The four of them stood in a semi-circle around the portrait of Phineas Nigellus which, in that moment, did not actually feature Phineas at all. He was in his Hogwarts frame, conferring with the headmistress, making sure she was ready to receive them in her office in whatever state they would be in after travelling via picture. Hermione clutched her schoolbag to her chest, nervous.
Suddenly, a muffled sound came through the canvas, and then Phineas Nigellus appeared, looking put out and yet very self-important. "Well," he said as he brushed down the front of his robes, "you're ready, then, are you?"
"Yes, sir," said Harry in an unusual display of deference. Perhaps he realised that offending their courier across the country would be unwise. "Whenever you're ready."
"Hm, yes, well…" Phineas peered at them from his frame. "Mr Potter, it seems you're to be first."
"Right," scoffed Draco quietly, "because if this goes horribly wrong, he's the most expendable."
Everyone ignored it and Harry stepped forward to the painting, bag slung over his shoulder. "So I just — er —" Harry reached out a tentative hand.
"Yes, Mr Potter," drawled Phineas. "In your own time."
Hermione held her breath and watched as Harry extended a hand to the canvas. His fingertips touched the aged paint and, for a moment, nothing happened at all. Then, his body drew forwards, leaning towards the wall until, like a vacuum, Harry's body was sucked up and into the canvas.
Hermione yelped in surprise and reached out without thinking, as though he would fall out the painting and need someone to catch him. But there was nothing there to catch: Harry was gone.
The portrait, too, was empty. Phineas Nigellus had departed for Hogwarts. No-one said anything — no-one even breathed. Several pained moments passed until the dark pigment shifted, a shadow passed over the canvas, and Phineas Nigellus reappeared.
"Right, yes, well. Who's next?"
"It worked?" demanded Ron. "Harry's okay?"
"Oh, yes, quite alright. Now" — he scanned the three of them — "which of you is next?"
"Er — I am." Hermione raised her hand.
Phineas' eyes narrowed. "Very well. Up you get, witch."
Hermione readjusted her hold on her schoolbag and approached the portrait. Behind her, Ron and Draco hardly breathed. Steeling herself for whatever it was she was about to experience, she reached out to the canvas, to where Phineas' extended hand waited for her in two dimensions. Her fingertips brushed the coarse fabric and, for a moment, nothing happened.
Then the world around her began to fall away as the frame grew bigger, swallowing her whole into a universe of canvas and oil. Hermione held her breath as everything she knew was squeezed into the nowhere space between frame and paint. The shades of olive and grey shifted, suddenly struck by sunlight, and just when Hermione thought she couldn't take it any longer, she was spat out onto a hard floor.
Hermione grunted and gulped for air, which was made difficult by the fact the fall had winded her and her eyes were watering with pain.
"Hermione?" said a voice and she felt hands on her arms, helping to keep her torso steady as she sat on the floor. "You alright?"
Hermione couldn't speak for several frantic heartbeats, until she gasped and shakily said, "Yes. Yes, I'm okay."
Harry sighed in relief. "Good."
Her head finally clearing, Hermione looked around her for the first time. She was in the headmistress' office at Hogwarts, unceremoniously sprawled on one of the rugs, and several pairs of eyes were peering at her. She spotted the headmistress herself, which was enough to make Hermione nearly cry, and behind her, Madame Pomfrey, looking harassed. Professor Snape lingered a little further away, looking troubled.
"Here — best get out of the way —" Harry bent over to help support her as she struggled to her feet. Hermione winced; she'd landed on her ankle strangely, and her whole body felt grimy. Harry spotted her face of disgust and winced sympathetically.
"Yeah, I know. I feel all… oily."
Hermione was robbed of the opportunity to speak by a great shout and thudding noise. She turned around to find Draco in a heap on the floor, where she had been moments ago. He groaned and pushed himself up with shaking arms.
"Merlin," he swore, his face scrunched up in discomfort.
"Good evening, Mr Malfoy," greeted the headmistress. "Might I advise you to move?"
Draco's eyes widened at the subtle reprimand and quickly got to his feet on shaking legs before scurrying out of the way, to where Hermione and Harry were stood. She saw him scan her from head to foot, though he was apparently unsatisfied because he leaned in and lowly asked, "You're alright?"
Hermione nodded, her schoolbag clutched to her chest, and looked back to the vacant painting in anticipation of Ron's arrival.
He came tumbling out the canvas less than a minute later, yelping and groaning like the rest of them. Hermione flinched as she saw him land on his elbow and was grateful Madame Pomfrey was on hand.
"Wow," said Ron as he lay flat on his back. "That was… weird."
"Well," came Phineas' voice from above them, "that's all of them."
"Thank you, Phineas," said McGonagall. "I believe that will be all, thank you."
"Yes, well…" He adjusted his robes with a frown and Hermione suddenly wondered if he felt just as uncomfortable and violated by their passage through his frame as they did. "Should you have any other children who need transporting, I suppose I am at your disposal, headmistress," he said with regret.
"Thank you, Phineas." McGonagall's gaze turned to the four of them, including Ron, who was still scrambling up from the floor. "Now, Poppy. Do what you must."
