"I suppose so," Hermione said as she fumbled the right portkey out of her pocket – a key, fittingly enough, made of bronze and wrapped in a thick cloth so she didn’t accidentally portkey herself by touching it. She unwrapped it, holding it gingerly through the cloth at one end, bending down to lay it on the wizard’s forehead. His face was dirty, eyes slitted almost shut and dazed, breath rasping. Hermione hoped Draco hadn’t punctured a lung. Although she understood why he had taken his anger out on the wizard. At least she had some sort of twisted confirmation that Draco still cared, she thought wryly, turning her face away to avoid the wizard’s fetid breath.