"We live in a rainbow of chaos."—Paul Cezanne
Chapter Three: Carmine
It had been at least an hour since McGonagall departed, and Malfoy was ignoring her, taking a break from getting on her nerves to start the portrait.
Or so Hermione hoped; for a while, it seemed like he was just scratching away with his charcoal sticks, but when she accosted him with an ornery 'what are you doing?!' he told her stiffly that he was planning it.
She found it hard to believe that Malfoy was indeed planning the portrait because he hadn't so much as glanced at her. If he was planning it wouldn't he need to look at her? She'd felt slightly ill at the idea of him needing to examine her face for long stretches of time, and had braced for that discomfort only to find him with his head down, eyes glued to his parchment. Scratchedy-scratch went his charcoal stick. He might as well have been doodling like he used to do in class. When she finally got a glimpse of what he was making, it was just lines with an amorphous shape in the middle.
She knew he had gotten bored with his charcoal sketches when he sighed irritably and pushed the parchment aside; Hermione looked up at the frame, releasing the sand she was raking with her fingers.
"Are you about to do some research?" she asked.
His only response was a heavy sigh, obnoxious and dismissive. Hermione clenched her jaw, raking her nails through the luminescent sand beneath her once more.
She tried again. "Well, I've been thinking and I want to understand more about the etymology of the charm. What was the incantation again?"
Draco said nothing, just rearranged the stack of books next to him and took up a large tome—The Baroque Masters, an art history book.
"Malfoy, what—"
"Do you ever shut up?" he scathed.
Hermione fumed. "I'm trying to help you, prick, can you stop being awful for a minute and listen to me?"
"When you have something useful to say, I'll consider it," he retorted, flipping through the old book aimlessly. The pages were wavy and stiff—the book must have been soaked from the rain last week.
"I'm not just blowing smoke, this could really help us," Hermione sighed, wringing her hands. "You could undo the charm the traditional way. But the likelihood that I'll just be frozen in here is pretty great, so that's off the table."
Malfoy nodded absently, still flipping. Good, he was listening at least.
Hermione continued. "But we know that there is some logic in the charm-or a similar charm-that can transfer objects into paintings. If we can isolate that piece, evolve it—there may be a way to reverse it."
"Break down the charm? That's going to take... "
"I know it's going to take a fair amount of research, but I think that's our best bet. Unless you have any other ideas?"
Draco breathed in slowly, then out through his nose as irritation bubbled in his chest; Granger was hopelessly insufferable, even now. He turned a page. "Well, since magic doesn't seem to be working on your end you probably can't apparate or create a portkey. Not that I've ever seen someone take a portkey from a painting but..."
Hermione cocked her head to the side; it was kind of an interesting thought, the idea of using traditional means of transportation to get from a fictional place to a real place. There was something there... she filed away the idea for later and said, "Right. No magic in here, so the magic needs to come from your end."
Draco ran a hand through his hair, his eyebrows furrowed. His knees rose, propping his book up further.
"Is there any chance you remember what you said? What you did?"
He shook his head.
"McGonagall has a pensieve, maybe you can—"
"It wasn't what I said that was the problem," he muttered, flipping a page. "You did something that distracted me."
"Stop blaming me," she warned. "It doesn't matter, we just need to figure out if something about the way you messed up—"
"I didn't mess up, you were being obnoxiously loud!" he hissed.
"Okay, okay, forget it! Jeez..."
Malfoy went back to reading his book. "Besides, I can't just repeat the same charm, it won't work," he finished.
Hermione sighed angrily. "I'm not saying we need to do the same messed-up charm again, I'm saying that if we know what you did we can break it apart and—"
"How am I supposed to know which part of the charm malfunctioned from a memory?"
Hermione clenched her hands, letting the sand drain from her fists. Raking her fingers through the sand was minorly satisfying her need to strangle something, and she concentrated on that for a moment.
"I'm going to find more history books," Draco muttered, uncrossing his legs and stretching to his feet.
As he dug into his reading, Draco was able to let go of the urgency to find an answer and simply enjoy the immersion in the lives of the old painting masters. These great men and women of the past had been celebrated for their mastery of hand, their flawless replication of famous wizards. The Malfoy family had even commissioned portraits from some of them. Those portraits were likely more valuable than some of the exquisite decorative pieces found in Draco's ancestral home.
With the introduction of photography into the wizarding world in the early 20th century, the art of portraiture became reserved for only the most elite and celebrated members of society. Or, anyone who could afford the steep price point, which as the century neared completion, mostly consisted of the last few old wizarding families left in Europe.
Draco knew that what happened earlier in the day had to have happened before. It wasn't possible that this was the first instance of a person being trapped in a painting... well, it was possible, but unlikely. He remembered reading somewhere about an artist who used real objects in their paintings, and vaguely knew that there had been a political backlash because of it, but he couldn't remember the artist's name or when they had lived.
History was straightforward; things happened and they were documented. Sure, people had different interpretations of events, and despite attempting to be immune to the pulls of their opinion, historical authors sometimes let their own ideas infiltrate their writings. But history could still be relied upon to reveal eras and events long forgotten by the living.
Based on Draco's knowledge of art history, he knew it was possibly a Baroque period artist that had used real objects in their art. It had to be someone who relied on their paintings for income, so it couldn't be a court painter. Likely it was someone with an independent workshop... either way, the answer was here in the library somewhere. Draco just had to find it.
