            Hermione stared between them, her mouth slightly open. Then it clicked—and so did her stomach as it flipped violently. "Merlin," she whispered, sinking down onto the couch. Suddenly, the fresh pastries didn’t sound so appealing. The answer was so bloody obvious, her swotty school-girl self would have been shamed to not have realized it sooner. She had hoped their transport would be something like the Weasley’s enchanted car, or perhaps a de-commissioned version of the Knight Bus, left in Ministry storage. "We’re not flying, are we? Please tell me we’re not flying."