A/N:

Harry Potter belongs to J.K. Rowling, ib belongs to kouri.

Sorry for any errors.

I wrote the fic in Chinese and translated it to English with Claude AI.

Also, I discuss the settings and plot with Claude AI, ChatGPT, and Gemini. They inspired me a lot.

The Chinese version can be found here: /works/63896830/chapters/163875793

Hermione Granger stood directly in front of a massive oil painting. For Merlin's sake, this painting was as large as a wall, encased in an intricately carved golden frame. It was difficult to imagine how Muggle artists had created such a piece, or how craftsmen had managed to secure it to the wall. In front of such artwork, humans seemed so insignificant.

"Absolutely breathtaking," she marveled.

The description plaque read:

"The World"
Estimated circa 1640s,
Artist unknown, unfortunately unfinished.

This enormous painting presents a dreamlike scene from an unusual perspective.
The artist achieved a delicate balance between the atmospheres of purity and desire.

When viewing, one can feel the world's most deadly attraction.
As if one could be drawn into this world.

Reportedly, the artist created a sister piece during the same period,
but that work has since disappeared.

Several scholars who studied this painting for extended periods mysteriously vanished,
adding to the legendary nature of this work.

Hermione stepped back a few paces to appreciate the painting properly. What exactly was depicted on the canvas remained hotly debated even among experts. Some elements had clear forms, while others were merely vague concepts. Some suggested themes of romance, ideals, belief, oaths, purity and indulgence... but regardless of whether they were correct, even Hermione agreed with their consensus—this was a captivating painting.

Looking at it felt as though one might be pulled inside.

She was so entranced that she hadn't realized she was drawing closer to the canvas. For a moment, she even felt something like the magnetic pull of a Portkey.

She blinked. That must have been her imagination—this was Muggle London, after all.

Hermione unconsciously reached out her hand, not entirely sure why she was doing so. Touching exhibits was certainly forbidden, and she wasn't that type of person. But the world within the painting was so beautiful—blood-red roses blooming vibrantly like a once-in-a-lifetime spring. Parchments flying through the air, arranged in a perfect arc, as if welcoming her to climb endless stairs of knowledge... Distant shadowy figures, a group of devoted souls in cloaks, sacred and solemn. She couldn't make out their features, but she knew they were calling to her.

As if saying, come, we're waiting for you.

She shouldn't touch any strange objects, but she couldn't help herself.

Her fingertips nearly made contact with the canvas. She reminded herself she just needed to feel it—was the rose truly as soft as it appeared? The dewdrops on the petals seemed to glisten with light, and the distant figures seemed to flicker...

Just to confirm—

"Pop."

The gallery lights suddenly flickered, causing her to nearly jump. The painting's allure vanished completely—had she really been about to touch a painting? Hermione was startled by her own thoughts.

"Pop-fizz!"

The lights flickered again.

Hermione raised an eyebrow. Someone needed to be informed about this, didn't they? This was currently the most popular exhibition; allowing faulty equipment to affect the viewing experience was unprofessional—

"Fizz-fizz-fizz-fizz-fizz—"

"Fine," she thought irritably. The flickering was getting worse, the lights clearly malfunctioning. She sighed, deciding to abandon this painting and quicken her pace to find someone downstairs.

She recalled a gallery staff member she'd encountered earlier; perhaps he could help locate a manager so she could report her disappointing experience. Failed crowd control, unstable lighting—this was the worst popular art exhibition she'd ever attended. It was an insult to art itself— —the collector of these exhibits, would likely be furious.

Hermione descended the long staircase when suddenly, the world seemed to be covered by a veil. An unusual feeling washed over her—her throat dry, fingertips cold. The buzzing in her ears made her head throb, making it nearly impossible to hear surrounding sounds.

Something wasn't right.

Then she finally realized—it was too quiet.

No matter how quiet a museum might be, there would still be air conditioning, unruly children, traffic sounds, people whispering.

It was too... empty.

When Hermione had arrived at the museum with her parents this morning, she had complained about the terrible crowd management, with people shoulder to shoulder, eagerly photographing the exhibits.

She vaguely remembered hearing nearby visitors chattering before she entered the exhibition hall. Now, her resounding footsteps were the only sound in this space.

Where had all the Muggles gone?

Her parents—where had they gone?