He tossed the book he was reading aside, sighing irritably as it skidded over the threadbare carpet. The more he flipped through the dirty tomes around him, the less he believed that finding the solution would be easy. If only the library wasn't so disorganized, he could actually pick up book after book with some level of accuracy. But as it stood, he had to slide books out of Granger's precarious stacks, and even sift through some of the books still heaped together in piles, all dusted with gritty ash and dirt. His hands had been covered in the stuff earlier, and eventually he'd given up on scourgify, as he had to repeat the charm every time he rummaged around.
Draco looked down at his charcoal sketches, unceremoniously spread over the floor, curling into luminescent tubes as the hot sun bore through the room.
A change of pace would help ebb the irritation he felt towards this task, towards the ruin of the library that made searching for an answer so difficult.
He sincerely doubted that painting Granger's portrait would actually work, but a direct order from McGonagall was a direct order, and it gave him a distraction. He could quietly grumble about the annoying Gryffindor while he sketched, taking out his frustration on his parchment.
Portraits were only commissioned by great wizards and witches, people with value and clout. It was unheard of to paint a portrait of an average person, or even a muggleborn for that matter. Draco could count on one hand the number of muggleborn portraits he'd read about. Sure, there were very few truly pureblood wizards anymore, as everyone had likely tainted their bloodline over time, but it was still such an odd concept: a muggleborn, deserving a portrait.
On top of that, Granger had no idea how ungrateful she was being, demanding this and that from her scene. She was lucky she was even getting a painting at all.
Despite these ideas, once he was sketching Draco was able to let go of his anger at her and just simmer in the familiar rhythm of planning a painting, something that activated a deep part of his imagination. There were always ways to take something mundane—for instance, a portrait of a muggleborn sitting at a desk—and infuse it with extraordinary ideas. That essence of innovation and freedom was what made Draco enjoy this so much.
There was nothing safer, or more satisfying, than being the master of what he created.
Any thoughts or feelings he had could be dissected and translated into form, color and shape. His ideology could be inferred from the objects he placed in his scenes and their symbolic meanings. And in that way, when he created something he wasn't just painting, but crafting a story.
And Merlin, did he have a story to tell about that damn Gryffindor.
The urge to eviscerate her in art was all too tempting. He would show her in a tiny, cramped composition to allude to her small-minded nature. India ink smeared hands, turned reddish brown, the color of dried blood. Pinched, self-righteous expression that got on his nerves—when her brows were furrowed and her lips pursed. Odd muggle rags in muted browns. Granger would be all shades of ochre and umber, the colors of a mudblood.
He'd save her eyes for last, as he didn't want that odd sense of confusion to overtake him, like it had when he'd casted the charm. Whatever that feeling was had tampered with the charm, though how, he couldn't quite remember.
After settling on a composition that seemed right—he'd figure out the details later, as he didn't really want to stare at Granger at this moment to start sketching her—he set down his charcoal drawings and rose to his knees to rummage in the stacks surrounding him.
Granger had proposed that they break down the magical properties of the charm, but that was even more daunting of an undertaking. They'd have to research the etymology, the mental model, and even examine how the different charm properties affected each other... it was too much. And with the library completely disorganized, it was next to impossible to search for the right materials.
Draco sighed irritably, once again reminded of the scruffy goodie-good sitting in the middle of his beach, tainting its simple purity with her huffing and scratching. She was making patterns in the sand with her nails, not unlike the sandy meditation patterns he'd seen in Japan. He wanted to snap at her to cut it out, but he knew that trying to speak to her was going to do nothing but ruffle her Gryffindor mane, and he didn't want to try to get her to shut up again.
With several hours fritted away, sunset was fast approaching on Malfoy's end and Hermione was getting antsy. They were no closer to figuring out what had happened than they'd been that morning, and Malfoy's angular face was ridiculously irking and oh-so-punchable the more he brushed her off.
After a while he'd given up on his books to start prepping a canvas for the portrait, but he'd quickly gotten annoyed at something or other, the wood or the canvas or the white gunk he was smearing over it, Hermione couldn't be sure, and had gone back into the swaying stacks of books to find more research material.
The tiny Art History section of the library seemed to be mostly dispersed between three piles, and luckily the shelf still held some of its books. This should have made the search for an answer easier, but with Hermione stuck in the painting, she could not search herself, and had to rely on Malfoy's sense of what was important.
This presented a problem.
"Why are you still reading history books?" Hermione asked, leaning forward off the sand, squinting at the spine. "We need to start understanding the etymology of the charm so we can—"
Malfoy didn't look up, flipping through the book in his fingers as he sat down in front of the canvas. "Someone has to have done this before," he muttered distractedly. "I remember something about it. But it's easier if I know how that artist—"
"Malfoy, we need to understand what the charm really does!"
"I know what the charm does—"
"No, clearly none of you artists do, because this place is real. It's physical in some way. Everything I've read about charming art is that it's just a way to get the scene to move. Whatever this is," she gestured around, waving at the sky, "it's not just a simple movement charm."
"Of course it isn't," Draco dismissed, "but it is highly evolved magic, to understand the makeup of the charm would take—"
"Well if you don't want to break the charm apart, we at least need to know the history of the charm itself. I can guarantee that over time the spell was refined to what we have today."
Draco shook his head. "The spell was invented during the Baroque period. It's barely changed since then if at all."
Hermione sighed. This was one thing she didn't understand about the wizarding world. There were much easier ways to do things, but wizards were so stuck with their traditions and ideas that they refused to innovate. If she could respect Professor Snape as a teacher for one thing, it was his innovation in the art of potion-making. He didn't just blindly follow precedence: he improved concocting methods, ultimately making his potions more powerful.
She found it hard to believe that not a single wizard for the past few hundred years had tried this with the painting charm.
