knight pointed to the half-full bookcase next to the landscape—"and Mr. Malfoy was casting the charm, and when he was finished, she was in the painting."

McGonagall took a deep breath and exhaled. "Thank you, Sir Galahad. Now Draco, do you remember what happened when you charmed the canvas?"

Draco shook his head. "I said the incantation... Granger did something... and the light was odd..."

"And I felt like..." Hermione trailed off, her eyes unfocused as she visibly swallowed. "Like I was being crushed."

"And then you were inside."

Hermione nodded. "Yes."

"Do you remember the incantation you said?"

"I don't think it was that, I think it was because I was... distracted."

"And thus are mistakes made," McGonagall scathed, and Draco bowed his head even more. "Miss Granger, are you functioning, more or less?"

"Yes," she answered, "but this place is scary, Professor. I feel like something bad is coming."

"Something bad," she echoed. "I see. Are there any tools you can use to escape? What do you have there?"

Hermione looked down at her feet where the book lay. "I've got this, and my wand. And a dead plant, but the pot shattered."

"You're lucky you weren't shattered," the professor said swiftly. "Is there anyone there with you?"

"No," Draco answered for her, "It's just a landscape. Sand and water and such."

"And you can't visit the other paintings in this room?"

"I..." Hermione looked to her left. No more than a few paces down the beach was that odd expanse of black, silent and foreboding. She peered behind the canvas, and was fearful to see the black consuming the sea beyond, the waves crashing into nothing.

"I can't, there's... there's nothing there," she whispered. "It's like a black hole."

"Nothing, how?"

"Well, I didn't paint the rest of the beach, did I? I only had so much canvas," Draco said.

A moment passed, and McGonagall slowly turned her gaze back to Draco, her features murderous. With each passing second, Draco's heart dropped even more, until he was sure it was going to fall right out of his body.

"Which brings me to my last question," McGonagall said quietly, in her dangerously low way, "what is this painting?"

"It's... it's an original work," Draco managed, his voice small.

"And why are you using your punishment time to create an original?" she asked.

He felt ridiculous, like everything he'd ever done up to this point was wrong. Even as his brain formed excuses, they rang out hollowly to no applause. "I... it's part of the creative process," he tried, gesturing. "You can't work on the same thing all the time, you get creatively burnt out..."

"And you will get physically burnt out if I catch you doing this again," she retorted. "You're here for a reason, Mr. Malfoy. Do not let the Minister's misplaced faith go to waste."

He shook his head quickly, eyes trained on his feet, his eyebrows knotted together.

"In the meantime, why don't we ask our paintings if there is some way they can help you, Miss Granger."

"But professor, the people in the paintings... they aren't like us, they're not real. And, what if... what if I lose my mind? My memory? Oh... my N.E.W.T.s -"

Draco threw up his hands. "Only you would be concerned about your coursework right now."

"Of course I am, that's the whole point—"

"Please," McGonagall sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. Hermione's voice died, and the professor continued, "With the castle looking like this, I am astounded that you two weren't more careful. We've already had enough accidents in the past week alone, and I can't have you help with the restoration if you aren't going to keep yourselves safe. No test is worth your health, your livelihood, your life. For Merlin's sake, the worst of this is supposed to be over!"

Hermione's eyes prickled, as they had done many times over the past week; as she was getting used to doing, the brunette witch took a deep breath, clawing her emotional state back from that hole of despair that always threatened to claim her. McGonagall was right: the worst should have been over. Voldemort was dead, the majority of the Death Eaters had been detained, and the school was being cleaned up. There was no sense in getting hurt now, after everything she'd been through, everything she'd done.

"I... I'm okay, Professor," Hermione stammered. "I don't like it, but I don't think this is permanent."

"It better not be," the professor replied, eyeing Draco. "This work isn't a Hogwarts painting, so I'm not sure if it will function the same way."

Hermione nodded. "And magic doesn't work in here, but it does in other paintings in the castle—like the one that was on the fifth floor; the Salem witches were all casting Patronus charms."

"Magic isn't working... I see. That is a serious handicap. In that case, the first thing we should do is allow you the freedom to go between paintings."