Pale-faced, she stumbled into an exhibition room filled with headless mannequins, like those in clothing stores, indeed wearing various outfits. She hurried across the cold marble floor. The next room was filled with plaster head sculptures, each face displaying a different expression. Hermione quickly walked back to the ticket gate; everything remained in its place—the barriers were open, and audio guides sat quietly on the table.

Not in the exhibition hall, not at the entrance, not even at the exit—not a single person remained.

The entire museum seemed abandoned, with only her in the vast space.

Hermione sprinted toward the reception desk. Umbrella stand, storage area, counter—she searched for any details she might have missed, but found nothing. Neat rows of guidebooks on the shelves without a single folded corner, no trace of human presence, almost as if... the museum had never opened.

"Is anyone here?" she called tentatively, her voice echoing through the hall.

Her heart raced, accompanied by an ominous feeling. She gripped her hoodie, tracing the outline of the wand in her inner pocket. Although magic wasn't permitted outside school, Hermione habitually carried her wand.

She took a deep breath. "Calm down, Hermione, think."

Everything had started changing with that giant painting, so perhaps the clues were there as well.

The silent museum felt different now; the pristine exhibition rooms somehow carried an eerie atmosphere.

She clutched her wand and decided to return to the gallery. Passing through one exhibition room, she noticed an entire wall of female portraits—women wearing different colored formal dresses, all with dark hair. These women smiled in a way that reminded her of the Mona Lisa—

"Splat."

An abrupt water sound appeared above Hermione. Looking up, she saw a stream of bright red liquid slowly flowing down from the ceiling, starkly visible against the white wall. She moved forward slowly, but the text was too blurry to decipher.

"..."

The air was thick with the heavy scent of paint.

"Splat—"

Water sounds came from above again. Hermione squinted her eyes, and this time, she finally saw clearly: Red paint slowly formed three words.

" COME OVER HERE. "

Hermione cautiously stepped back, her heart nearly leaping out of her chest. Her mind raced, considering every possible option—

"Splat!"

Those three words appeared on the wall again.

"COME OVER HERE."

Then, several things happened at once.

From the direction of the exhibition hall in front of her, bright red text poured out like spilled paint, writhing like worms along the walls, crawling, multiplying, gradually filling her field of vision.

COME OVER HERE. COME OVER HERE.

Every character pointing the way—

COME OVER HERE. COME OVER HERE. COME OVER HERE. COME OVER HERE. COME OVER HERE. COME OVER HERE. COME OVER HERE. COME OVER HERE.

The museum underwent another transformation—walls trembled slightly, floors squirmed like living creatures. Distant exhibition halls rapidly disappeared into nothingness, as if erased from a painting. Hermione realized the entire museum was gradually being consumed.

Including her.

Hermione raced toward the stairs as the surrounding scenery vanished increasingly quickly. She didn't stop running. When she finally reached the top floor gallery, the staircase had nearly disappeared, with only a small corner remaining—only "The World" painting and a small area around it maintained their physical form.

"The World" looked different. She swore the painting hadn't looked like this before—the part depicting the sky appeared as if paint had been spilled across it, bleeding strokes of red, silver, and black that seemed to flow gradually. The blood-red roses were more vivid, seemingly about to drip from the frame. The number of cloaked figures in the distance seemed to have increased, sending a chill up Hermione's spine.

She slowly approached the painting, wondering if her parents might be trapped somewhere. Just then, she heard indistinct whispers coming from all directions. Hermione turned abruptly but saw no one—

"Splat!"

The jarring red paint appeared again, this time nearly dripping onto her shoes.

" IN HERE. "

Hermione realized her parents and the Muggles had likely been caught up in this anomaly, and "here" referred to—

She stared at the painting, slowly extending her hand.

The darkness around her deepened, gradually devouring the space she occupied. Her hand paused midair as her mind raced—

But the world behind her was disintegrating. Hermione had no choice.

There were no other options.

"Wait for me," she whispered, then took a deep breath and touched the canvas.

The surface felt nothing like hardened paint, but rather like cool flowing water. The moment she made contact, a powerful suction pulled her toward the canvas.

She floated up like a pebble thrown into a tsunami, helplessly engulfed. The world around her rapidly distorted. Her tinnitus intensified, a powerful nausea churned in her stomach as she was dragged by tremendous force. Her vision spun continuously; she couldn't tell whether she was ascending or falling—time and direction had lost all meaning. Finally, all that remained were frantically flashing colors and constantly disintegrating images—

She closed her eyes and plunged into darkness.