"If the spell was invented during the Baroque period," Hermione argued, "how would you explain the paintings at Hogwarts dating back to the 1100s?"
"Obviously they were retroactively charmed by later artists. Wandwork back in the early 12th century was very rudimentary."
"Rudimentary, yet unbounded," she retorted. "So in theory, a previous spell would have been more pure. More powerful."
"The charm didn't exist back then! There's no record of it—"
"No, the spell has to have been altered from a previous version. And if we're going to figure this out, we need to find the original charm!"
"How do you know the original charm holds the answer?"
"I don't know, but we have to start somewhere!"
Draco rubbed his temple, closing the large copy of Early 15th Century Art and Sculpture. "I'm already starting somewhere, Granger."
"I know, but I'm saying that—"
"Look, I know it's driving you mental that you can't look for yourself, but as long as I'm the one who can search, we do this my way," he said evenly. "Despite what you think, I know a lot more about art magic than you."
"You may know more about art magic, but I know a lot more about spell creation."
"What makes you think that?"
"Because I've been studying it for four years!" she hissed.
"And how do you know that I haven't been studying it as well?"
"I... " She stopped, recognizing that she was arguing for the sake of arguing because she was angry.
Hermione faltered, taking a calming breath, and tried again. "Alright, Malfoy. Let's say you have been studying it. If that's the case, you would know that spells, as they are created, need to be refined to be useful. In their reckless, original states, they are more likely to kill you than do what you want them to do. Yet in their original state they are likely to be more potent, as the refinement process reigns in this power."
"Yes, yes," he said flippantly, "but you're forgetting that the caster's magic and intention is the main source of power—"
"I know, I was getting to that—"
"Why can't you just let me do this?!"
"Because I don't want you to screw it up again!"
When she met his eyes, he was glaring at her with a fire she hadn't seen in a long time—eyes blazing, nostrils flared, lips set in a hard line. She picked back over what she said, and hazily realized that she had insulted him in a way that she actively tried not to insult anyone, not only because it was petty and self-serving, but because it was a high insult to be called bad at magic—magic was an essential part of who they were.
Hermione took a step back on the sand. The only sound for a moment was the waves at her feet.
Draco stood suddenly, towering over the painting, his hair shielding his expression.
Finally he turned, his form getting smaller. "Damn mudblood thinking you know everything about magic..." he grumbled as he walked away.
Hermione's heart sank, the warm breeze turning chilly as she fell to the sand, sliding down the dune. She stared down the beach, numb; the waves crashed beyond the frame, curls and webs of white and reflected lilac falling into and out of each other.
Of all that had happened in the past eight hours, this was nothing to be upset about, but she couldn't help the deep disappointment and fatigue weighing down her heart, the same fatigue that made her frustrated with her world, made her desperate to prove that she belonged there.
Hermione sighed heavily, willing her eyes to stop prickling as she laid back on the soft sand, knowing that her hair was going to be full of it but not caring at the moment. Let the sand claim her hair, weave its fingers into her scalp, peel back the hoods of her eyes, and drain into her open mouth. Let the beach cave in like quicksand and swallow her whole, muffling that angry red and purple sky into darkness, muffling Draco Malfoy's voice as he chanted mudblood, mudblood, mudblood from the frame. Let it blanket every hair on her arms that too closely resembled the stroke of a brush, every hopeful spike in her heart that oh goodness, they had finally figured it out—nope, try again. Let the beach claim her and end the pain that she'd been running from since that first time Ron had mocked her for her scholastic intensity, or Malfoy had swiped her books out of her arms, or Snape had looked down his crooked nose at her perfectly brewed potion simply for the colors of the tie that hung over it.
And while she was escaping, she could muffle the rest as well—the vague knowledge of death claiming people she'd considered family; the hundreds of witches and wizards still missing in their community; the young lives that were cut too short, too soon. The oily fingers of death were surprisingly nimble and steadfast when gripping the souls of her friends. Death had been elusive to her but not to them. Not to them.
Hermione sighed, her breath free and clear despite the sand, which had moulded to the shape of her back. Whenever she closed her eyes it seemed that she ended up back there, in some deep corner of her mind where death was consuming and she was weightless, lost, confused and yet filled with infinite understanding of it all, but with a childlike determination that it wasn't fair and could not stand. She wanted to bang her fists against the floor like a toddler. How come she got so much time and them so little? The simplest of questions would stab out from behind her eyes, flood her arms until they were shaking, congeal and boulder in her throat. But then she would haze over, and the question would dissipate as she breathed, until she was nothing more than a walking shell trying to remain upright.
She welcomed the haze now to bring her back to rationality, back to logic, her safe space. Matter could not be created or destroyed, it had to start somewhere and go somewhere. The world was made up of laws and nature followed them unquestioningly and mostly without fail. It had been a spell to put her here and would be a spell to put her back where she belonged. They would figure it out eventually; yes, Malfoy was a prick, but she'd already known that.
Hermione lifted her head off the sand and shimmied up to a sitting position. The beach was unchanged. No matter what happened on the other side of the canvas this world remained the same, the tide becoming scary occasionally, yes, but still faithfully crashing. The sky had yet to change color, though the clouds seemed to be moving; it was still the same intense purple and red, like the innards of a carnivorous flower.
While there were certainly worse places she could have been trapped—the cells under Malfoy Manor came to mind, as did the dark, moody portraits of fantastic beasts littered in the library—there was something here that frightened her, something that had her on edge constantly.
She really wouldn't be this combative usually; she knew when to put aside her personal thoughts about someone to get something done. But... Malfoy really did bring the worst out of her. And Hermione was starting to suspect that his painting was doing the same.