Madame Pomfrey straightened, an ominous glint in her eye which promised much prodding and intrusive diagnostic charms.
Harry went first and was determined to be in fine health. Hermione's evaluation took several minutes, during which she nearly fainted when a charm wormed its way through her brain. Madame Pomfrey only continued to look more and more exasperated by the readings returned, until she finally lowered her wand with a severe look. "You will be coming with me to the Hospital Wing. Now sit down, Miss Granger."
Hermione obeyed, trying very hard not to betray just how exhausted she felt. She was tired of being tired and would gladly bathe in a vat of slimy, vinegary murtlap if it meant she would feel like herself again.
Ron and Draco's abrasions were swiftly healed then and there in the office, and they were released from Madame Pomfrey's hold.
"They'll do, Minerva," she reported primly.
McGonagall, who was leaning against the chair behind her desk, nodded. She looked more exhausted than Hermione had ever seen. "Very good, Poppy. Thank you." For a long moment, she just looked at them. "Welcome back to Hogwarts, Mr Potter, Mr Weasley, Miss Granger, Mr Malfoy… It's good to see you."
"Likewise, professor," said Harry, and Hermione could see he was restless. "So, what's the plan?"
"Plan?" repeated McGonagall. "As you all are not doubt aware, your little adventure in London has caused a great deal of disruption. You-Know-Who is more paranoid and destructive than we have ever known him and our intelligence sources" — Hermione's eyes flickered to Snape — "have led us to believe that an attack at one of our bases is imminent. Whether that is Grimmauld Place or elsewhere, we cannot know. However, I'm sure you can agree that it was imperative you four be removed from the house for your own safety."
"Could he attack Hogwarts, do you think?" asked Harry.
"Not only do I think that he is able," said the headmistress, "but I think it likely he will attempt it. I believe he is very irked by the fact he has not yet managed to control the school." McGonagall spoke with pride.
"Will we be ready if he comes?" wondered Ron.
"We will be as ready as we can be."
"Well," declared Harry, "I'll be ready. Let him come to Hogwarts. I'm ready to finish him off."
McGonagall raised an eyebrow. "Strong words, Harry. Though perhaps we might save your heroic promises for when the time comes. For now, I would like you and Ron to return to Gryffindor Tower. I believe your beds should be ready for you by now." She turned to Hermione with a warm smile. "You, of course, I will hand over to the care of our matron and you, Mr Malfoy… I believe Professor Snape will see to your needs."
"Do we have to go to lessons tomorrow?" asked Ron cautiously.
"No, I do not believe that would be frugal. Do you?"
Hermione dearly wished to protest but held her tongue. She didn't think she had the strength, regardless.
"You will return here tomorrow, to my office," said McGonagall decisively. "Then, we shall work out a 'plan' for you, Harry."
Recognising the dismissal for what it was, they all nodded and departed. The setting sun was casting golden-orange light through the castle's corridors. Hermione had missed the flagstones and arching windows more than she could articulate; as she walked half a pace behind Madame Pomfrey, bag hugged to her chest, she found herself wrestling with a strong, nameless emotion that rendered her wordless.
She didn't encounter anybody she knew, but she did pass by a handful of younger students who looked at her with curiosity, and then, gobsmacked recognition. Hermione did not doubt that by morning, the news that — following their dramatic flight from Hogwarts — Harry Potter and his friends had returned to the castle, would be thoroughly distributed throughout the student population.
And what of Draco? Would his return be as celebrated? Would his house even tolerate his presence in their common room? Her heart suddenly jolted in fear for him. But surely Professor Snape wouldn't condemn him to that? Even if he were not kind-hearted enough to protect his favourite student, at the very least he ought to understand the security risk.
They had arrived at the Hospital Wing. Hermione obediently went to sit on the bed she was directed to; no other students were there.
The same diagnostic spells were conducted, though this time it felt like Madame Pomfrey went over everything twice. Hermione was certain that by the end of it, there would not be a single aspect of her health which had not been evaluated.
"Just Cruciatus, was it?"
"Yes."
Madame Pomfrey hummed thoughtfully as she frowned at the magical runes floating in mid-air above Hermione's middle. "There's far too much Dark magic trapped in that scar for my liking. You'll be staying overnight — at least! — until we can temper that back to something a bit more manageable."
What followed was a veritable smorgasbord of potions. Hermione downed them all with a wince at the unpleasant taste or texture, and gratefully took the sizeable block of chocolate she was offered at the end. Already the murtlap she'd ingested — in tandem with the other pain relievers and strengthening solutions — was doing wonders. She felt more like herself than she had in weeks. She was almost tempted to try to stand again when Madame Pomfrey handed her a tiny bottle of Dreamless Sleep and promptly told her to go to bed.
Hermione knocked back the potion, followed it with a mouthful of chocolate, and settled back against the cushions. The potion worked quickly, weighing down her veins with heavy fatigue and carrying her deeper into subconsciousness. Hermione felt safer than she had in ages; it wasn't difficult to give herself over to the potion's will.
To lie alone, though, was a foreign sensation. She imagined that, wherever he was, Draco was thinking the same thing.