𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑃𝑜𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛𝑠 𝑀𝑎𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑟 | 𝑁𝑒𝑣𝑖𝑙𝑙𝑒 𝐿𝑜𝑛𝑔𝑏𝑜𝑡𝑡𝑜𝑚

Chapter 9 - The Room of Requirement

Helena crossed the path before where the Room of Requirement's door was supposed to be once, twice, then three times, thinking to herself how absolutely nutters she might have looked from anybody else's perspective right then. She figured it was lucky that Mrs. Norris, Argus Filch's damned cat, hadn't happened around the corner of the hallway just then, as the door began to shake and rumble itself into place. Casting one last look around the empty corridor, Helena slowly turned the handle, awaiting to hear the soft click before pushing on it lightly, allowing it to fall open silently. Once she'd entered the room, she closed it in the same fashion, quiet and carefully. For a moment, she felt a peace--that was, before somebody spoke from behind her.

"Finally," Harry sighed. It seemed as if he had been holding his breath, anxious for the arrival of either one of his two friends. "We're just waiting on Neville now."

As Helena turned to face him, she was taken aback by how the Room of Requirement looked--for some reason, she had assumed it would assume the look of how it was when Dumbledore's Army had inhabited it. Instead, it was quaint, just like any other professor's office in the castle, with a warm fire flickering away in the grand stone fireplace at the other end of the room. Three maroon chairs sat around it, one for each of them, and a cabinet over in the corner. Helena wasn't sure what that was for--supplies perhaps? It was the Room of Requirement, after all, so whatever it was, it must be important. Tapestries of each house's emblem hung on the right-hand wall. Vines and wondrous looking plants hung above them on the ceiling, unintrusive but beautiful to gaze at if one tilted their head back just a bit.

It smelled familiar, too. . .

It smelled like coffee.

Helena breathed in the scent deeply. Even with knowing the topic they were about to discuss, she felt completely and utterly calm. Something about this room made her nerves die down a little. Coffee. The same that her grandfather used to brew, it seemed. But that was. . . impossible, right?

"Smells good, doesn't it?" Harry said from his seat on the far left-hand chair. "Like the Quidditch pitch on a sunny morning."

Helena's eyebrows knitted together in confusion now. "The Quidditch pitch? I smell coffee."

Harry's expression reflected hers now. "Well, that's curious," he commented, more to himself than to her.

"Curious indeed," she said slowly. She moved forward to her seat now, lowering herself slowly into the middle one. She was surprised to find how pleasantly comfortable it was. She was just about to say something about it when the door creaked open, revealing a harried looking Neville, who ran his fingers through his hair in distress.

"I've not had a feeling like that since I was a student here!" He said by way of greeting, and Helena and Harry tilted their heads at him, implying that they needed him to go on. "Filch," he sighed, "finding me in the hallway, asking me all about what I was poking around in. Blimey, sometimes I think the old bloke thinks I'm still thirteen or something." Then, before the other two could respond, Neville sniffed the air. He scrunched up his nose, completely distracted now. "Why does it smell like mothballs in here?"

Harry grinned with some humor now, fighting back an urge to laugh. "I dunno, Nev, why does it smell like mothballs in here?"

"Why do you have to go and say it like that?" Neville shook his head and sat down in the remaining seat, next to Helena. "You're the one who conjured the place up, y'know. It'd be completely fair to give an explanation."

Harry put his hands up and shrugged in what seemed like nonchalance. "Couldn't tell you, mate. Sorry."

A silence lapsed over them as they settled, all realizing what it was time for now. Neville rounded the chairs and sat. Harry followed in suit.