Our World As It Is

Chapter 6: Unexpected

Chapter 6: Unexpected

You know that feeling? The one where you are confused but your mind can't understand why? With that intangible perception from the same sense that tells you when someone is staring even when you don't look to see for yourself. When your feelings or intuition, or whatever it is, tries to tell your mind something but the practical part of your mind tells you there is nothing to fear.

This is what Hermione is feeling at the moment.

It isn't fear, as stated. In her line of work there is no room for fear—but that gut feeling warns her of the worst and makes her hyper-aware of everything. However, unlike other times Hermione couldn't see any danger—quite the opposite in fact.

The deep red carpet, the large floor-to-ceiling shelves and the red-brown leather sofas, seating only a person each are left facing one another in quiet conversation. The hearth lies right behind the sofas, the orange-yellow flames tickle its roof, dancing and growing as she steps in. The smell of old and yellowed parchments having recorded the untold tales of centuries past with the bent withered spines of the hardbacks from a patron's exploration through the years, all are tucked into the bookshelves like a child in sleep. This is a familiar scene, a home-away-from-home: a library. What is it? Why I am I feeling such anxiety?

Then it struck her.

She could hear no noise.

It is so silent, it's deafening.

Not even the familiar and expected warm crackling of the fire is heard. Her eyes open in horror and she glances around swiftly, clinging her back to the nearest wall with immediate attention. Despite her training and precautions, her other senses had somehow mistaken this illusion for truth. Her ears are the one thing that had a small piece in them, reporting her location to the Order and when activated, conveyed all the sounds in that room as well. Somehow, they did not fall victim to the spell.

Now I know what I am facing, she thinks. Her mind bitterly berates her, Quite the equivocal statement, no? The optimistic part of her says, it is true, she knows that she is up against an illusion. But the realistic side of her chides her, saying it is not true, she does not know if and what else she is facing.

But what she also knows is that in her semi-panicked state, nothing can be done rationally or logically. With a quiet huff, she closes her eyes and takes a deep breath, letting the air stream through her body; a cooling wave blankets over her hyper-aware nerves and she feels every inch of her skin but without the jittery electricity of hasty agitation.

As she exhales, she begins to sense the difference in the air. No longer is there the pleasant smell of ancient stories captured in the many leaves of a book, replaced by the very faint smell of damp glass and wet ink, contaminated by water. Then she hears the first sound since coming to the basement, a small drip-drip somewhere to just to the right of her.

Slowly she feels the shift through her nerves. No longer does she feel the flat plaster wall on her back, replaced by the many grooves between brickwork, bringing the numbing chill to her touch. Her small black flats seem to harden from the dampness beneath them, freezing the soles.

Finally, she rips off the bandaid. Without a moment of pause she opens her eyes fully, taking in every aspect of the room—not in amazement but with strategic, calculating analysis. The sight before her is enough to set anyone on edge with the sheer eeriness of it—but not her. Despite having worked at McNair's for 2 ½ months already, she has only now come across the nest of the snake, caught in the tree that spread its dark roots throughout the manor.

The black motif from the staircase carries into the basement, the brickwork painted black with the crumbling and weathered facade revealing the grey cement under its skin. The room was very small, a mere 15 feet by 15 feet room in all and only about 10 feet tall, like an alcove hiding away the secrets of the world. But no amazing nor fantastical wonder of the earth resides there, only the embodiment of the gritty filth under it.