She sat up suddenly and looked behind her; the rolling hills were still there, as were the mountains in the distance.
For the first time she actually felt curious enough about this place to explore. Fear of disappearing or befalling some other odd fate had kept her within sight of the suspended gilded frame at all times before, but now she was anxious to walk.
She stood carefully on the white sand, took a calming breath, and began hiking up the hill, towards where the sand became long grass.
At least this place was beautiful, and it was easy to traverse; she could see for miles in every direction it seemed, except for the odd black expanse to the left and right of the beach.
She wondered just how far she could walk before the black expanse would consume the path ahead; it seemed to claim any area not in direct view of the canvas. In fact, if she made it all the way up the mountains in the distance, it was likely that the other side of them would just be black, unseen by the frame of this world and thus unable to exist.
Were all paintings like this? Their own little universes, trapped within a bubble? Separate from the rest of the world, miniature scenes like snippets from a play? How could something like this exist and no one knew?
Someone had to have done this before, there was no possible way that wizards had gone centuries creating magically-enhanced works of art without figuring out what they were actually doing.
That sense of defiant hope bloomed in her heart again; they would figure this out, of course they would. She'd figured out many things in her life, she could do this. She just needed to come to Malfoy with a plan, and be persuasive. He couldn't ignore logic... could he?
Draco was walking slowly again, trying to delay his fate. The oak doors to the Great Hall stood proudly at the end of the corridor, but with every step he felt that they were getting further away.
By the time he made it to the doors, the somber mutterings of the volunteers beyond, Draco was practically inching forward, his feet shuffling against the cold stone.
They were all going to hex him silly.
One moment, he'd be standing there, and the next he would be a puddle of goo, oozing across the stone floor. He imagined McGonagall stepping over his gelatinous mass and plucking his wand out of the gook to snap it.
Draco shook that odd vision away, took a breath, and pushed open the doors, cringing as they croaked.
The tables were sparser than they had been the day before, and based on the wispy murmurs Draco immediately knew that something else had happened, likely having to do with the castle restoration or the grounds. The hall was oddly quiet, quiet enough that he could hear the sound of the trees outside from the hole in the rafters. The clink of cutlery against metal plates rang out like tiny funeral chimes.
Everything that had happened between him and Granger earlier in the day suddenly seemed so trivial, so unimportant in the face of the rest of the restoration effort.
He'd heard the stories, swapped quietly over dinner after he arrived. The team working on the facade had found body parts one day, severed and crushed under massive chunks of stone. Another time, Patil had found a comatose second-year student under one of the fallen staircases, and hadn't spoken for days afterward. Draco couldn't imagine what that was like, peering around every brick, every stone, every odd splatter of dark liquid and praying that there wasn't a body there. Even just cleaning blood off of one of the paintings a few days prior was enough to make him retch unceremoniously off the edge of the library and onto the dirt below.
It seemed that the thing with Granger would be more bad news, more tinder for the hellfire.
Draco craned to get a look at the platters of food, checking to see what was on the menu, but truthfully he couldn't even think about eating. His stomach was in knots; he just had to get this over with.
It was like stepping up to a guillotine, approaching the head table, but he couldn't slow down now. As he neared, McGonagall looked up at Draco questioningly, and he was ashamed to see a glimmer of hope in her eyes, quickly dashed when he shook his head. She finished swallowing and stood, coming around to stand next to him at the head of the room.
"Your attention, everyone," she called, and the room immediately fell silent as all eyes settled on them. Draco kept his gaze down, but in his peripherals he could see people's furrowed eyebrows and hear their mutterings—what is he doing up there?
"There has been an accident in the library," McGonagall began. "Before I get into the details, let me assure you that the situation is being handled by Mr. Malfoy here, as he is the best equipped to rectify it."
"What happened?" someone called. A few murmurs spread throughout the sparsely occupied tables.
"Miss Granger has become trapped in an oil painting," the professor said simply. "But besides her confinement is otherwise unharmed—"
Ron Weasley launched up, his plate jumping as he knocked it with his elbow; Mrs. Weasley's hand flew over her mouth, her eyes wide.
"Trapped?!" Ron exclaimed. "How?!"
Draco's head descended a few centimeters unwillingly as his heart began to beat without control; Professor McGonagall looked at him for a moment, her glare searing the side of his face, before she said evenly, "That is unclear. But it is clear that she will be alright. Mr. Malfoy will see to that."
"He'll see to it?" Hannah asked.
"He'll be fixing it," McGonagall corrected. "He will also be taking over restorations of the library in the meantime, so for those of you taking your N.E.W.T.s you know who to ask for research material."
Weasley ran a tense hand through his hair, looking back at his classmates.
"Where is Hermione?" Longbottom asked, the people around him nodding at his question.
"She is in the library still, and may appreciate visitors, as she cannot move from place to place that easily. Mr. Malfoy, where is she?"
Draco raised his eyes to the room, which had broken out into offhand conversation and murmurs, and was surprised to see that no one was glaring at him. He cleared his throat and responded, "Leaning against the wall near the door. On top of the other paintings."
"She's leaning—oh," Luna murmured, seeming to understand.
"Urgh, everything in the damn castle is malfunctioning..."
"What a horrible day..."
"Is—can we see her now? Is she okay?"
"Yes and yes," McGonagall returned. "I'm sure Mr. Malfoy wouldn't mind waiting a few minutes while you speak to her."
Of course he didn't mind, he'd been arguing with her for hours and after that last tiff, she was lucky that he hadn't incinerated the damn painting with her still in it.