"But if the relationship between paintings has to do with intended space... or, subject matter... I've only ever seen people walk between paintings next to them, or if a person has more than one portrait."

"This is true, Miss," another voice said, high like a flute; behind the knight's painting was a larger, more playful scene. A chubby, one-eyed cherub was peeking over the knight's gilded frame, his little tuft of hair wispy, his wings fluttery. "I can visit the other paintings I was depicted in quite easily."

McGonagall nodded slowly, thinking. Draco and Hermione waited.

Finally, the professor said, "Mr. Malfoy... we're going to need you to paint her portrait at a smaller scale."

"What?"

"She needs to be able to move around."

"But that—"

"Since your incompetence has put us in this predicament, I find it's only natural that through your effort we rectify this situation," she steamrolled over him. "As such, you will paint her a more mobile, hopefully magic-enabled environment. And figure out how to bring Miss Granger back to us."

"But what if—"

"If it doesn't work, try something else! Come on now, is that just an empty shell between your ears?" she said, and Malfoy promptly closed his mouth. "I can't do everything for you, as you can see there still is quite a lot that needs to be done to get the castle back in prime condition. We're accepting one of our largest classes of first years this fall... and I don't want anything like this to happen to them when they arrive."

Hermione spoke up. "Professor—what do we tell everyone? The other volunteers?"

Minerva thought for a second, looking between the two former students. Hermione looked back uncertainly.

"This is quite a predicament," the teacher finally replied. "They will need to be told what happened. So that they aren't worried."

"On the contrary, I think it will make them more worried," Hermione put forth.

"Yes, and I don't fancy getting hexed for this," Draco added.

"Oh yes, we wouldn't want you to get hexed, would we?" Hermione ground out, voice dripping in sarcasm.

The professor raised her hand, glaring at them. "That's enough, both of you," she said sternly. "I'll inform the volunteers of what has happened personally. Mr. Malfoy, you will accompany me."

Draco's jaw snapped shut, his face paling.

"Now get to it. I'll inform the volunteers at dinner if you don't clean this up by then."

The professor gave Draco one last glare, solidifying her request, and turned out of the library, leaving Draco with his head in his hands.

"Fucking hell, why me," he muttered, rubbing his temples.

"Don't be like that, you're the one who got us into this mess!"

"It was a bloody accident, you twit!" he scathed.

"Accident or not, I don't want to be in here anymore—so start painting!"

"That's not going to work, Granger, if anything I'll just create an imaginary version of you. A shade! How are you supposed to go into that painting if your fake version is already there?"

"I don't know, Malfoy, but we need to do something!"

"Alright, fine, fine," he sighed. "I'll do the dumb painting. It's not going to work, but... ugh."

Hermione nodded and leaned away from the suspended frame, stepping back up the beach. Her hair was finally starting to dry; she fluffed it, loosening the damp curls to speed up the process. What she wouldn't give for a towel...

Suddenly her foot slid against the dune, and she crashed to the ground, her hands barely stopping her from face-planting in the wet sand. It seemed as if the whole world was tilting sideways; she clawed the earth, trying to stay upright.

"What's happening?!" she gasped, looking up at the frame; the library was completely obscured in darkness, like someone had thrown a blanket over the other side.

As the beach tipped, sand tumbling around, Hermione stared up at the portrait; for a moment a sliver of light could be seen from the edge, and the library was just discernible beyond what was unmistakably a dark button-down. It was Malfoy's torso. He was doing something to the painting, and she couldn't see what it was -

"Malfoy stop!" she yelled over the crash of the waves; a deep rumbling sounded, and she didn't need to look behind her to know that it was the mountains in the distance, shaking the very earth beneath her feet.

"I'm just moving—"

"Well, stop it!"

Draco dropped the painting, cringing as the gilded frame connected with the ground and the force vibrated the canvas; Hermione slid forward on the beach, the foam from the sea retracting.

"Can you warn me before you do something like that?" Hermione asked vehemently. She clambered to her feet in a huff, trainers squelching out of the wet sand. "I was just starting to dry off from the last time!"

