𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐠𝐥𝐨𝐫𝐲 | 𝐝.𝐦.

two

Days pass quickly, drearily back in Hogwarts.

Betty was having quite a bit of difficulty keeping up with her school work. She has been spending some time alone, away from her friends, because she found the idea of surrounding herself with people when she wasn't in the mood, tiresome.

Her friends were concerned - especially Luna and Neville - whom she has been avoiding, for the sake of herself and a bit theirs - she didn't want them to feel as if they were to blame for her aloofness.

It was difficult for Betty to be balancing all her responsibilities on herself, and she had nobody to confide in. The remorse sinking in her chest has felt heavier day by day, as she slowly succumbs to the fact that, against her own morals, she has to perform heinous acts and she couldn't find a way around it without hurting someone else.

Under the twinkling candles hanging by the ceilings, Betty flips through the ancient book of potions she had stolen from the library's forbidden section. She knew vividly that she wouldn't find recipes for a toxic potion in the Advance Book of Potions - the one she uses for actual Potion's class - because the school would never be this foolish.

So she had to sneak into the library in the hours of darkness, when she knew the librarian wouldn't be anywhere near the library and no teachers would be awake. By this time, she has already meticulously memorised Filch's patrol schedule after many nights of discreet observation.

She has a wobbly stack of borrowed books settled next to her on the carpeted rug. It was a wonder the librarian hadn't caught her yet, perhaps the school was so certain nobody would make it to the library's forbidden section hence they never bothered to check it. It was their biggest mistake.

The large fluffy cushions she is sitting on is blanketed with scattered parchment, on it, were unreadable scrawls and stained droplets of ink.

Betty's hair is in a disarray as she writes and reads, jumping from one book to another, to the remaining parchments. She scribbles down the recipes for possible poison even if she is unconfident with her abilities to succeed.

A part of her wishes she would fail at every one of these attempts. The act of plotting out a plan and attentively reading these books was just a formality, so she might make herself feel as if she tried and she could answer unapologetically to the death eaters. They couldn't blame her if she tried but didn't succeed, could they?

The clock chimes, reverberating persistently even in this secret room.

She lifts her head, feeling a sore at the back of her neck, and peers at the clock in the room. Her break was over and she had a few minutes left to rush to Arithmancy.

Grumbling to herself, she picks herself up, dusting her robes and smoothening the wrinkles on her skirt. The pile of books and parchments would stay where they are when she returns.

That was what she loved most about the Room of Requirements, nobody would be able to enter the room she has deliberately crafted on her own, in her imagination. They would never find her books, the plan she has devised.

Fixing her hair, she leaves the room, making sure that nobody had seen her or the magical door that appeared suddenly. There was rarely anyone on the seventh floor - nobody wanted to climb the stairs of hell just to get to a level where there was nothing but Professor Flitwick's office.

She is at the threshold of the spiral staircase when she hears footsteps echoing, growing louder and nearer - someone else was clambering up this exact stairs. She supposes she was mistaken about the nobody coming to the seventh floor part.

Hastily, she ambles to a nearby pillar that was wide enough to shield her body frame from whoever was about to appear.

She is startled to find Malfoy languidly sauntering up to this floor, hands in his pocket, an air of hostility encompassing him.