He looked up carefully, consciously schooling his features so that any traces of his thoughts wouldn't show. The room wasn't paying him much attention, beyond the occasional grumble about talking to him when a reference book was needed, and it would do more good to grab a pensieve and relive the classes instead of even sharing space with him.
Draco sighed discreetly, somewhat comforted by the fact that no-one seemed to be blaming him for what happened. He only had McGonagall to thank for that however, for as soon as Granger got ahold of her friends they would hear the real story, and then all Draco could do was pray that they cursed him enough to put him in the hospital wing so he wouldn't have to deal with any of this anymore.
As the members of the Great Hall chattered dejectedly, shoveling last bites of food into their mouths as they stood, Draco faced McGonagall as she made to sit back at the head table.
"Professor..."
McGonagall stopped, but didn't turn to him. "Yes?"
Draco swallowed and asked, "Will you be reporting this to the Wizengamot?"
She looked back at him, the way one looks at a bit of dragon dung at the bottom of their shoe—resigned and disgusted—and sighed heavily.
"Instead of worrying about your own fate, why don't you worry about the fate of Miss Granger," McGonagall replied sternly.
Draco's hands shook as he averted his eyes. McGonagall always had a way of effortlessly making him feel guilty.
The teacher sighed, pursing her lips, her attention turning gentle. "I'm sorry for being short with you earlier, Draco. But you must understand—now is not the time to be dabbling in leisure pursuits, or daydreaming when you're supposed to be casting very complicated charms. Do you see what can happen when you aren't careful, aren't focused?"
Draco said nothing, his gaze far away.
"Have you at the very least figured out what went wrong, so that it doesn't happen again?"
Draco tried to look unaffected, but he couldn't help but cluck a little; it was exactly what Granger had suggested earlier. The way the two former Gryffindors thought was so similar it was uncanny. "I'm working on it, Professor," he murmured.
"I believe that you may have some luck with Professor Flitwick. He isn't one for creative pastimes such as painting, so I don't imagine he'll have studied the charm in depth, but he may be able to give you insight into what happened. He's created many charms in his day."
Draco raised his gaze to the head table. Flitwick was chatting quietly with Professor Slughorn, their voices low and tight. The food before them was untouched.
"I can tell you that if you don't fix this soon, I'll be forced to inform the Wizengamot, as it may impact the terms of your release. I imagine that returning Miss Granger to normal will take a significant amount of research, and I'd rather you prioritize that over Hogwart's art collection." She paused, waiting for him to meet her eyes again, and put forth, "And Malfoy..."
Draco looked up, his stomach twisting again.
"I understand that you and Miss Granger haven't always been on the best of terms. But unfortunately, you are her only chance at the moment. I trust that you can see past your history and get this done." She sighed, and finished, "For both your sakes."
Hermione raked the grass beside her, pulling the sharp blades through her clenched fists. It was the kind of grass that grew on the lawns of English manor houses, shapely and dignified, but it had been made long, flowing, and slightly dry, producing an odd effect of fantastical elegance. It was like a posh person pretending to be homeless. It was exactly how a person who'd never seen real wild grass before would paint wild grass.
The meadow above the beach extended too far into the distance to traverse easily, and so after only twenty minutes of wading through the tall blades, parting the grass in her wake, Hermione had turned back towards the water. When she finally reached the edge of the meadow, where the blades protruded from patches of white sand, she sat, sighing heavily.
She felt so out of control, so helpless, stuck here with only Malfoy to rely on. Her wand was apparently useless, the potted plant still dead, and the old A History of Magic irrelevant. What she wouldn't give just for a different book to read...
As Hermione pulled the grass between her fingers, she thought she heard her name drifting over the breeze.
She tensed automatically, annoyance spiking in her chest. She didn't want to see him right now, didn't want to face the boy who consistently made her feel inferior, made her question her place in a world she'd worked so hard to protect.
Something about the call was different, though, and after a moment she realized what it was; someone had said her given name, not her surname, so it couldn't be Malfoy... could it?
Was... was someone in here with her?!
Hermione stood slowly, looking around carefully as though if she moved too suddenly the intruder would pounce on her.
"Hermione?"
That had been unmistakable this time—Neville's voice. Unless he managed to get stuck in here as well, he was likely standing in front of the frame.
Hermione grounded her nerves and began trekking over the hill, towards the expanse of beach. She had been so ready to fight with Malfoy again she was oddly calmed by the realization that she had friendly company to look forward to. She listened closely to the chatter, taking comfort in the sound of Neville's voice.
As she neared the gilded frame, her trainers sliding in the sand, she recognized at least six people crammed in the suspended rectangle of space, all peering around as she approached.
"Are you alright?" Padma called.
"Yeah, I'm fine," Hermione sighed, only slightly sarcastic as she crossed her arms in front of the frame.
"How did you get in there?"
"What happened?"
"McGonagall said that Malfoy is doing the library now—"
"We had pudding today, it was wonderful—"
"One at a time, please," the curly-haired witch sighed, rubbing her temple. Her friends shuffled in the frame.
"How are you getting out?" Ron asked evenly.
"I don't know," she replied. "We haven't worked that part out yet."
"You don't know?"
"Yes, sometimes there are things I don't know," she snapped. "We haven't been able to find a record of someone taking an object out of a painting yet."
Her classmates faltered, their heads getting a little smaller in the frame as they leaned away.
As Padma and Neville glanced at each other, Hermione sighed and said, "I'm sorry, I'm just... it's been a trying day."
"It's okay, Hermione, we understand," Luna put forth. "I'd be irritable and rude if I was stuck in there too—"
"Are you sure you're okay?" Neville asked, his voice steady but eyes glossy.
