Duplicitous | T.N.

XLVIII • Authentic sneers

Hermiones firm hand caressed her own, pulling the distracted and dazed girl along with her. Her doubt was displayed obviously on her face, she frowned in uncertainty and chewed constantly at the swell of her bottom lip. Aurora could sense the worry that too feasted on the Granger witch.

Rory didn't notice how her mind, on instinct, trailed from one thing to the next, selectively paying deep attention to whatever thought that enticed her enough. It was a coping mechanism, a literal distraction, comforting whatever positivity she could possibly maintain, and casting out the doubt. She was gleeful to clutch to the ignorance rather than to dwell on the near, most probably unfavourable, future.

Her footsteps imitated the Potter boys movements, From every halt in his walk, to the jagger in his step. She mimicked him as he weaved through the windy hallways, navigated his journey and moved on past at any foreign sound.

Finally, his walk faltered in the presence of a single oak door. It was, in the way of most doors, somewhat boring and stiff, possessed with hidden secrets they knew awaited behind it, the normalcy however weakened the grip of its appeal. The hinges appeared to be weak and the doorknob plated in a rusted, ornate gold like every other door they had passed. Identical to its brothers, Aurora grimaced. The Department of mysteries was surprisingly dull.

Comparing it to her expectations, she frowned awkwardly. Her eyes glanced at each of her friends, wondering if it was only she who had expected... more. She had anticipated rows of candles dripping in wax and cobwebs to decorate the Dark iron archway, that was their entry. Bats she guessed, she would hang upside down, occasionally blinking their eyes open just to flash their red hues.

Rory predicted Voldemorts finest death eaters assigned to guard the entrance with their wands drawn, ready to execute any soul with the intention to pass through. A weary tinge to the atmosphere had her expecting a great battle, not an old aperture that appeared ready to give in with the flick of a pinky. She should have been relieved, yet the serene break in gifted her with no comfort, instead it caution alarmed bells within her mind, chanting words of warnings and theories of calculated traps.

Regardless of her untrusting instincts, she past the threshold into the Department of Mysteries with an unsettled stomach. She took in the sight of the lengthy hall, unable to see much, the lack of lighting had her squinting.

Shelves stacked with collections of blue, crystal globes aligned the room, stretching back, past the limitations of her view. Each bulb of faint blue light, emitted a tiny gust of eery mist, some bright and blinding, others dim and estranged, with deterrent promises of calamitous events.

Her path was led by the assistance of the faint globes, prophecies told through them like stories shared before bed. No matter how painful the curiosity grew, she did not have the jurisdictions to read a prophecy, for they only revealed their true nature to the subjects of whom the fortune was about.

"97" She barely heard the timid boy hum. "Row 97. That's where he'll be." His eyes searched for the gold plates engraved with numbers as he spoke. "That's where Sirius is."

They all scattered. Individually, they checked the labelled rows of never ending shelves, numbers raising as they proceeded with their decent towards row 97.

Every step snatched, stole the oxygen from her lungs also. Auroras breathing rate increased in desperate attempt for her lungs to function, her heart pumping too much blood for her head to fathom. Fear was a tricky emotion, it had a physical result like no other, one that her silently malfunctioning among her friends, who too began to self destruct as a result of the nerves.

The numbers read rose in quantity. In chronological order the numbers on the gold plates increased, so did the speed of her internal organs.

Counting upwards she reached row 97.