Atropos → george weasley

xii. the portraits

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twelve

the portraits

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On Sunday night, an hour after the girls in her dorm room had fallen asleep, Ottilie got out of bed as quietly as possible. She opened the door with utmost care to not make noise. As she crept down to the common room, she listened carefully to her surroundings, ensuring she didn't run into anyone.

But, she could hear nothing apart from the soft whooshing of the ever-present draft. When everything else was so quiet, it almost sounded like the castle was breathing.

The water behind the glass rushed by as she stepped off the spiral staircase, and a fire crackled in the fireplace as she walked through the long shadows its light cast over the chairs. Soon, she was outside in the cold, damp dungeon corridors. The eerie darkness heightened the feeling of magic brushing over her skin and between her fingers.

She was entirely alone and felt almost catlike with how hard she was straining to listen. If someone were nearby, she would hear them right away. Although, places to hide changed as the scenery did. There weren't many in the dungeons, as there were no tapestries and few doors she could unlock using Alohamora (a spell she'd seen in her charms book and tested out a few times around the castle just to see if it would work, which it unfailingly had).

So, she hurried to the entrance hall and started up the marble staircase.

The forbidden third-floor corridor was almost completely silent, apart from the gentle breathing of some of the portraits.

Ottilie walked down the corridor—not necessarily knowing what she wanted to do. She wanted to know what would cause this supposed painful death, but she also didn't want to risk experiencing that painful death. How to accomplish both goals? She had no idea.

She set her wand alight with lumos and paid close attention to the magic in this corridor. It didn't feel much different. The currents were the same as everywhere else in the castle. The only notable difference was that it was a bit less decorated than anywhere else, apart from the dungeons. There was only one painting halfway down the corridor and two suits of armor guarding a tapestry towards the dead end.

"Who's there?"

The voice caused Ottilie to nearly jump out of her skin. She clapped a hand over her mouth and wheeled around to see who had just spoken. The adrenaline ebbed slightly when she saw that she was still standing alone.

But then, whose voice was that?

She squinted into the dark, holding her wand out toward where the voice had originated, and saw a large oil painting behind her. Sitting at a dinner table filled with bowls of fruit were two wizards and a witch, all three in sixteenth-century fashion. The woman wore a long, high-waisted gown and a gable hood. The men wore overgowns and ruffled collars. The one who spoke, she assumed, was standing up from the table and squinting out at her.

"Hello?" she asked nervously, taking a step closer to them and holding her wand out farther to see them better.

All three of them cringed and shielded their eyes. "Are you trying to blind us, then?" the woman asked.

Ottilie abruptly lowered her wand, leaving her to squint at the small faces on the portrait, all examining her.

"It's late, isn't it? You should be in bed, shouldn't you?" asked the first wizard who spoke, crossing his arms over his chest.