Hermione nodded. "Yeah... I'm alright. I just want to get out. And we're working on it."
"Let us know if we can do anything..."
"No, don't worry," Hermione waved, her heart filling with warmth for the first time since she became trapped. "We'll figure out how to fix this. I've been in worse situations."
The group smiled sadly, glancing at each other; this was true, they'd managed to get out of other predicaments before. In fact, this was the least perilous thing that had happened to one of them in a while. It was honestly reminiscent of the sort of accidents that frequently occurred during class.
"Hermione, do you know how you got stuck in there?" Ron asked. "I know a lot of the paintings are malfunctioning, but... I don't know about you lot, but I've never seen this painting before."
Hermione opened her mouth, and then noticed a small head in the distance behind one of the shelves, the head of a person who was watching the exchange intently.
So Malfoy was here, waiting for her friends to leave so he could continue working. She locked eyes with him for a moment, before he looked away and began rummaging around in the book pile she'd been sorting the previous day.
"I... well, Malfoy was charming this painting, and I was nearby. And—well, you can see what a mess it is in here. Something was bound to happen."
The group nodded; it seems like they could feel it too—the dysfunctional energy surrounding the castle that felt like a prickling at the back of one's neck. There were so many broken charms, so many shattered magical objects and traces of protective, defensive, and offensive spells, that walking through the corridors felt distinctly unsafe. There was a reason why not many people had decided to stay and help; within a few hours of the battle, people were already having accidents around the castle. Filch had fallen from a staircase, putting him in the hospital with a nasty broken bone that at his age, required more than a healing charm. Luna had been nearly crushed by falling stone as she helped with the facade; luckily Professor Flitwick was as quick as he was proficient at levitation charms, and levitated the thing inches away from Luna's confused head.
Other students that had fought in the battle had gone home to rejoin their families, regroup and pick up the pieces of their lives; one by one they drifted away, and McGonagall's idea to have some students retake their O.W.L.s and N.E.W.T.s was the main thing that was keeping a few of the stragglers here. But no more than two dozen students had stayed, and the adults were coming and going as they helped with the castle and their own families and homes.
"Did I miss anything?" Hermione asked. "It's only been a few hours but I feel like it's been days."
The group collectively stiffened, and Hermione's half-formed smile dropped.
"They, uh, found some more bodies outside the grounds," Padma murmured, her eyes downcast.
Hermione's throat constricted, and she nodded, staring at the waves at her feet, checking to make sure she was still firmly planted on the ground.
"They've um, figured out where they're coming from. It was the spiders... they've been... dragging the dead into the forest. Presumably for food. Professor Slughorn sent an owl to the Auror Office."
Hermione nodded numbly. "Yeah, acromantula will eat any medium-sized mammal. Even a centaur or a human if they can."
Neville cleared his throat and put forth, "Professor Sprout and I were checking the edge of the forest by the greenhouses a little while ago. We made a perimeter, and I feel like we got most of them. The Aurors will investigate the acromantula lair, and take care of the remains."
She didn't want to ask the question, the one that was on the tip of her tongue; she looked up at the creased faces crammed around the frame, searching their eyes.
"All the ones we found were adults," Neville said quickly. "Lots of black robes. We think they're mostly Death Eaters."
"Not that it makes it any better," Padma added, "but at the very least there weren't any student remains. I guess we'll have to see when the Aurors come to identify them."
"Yeah. Maybe knock a few of the missing Death Eaters off their list," Ron sighed.
The group shuffled around the frame, all looking away. Hermione searched their faces; what she wouldn't give to hug them, tell them it was going to be alright. But with her stuck here, the only thing she could do was rock on the sand.
She cleared her throat. "How is, um, the rest of the castle going? Hannah?"
"To be expected," the blonde replied. "Finally starting to see some progress though. The first-floor classrooms are mostly back in order, and we've fixed all the desks we could find."
"Yes, the south end of the castle is nearly done," Terry put forth. "We should be able to bring supplies and such to the courtyard once we get the bridge back up."
"Speaking of which, we've got to get Gryffindor Tower up. Thank Merlin no one was in there when it fell... it was impaled over the south end terrace."
"Are you all going to be okay without the library for a bit? I know you're trying to study as soon as possible..." Hermione murmured.
"Honestly, I can't imagine studying right now. No idea how Neville is doing it," Ron said, nudging his friend.
"Well, a lot of the information is still fresh," he defended. "As is the exam. I thought I should start early."
Hermione nodded approvingly. "Yes, that's an excellent idea." She paused. "Look, I'll be here, and you know where I am. I don't want to keep you."
"Nonsense," Ron said, "a few of us will stay if you need company."
She did want them to stay desperately but didn't want to tether them to the library, especially if Malfoy was going to be there.
"No, it's alright," Hermione sighed. "You know where I am. I'll see you all later?"
The group nodded and murmured goodbyes, Hannah and Padma waving as they retreated. As the others departed, Ron looked behind him, then leaned into the frame, his form filling up the canvas.
"Hermione, do you want us to owl Harry? Do you think it will take more than a few days to get you back to normal?"
Hermione shook her head. "I'm not sure... and I know he's busy, I don't want to pester him... ah, but I know he'd be upset if we didn't tell him. You know how he gets."
Ron nodded, scratching the back of his head. "Alright then, I'll send him an owl."
"Okay," she replied. "See you guys later."
Neville and Ron waved, their faces creased with concern; Hermione smiled hopefully, wanting to put them at ease. As they turned away, she sighed heavily. Instead of just standing around awkwardly on the sand, she turned and trudged back up the hill, towards the long, sandy grasses behind the beach.