Draco looked at the scene he had poured hours into, light, gentle strokes of clouds brushing the hazy mountain tops. The sky hung low and ever-stretching over the pristine sand; the whole thing was utterly majestic and serene... except for the broken terra-cotta pot, dirt littered around the singed corpse of the ficus tree, the soiled book, and the fuming Gryffindor in the center, shaking like a wet dog.

The whole thing was suddenly bizarrely comical, and before he knew what was happening, Draco was failing to contain his laughter as Granger squeezed the water from her sleeves. It was the first time he'd laughed in ages, but he couldn't help himself.

"Are you kidding me?" she said, glaring up at him; Draco's eyes were squeezed tight, teeth blinding as he laughed, face scrunched up.

He waved a hand at her, trying to reign in his chuckles; the whole painting looked positively absurd now, and while that in itself wasn't a funny concept—he'd poured so much time and heart into this painting, it didn't deserve to be made ridiculous—with Granger wringing out her odd muggle rags, her hair plastered to her head and ears jutting out, it was just too much.

"Stop laughing, you prick, this isn't funny!"

"It's a little funny," he defended, his cheeks pinking as he breathed. "Merlin, Granger, is that really what your hair looks like when it's wet? You look like a different person!"

"Let's tumble you around in sea water, see what you look like!" she shot back, her hands coming up to pull her lank waves away from her face. "And if you're done being unbearable, now might be a good time to fix this mess!"

He shook his head mirthfully, face still red; instead of trying to lift the painting by hand, this time he took out his wand. With one 'wingardium leviosa', now his least-favorite spell in the world, the painting hovered gently above the worn carpet; Granger swayed from side to side, her arms out as Draco leaned the landscape against the clean bookshelf. With more space to work, he sighed, looking around for his supplies.

Steady on her legs once again, Hermione put forth, "If you're painting me, I want a desk, parchment, and a quill and ink. And I need to be sitting, have a chair, perhaps an armchair—"

Draco looked at her critically. "You're not commissioning a masterpiece, Granger—I'm not going to paint you a whole bloody scene just so you can—"

"Yes, you are, you put me in here!"

"If you hadn't distracted me—"

"I didn't even do anything!"

"Yes, you did!"

Hermione opened her mouth to argue some more, but stopped; he was always goading her, making her stoop to his level, and she was sick of it. She rubbed her temple, knowing that they wouldn't get anywhere if she let this continue. "Alright, Malfoy. I at least need some parchment and ink."

Draco sighed angrily, dropping to his haunches and poking around in his case.

"And I understand what you mean about the painting," she said, practically through her teeth, as she wanted nothing more than to continue berating him but was trying to stay calm. "But this place is unsettling, and I really need to be able to use magic for us to have the best shot at fixing this."

She wasn't sure if he heard her; he continued tinkering around in his case, pulling out a roll of parchment and a set of charcoal sticks.

"As for the spell—"

"Merlin, you're like a howler," he muttered.

Anger spiked in Hermione's heart; so much for being civil to him. She tried again. "I think we need start with the charm. I've read about it but I've never performed it before, so we need to—"

"You mean I need to look into it," he interrupted. "With you about as useful as a broken broomstick it looks I'll be doing all the work here. As if I already didn't have enough—"

"Don't be like that, this is your fault."

"This is your fault and you know it!"

Hermione huffed. "Either way no-one said I couldn't help you at least figure out where to start. I think we need to—"

"How do you know what to look for? You don't. I know the most about enchanted art."

"You may know the paintings the best, but I know the library the best," she replied swiftly. "I can find the books you need."

"And how are you going to do that, stuck in there?" Draco drawled.

"There was an art history section—"

"I know that," he grumbled.

"Let me finish. There was an art history section towards the back of the room. We can start there—"

"It's all in rubble!"

"Well, it looks like you're going to have to help me, doesn't it?" she declared heavily, her hands coming down to her sides.

Draco looked behind them at the general ruin of the library; Hermione had organized the majority of the books into teetering stacks, but there were still rogue stones, singed wood and saturated wads of paper scattered over the filthy, worn carpet.

"Ah, hell," he sighed.


Author's Note (12/09/18): Wow! Thank you to all the lovely readers and reviewers! Such a great response to the first chapter, I'm so grateful. This concept has been incubating for a long time, I'm glad it's finally manifesting. See you next week for another chapter!