A ruffle of a turning page is enough to bring Augustus back to reality; he stops staring at the blank wall, realising that he might as well use his coffee break to actually drink his coffee before it runs cold. He grasps the warm mug with his cold hands — Summer or not, it is always cold in the Department of Mysteries — and takes a sip.
The lads from his office all seem occupied: Croaker is sitting in his usual position in his small, but divided office with a pipe inbetween his lips and documents that Augustus doesn't care for in the slightest; Marcus O'Neil and Lionel Trane are sitting close to each other, drinking tea (that Augustus strongly suspects is spiked with something a bit more stronger in case of the former man) and chatting — or gossiping, if you will — away like old ladies; the last member of the relatively small office is Sullivan Morgan and he is reading the Daily Prophet, like he always is, it seems.
Augustus had gotten to know all of these people rather well over the last couple of years. Well, perhaps they don't exactly share their life stories with him, but he had observed them enough to know more about them than they probably dp.
The young man looks away from his colleagues, removing his elbows from his desk — they were starting to ache slightly. Somewehere inbetween doing that and taking an another sip of his coffee, a word catches Augustus' ear; a word coming from Marcus and Lionel. . .and it seemes that everyone else — other than Croaker in his seperated little office — caught it, too.
Spy.
Augustus' heart pace immediately quickenes and he looks up, as does Sullivan. Without skipping a beat, Augustus starts to calm himself down, realising that they could have easily be talking about a book or something of the sort and, even if they haven't, he just has to keep his cool.
"Wha' are you two blabberin' about?" comes Sullivan's deep voice, his thick accent as clear as it always is.
The omnious duo turns around to face Augustus and Sullivan, their expressions a mix of worry and excitement. "Oh, haven't you two heard, yet?"
Sullivan sends a frown in Lionel's direction and Augustus only lets some mild curiousity paint his face as he eyes the two men. It looks like they are both pleased that Sullivan and Augustus heard them; they wear two identical excited expressions and Augustus can tell they are preparing themselves to tell a thrilling story that is almost entirely — if not entirely — made up. It puts him at ease, for it is something they do rather often.
"Does it look like we did? So share, will ya?"
Marcus clicks his tounge in a disapproving manner, muttering "impatient" under his breath, but knows better than to repeat it in a louder tone — Sullivan is respected among his co-workers and no-one wants to displease him. Not that the man is hard to displease, mind you; he has a temper, that is certain.
"Fine, fine," Lionel begins and sends a glance and a smirk in Marcus' direction before turning back to the two man in front of him, his expression the same. "So, as we hear from certain sources-"
"Just to be clear, Lionel, this source isn't some magical voice you heard in your dream, is it?" The jab comes from Augustus with a smile and a slightly arched eyebrow; it is in a friendly manner, nothing else, and it is an often occurence in the office.
"Or your very bored mother-in-law?" Sullivan ads, as amused as Augustus. Instantly, Lionel's expression grows sour. He is clearly used to words like that, but they still manage to annoy him every time.
"Oh, shove it you two," he replies. "But yeah, if you don't want to hear the possible downfall of us all, have it you way," Lionel adds and turns away, knowing the right way to attract the audience.
Sullivan and Augustus are not oblivious to his ways, but they still share a meaningful glance before Sullivan sighs.
"I am sorry, Lionel," Augustus starts. "We do want to hear whatever you have to say. Continue, please."
Slowly, — but as expected — Lionel turns right back, trying to act like he is only doing it because they asked him to. "All right, all right." He shifts in his seat, taking a position more comfortable to him. "So, as I said before," he sends a quick, but pointing look to Augustus here, "I heard these rumours from some sources. Apparently," he pauses, a small frown appearing in his face, "somewhere in the Ministry, there is a spy working for You-Know-Who. Can you imagine that? A follower of him in our own departments, that'd be. . .that'd be fatal for us in this war."
Marcus' face consist of a frown and pursed lips (he heard it all before, but it is still worrying to hear); Sullivan's eyebrow is arched high, his expression a mix of doubt and concern (he doesn't quite believe the rumour, really, — it came from Marcus, after all, and the man is not really known for his credibility — but it is possible, and it is worrying).
And Augustus…For a second, Augustus' expression is blank, completely blank. Inside, his thoughts are swirling around, creating panic and distress. A second passes, however, and a crease appears between his eyebrows. His face is worried about the existence of his spy and hopeful that he does not exist; inside, his heart is thumping with all of its strenght, his surroundings become disorted and he expects someone to jump up from behind a desk and point a finger at him. "It's you," they would cry. They would know it is him, they would expose him, like it was all some gameshow and he just lost. Then the Dark Lord would know, and he would truly lose.
Lose everything. And for a second, he wonders whether he's rather lose his life or his freedom, but it is decided soon enough that his life is a clear choice; for he, undoubtably, couldn't live in Azkaban, locked in a small cell.
"That is horrible," he says, his voice steady as ever, but still showing some concern. And that is certainly an emotion that he doesn't have to fake.
He thinks he should tell them that it's all also unlikely. It was all probably made up by some bored house-wives who just ran out of gossip, he almost says in a desperate attempt, but he stops himself in time. Too harsh, too harsh for him, it doesn't sound like something he would say.
He almost bites his lip, but he reminds himself that it is a habit that he learnt to control a long time ago — there is a small amount of things that he doesn't control; he uses his habits, his thoughts, to pretend and to decieve, for that is something he is truly exceptional at.
Augustus starts to calm himself down, focusing on the expressions of the people around him. They don't know, no-one knows. He is safe.
As safe as a spy can possible be during a war.
The others nod at his words, words Augustus already forgot about in the mean-time. "I don't believe it's true, though," he says, not even knowing what is he doing. His co-wokers look up, looking a bit confused; they don't have to ask "why not" to let him know they are thinking it. He shrugs. "This is the Ministry," he starts. "If anyting, the security we have is incredible. Not even You-Know-Who," (he almost said the Dark Lord and he blames it on his little panic attack) "can break it, I'm sure." His words are one of support to something they have put all their faith in (fools, Augustus idly thinks to himself; everything can be broken), so they do their job and everyone slightly relaxes.
"You speak the truth, Rookie," Marcus comments, sending him a grin, and Augustus doesn't even feel annoyed at the nickname. He only feels relaxed.
They can't say anything else, Croaker comes out of his office, him opening the doors coming as a surprise to everyone. "Coffee break was over minutes ago, lads, I'd suggest you get to work."
With a few apologies, everyone returns to their papers, the previous conversation behind them.
For Augustus, however, it is only in front of him. He has some work to do and it certainly doesn't involve writing down who and when predicted what would happen tomorrow. Though that sort of Prophecy, he could use, really.