With the suspended frame out of sight and the wind going steadily, Hermione pretended that she wasn't trapped, and instead was on holiday. It was still sunset, as it had been since she arrived, and she imagined that it would be nightfall soon, and she could curl up in a seaside cabin with her latest transfiguration spell guide and read into the late evening, until the sky was nothing but a black wash.
But she couldn't pretend everything was okay, because that was just a fantasy. Even in this picturesque—albeit shocking—landscape, there was something eerie that made her always look over her shoulder, made her skin crawl and breath shallow.
She knew that she was somewhat safe, that there were no creatures or other humans painted into this landscape and so ostensibly nothing could harm her directly, but... she felt like this world was... wrong. It felt too perfect, in a way that made porcelain dolls look scary rather than cute, made high-society confections look like they were made of plastic.
When Hermione came back to the beach, her cardigan pulled tight around her shoulders, Malfoy was seated in front of the canvas again, his head in his hand, elbow propped up on the oversized tome he was reading. Next to him a fresh palette sat, paint glossy as it reflected the last licks of the falling sun.
Hermione sat gingerly on the warm sand. She reached forward and undid her shoelaces, kicking off her shoes and pushing her freed toes into the dune. She had no idea how long she would be there, but was already tired of her clothes, dirty and heavy against her skin. The salt from the water had done a number on her hair, stripping out the curl and making it fall in crunchy, lank waves. She brushed a sandy hand over the dark tresses, still somewhat damp from the earlier attempt at moving the canvas.
As she sat, she suddenly realized that she had been milling around the scene for hours, but had yet to feel the urge to eat, or use the toilet. She did feel vaguely nauseous, the way she'd felt this morning, but she didn't feel the traditional pangs of hunger.
It was almost as if the painting induced a sense of stasis, unchanging and purgatorial. It was certainly an odd thought, but with the sunset still hovering over the horizon as it had been for the past several hours, it seemed like the most likely explanation. Hermione pondered this, weighing what she knew about magical art and what she knew about the world she was in.
Nothing appeared to change here, not the tide nor the sky, nor the occasional breath of warm wind blowing through her clothing. She wondered what would happen if she stayed here for months; would she continue to age? Would her hair get longer, or would it stay at the same length? And if that happened, what would happen to her if she escaped?
The figures depicted in the artwork around the castle never changed; they moved around and spoke, and learned new things to some degree, but they didn't age. They didn't appear to have new or unique ideas, at least that Hermione had seen. And while they seemed to think for themselves, it was unclear what they could actually achieve independently from what some artist had conceived for them.
This notion worried her; she knew that only the most accomplished artists could bring their subjects to life in a way that was true to who they were. So what did that mean for her and Malfoy? If he painted her given what he knew about her, would he be painting her, or a caricature?
Hermione sighed. This is what Malfoy meant, when he said that he'd only be painting a "shade."
If he had actually said it in a way that wasn't so combative, maybe she would have picked up on it earlier, but she'd been too distracted by his indifference to think about it.
"Malfoy," she said quietly.
He didn't look up from his reading.
She tried again. "Malfoy, I believe you, that painting my portrait wouldn't work."
He huffed disinterestedly, his eyes following lines of cramped text.
"I still think you should try, but if it doesn't work we need to tackle this from another angle; besides, the only benefit is being able to use magic and... get off this beach before something happens to me." Hermione's neck prickled, and she instinctively glanced behind her, but there was nothing there. She cleared her throat and continued, "If you're going to try to find if someone has done this before in history, I'd like to start understanding the charm. So we can break it apart."
She knew he was listening; the only sounds coming from his end were the wind and the muttering of the other paintings in the room.
"She's talking to you, lad," Sir Galahad put forth. "Don't you think you owe her an ear?"
Draco's book slid down his lap as he glared over his shoulder at the knight, who raised his hands innocently.
"I don't need your commentary, knight," Draco grumbled, turning back to his book, his eyebrows creased.
"Malfoy, please," Hermione reasoned. "Can you just prop a book up for me? It doesn't have to just be you figuring this out. I can help us."
Draco sighed heavily. "If I prop up the book detailing the painting charm, will you be quiet for the rest of the day?"
Irritation boiled in Hermione's gut, but she nodded silently, clenching her jaw. When he was so insufferable, she could barely feel good about him pulling out a slim, hard-bound book titled A Painters Guide to Enchantment. He flipped three pages, muttered imobulus, and dropped the open book in front of the frame. It thudded against the worn carpet.
"Thank you," she muttered, happy that the book was shielding the majority of Malfoy's infuriating face from view.
True to her word, Hermione didn't speak to him for the rest of the evening. Once she finished reading about the charm, going over the section one, two, three times, she picked up the dirty copy of A History of Magic instead, flipping to the tiny section about enchanted art in order to give herself something to do.
After a spell, a yawn sounded from the frame, and Hermione peered around the book to see Malfoy standing.
"Your weasel is here," he muttered.
He swatted the book away from the frame, and it fell to the carpet and closed. Hermione rubbed her eyes, cringing against the grit in the corners.
Malfoy loudly stacked the books around him, then didn't so much glance at Ron as the speckled redhead closed in on the painting.
"Well, he's as cheerful as a soggy biscuit, isn't he?" Ron put forth, watching Malfoy as he continued stacking books near the entrance, his back bent, spine jutting through his shirt.
"Isn't he always?" Hermione retorted, setting her book on the sand next to her.
Ron knelt in front of the frame, resting his hand on the top; it tipped slightly, and Hermione felt the earth rumble just a little.
"Is he really the only one who can help you? I mean, McGonagall must have connections with some famous artist somewhere..."
Hermione shook her head. "Everyone is still scattered. I'm sure a lot of people haven't even come out of hiding yet... would they really believe The Prophet telling them that the war is over and they can come out, come out, where ever they are? Probably not." Hermione huffed, crossing her arms. "Apparently McGonagall would rather have Malfoy repair the paintings than an actual expert."
Ron shrugged. "It's gonna be hard, trying to clean up everything... I'm not happy he's here either, but we could probably use the help. We can't just wave our wands and put it all back together—all the spells have to be checked, charms and protections and all that have to be redone." He scratched his head, ruffling his hair. "If there wasn't so much magic that went into keeping this building upright, maybe it wouldn't be such a huge thing... I honestly had no idea some of these charms existed. Like did you know that the walls have anti-graffiti charms in them?"
Hermione rolled her eyes. "Yes, Hogwarts, a History talks about that. Seriously, if you're going to help with the castle, you have to read up on it, Ron!"
Ron shrank back a bit, the way he did when he was making a choice between being angry and defensive or self-deprecating.
Instead, he said quietly, "Hermione... are you sure you're okay? You seem... off."
She was about to snap at him that yes, she was just marvelous, stuck on this stupid beach, but she stopped.
Why was she being like this, pushing everyone away, lashing out? Sure, she'd been fighting with Malfoy, which was to be expected, but she rarely got this annoyed at her friends, especially for no reason. The only time she'd felt like this was when... she'd had Slytherin's locket.
Oh. Oh dear.
"No," she sighed, shaking her head. "I'm not okay, it's this bloody painting. I'm so... it's making me irritable and... upset."
"Upset, how?"
"I mean, it's not just that I'm stuck here. I've already gotten over that. There's something else. It's like... the painting is making me feel like this."
Ron ran a hand through his hair, catching the gold strands at the base of his temple. "It's making you feel... what exactly?"
"I feel like... I don't know. Like this is the only good place left on Earth. It's like a paradise amidst an apocalypse."
"Whoa," Ron breathed, "that's mad..."
"Yeah. And my magic doesn't work in here. But I've seen wizards in other paintings perform magic... it's almost like magic doesn't exist here."
"How can... how can magic not exist?"
"This world is different," she replied heavily. "There's something different here. Maybe the movement spell is malfunctioning—"
"I mean, it would have to be, considering you got stuck there. There's got to be something wrong with the painting."
Hermione nodded, trying to quell the thumping of her heart, smooth over the prickling feeling like she was in danger. She'd been there for hours, and nothing terrible had happened to her yet, so she knew it was just her imagination, but it was still an uncomfortable feeling that was hard to stomach.
"There is something wrong with it, I just... I'm not sure what it is yet," Hermione murmured, digging her feet into the dune before her. The warm wind blew through her crispy hair, ruffling it like a curtain.
"But you're sure that Malfoy can fix it?"
Hermione shook her head, her eyes prickling briefly; she took a deep breath, getting control of her voice, and said, "I don't know, Ron. He doesn't even remember what went wrong, and he won't let me help him. He... he said that another artist had done this before, and we just had to find the record of it, but I think we should deconstruct the charm, maybe create a countercharm."
Ron nodded slowly. "I mean, both of those things could work..."
Hermione sighed, her expression sour. "Yes, but Malfoy is too lazy to do any actual thinking on this and just wants to find some charm in a book that will reverse it. But with the library still so messy..."
"Yeah, seems like finding a charm would be hard," Ron put forth. "But wouldn't finding the etymology books also be hard? And the charms books?"
Hermione shrugged, ignoring the urge to snap at Ron—no way he almost agreed with Malfoy.
"It seems like the library needs to be back in order first, then," Ron murmured. "Then you can actually search and not just—I don't know, rummage around in the mess."
"But I can't search, because I'm stuck in here," Hermione grumbled. "Malfoy has to do it."
"And he's not one to take direction from one of us, is he..."
Hermione shook her head.
"Do you... do you want me or Neville to help him? I don't know much about paintings, but—"
"No no, Ron, I don't want... everyone fussing over me. The castle has to be done in just a few months and as it is, it's already going to be tight, getting everything back to normal before term starts..."
He nodded, his head lowered, and Hermione felt a pang a sympathy for him, for everyone working on other parts of the castle. In some ways she had lucked out with her task of repairing the library. Even though it was one of the most magic-dense parts of the castle, and re-cataloging and replacing the destroyed books was going to take weeks, she didn't have to worry about stone falling, or discovering bodies, or anything like that. The library had been empty during the battle.
She looked up to discover Ron's eyes drooping, his shoulders slumped as he breathed heavily.
"Ah, Ron... I know you're tired. You don't have to stay all night."
He snapped up, stretching, and replied, "Yeah, but you're going to be here all by yourself—it's going to get boring."
"No, I'm going to get some sleep too," she reasoned. "It's been a long day. But can I see you tomorrow?"
"Of course—I'll stop by before breakfast..."
"You mean, after breakfast," she replied. "I've seen what time you eat breakfast and it's closer to lunch. Besides... Malfoy is usually here in the mornings."
Ron nodded, then looked around awkwardly as he rose to his feet.
"Okay, 'Mione I'll... I'll see you tomorrow."
"See you," she murmured, and as he walked through the empty shelves and around the piles of books toward the exit she tried to keep him in her sights, even as his form was enveloped by darkness.
Author's Note (12/26/18): Heyyyy everyone thank you for the great reviews and support, and Happy New Year!