The small grimy window on the first floor of Obscurus Books had seen nothing out of ordinary that grey Thursday morning. In fact, it probably hadn't seen anything at all, considering it didn't even let in sufficient light for the young scribe to be able to see what he was writing. At that moment, he was hunched over a smooth piece of parchment, furiously scribbling. He paused only to dip the tip of his crow-feather quill into the inkpot close by, his hands soaking up more of the violet liquid than the nib. An oil lamp cast long shadows across his table. It was grubby and stained, as with everything else in the small room.
Oberon Gamp lifted his hand from the parchment to admire his work, careful to not drip ink all over it. The manuscript scribe was supposed to have completed this last night, but Jerry had staggered in to work today with a massive headache and a rash on his forearm that looked suspiciously like the beginnings of dragon pox. Dolly had sent him straight home after she saw him, careful not to let the chief find out. She was a nasty piece of work and wouldn't have take kindly to poor old Jerry's current situation.
And that was how Oberon, the newest scribe on the team and hence the one that always got stuck with the worst jobs, ended up in the small broom closet-turned-office, frenziedly at work to meet the ten-o-clock deadline.
Which he had managed to miss by two and a half minutes.
Blowing hard on the parchment while willing the ink to dry, he wiped his sticky hands on his already stained robes, the violet becoming more prominent than the original pale green. He didn't want to risk using magic on the list; the last time he'd tried a quick-dry spell he almost set fire to three-dozen dragon care guides. Vowing never to use magic within the confines of Obscurus while he worked there, he had to resort to the maddeningly slow Muggle methods of stacking books and rolling parchments, et cetera.
Four and one sixth minutes late.
Oberon sighed as he rolled up the parchment, accidentally leaving inky fingerprints on the back. Great, he thought. Now I'm definitely going to get fired.
Stuffing the roll under his arm so as to not get it any dirtier, he stepped carefully out of the broom-cupboard-office to the dark landing outside. It smelt like old books and incense. The chief scribe was particularly fond of horehound, so every breath he took would put a nasty taste in his mouth.
"Like cough syrup," he muttered under his breath. Bad cough syrup.
Trying to make his was down the staircase quietly was a constant effort of his, one that he always failed tremendously at. The wood always groaned and creaked, despite being in observably good condition. Any and all charms placed on it, or any part of Obscurus, which were to fix these 'minor problems' never seemed to work. And he knew exactly why.
The wooden walls and floors had soaked up enough magic over the years, causing the entire building to bristle with a strange, eerie energy. The scribes had whispered to Oberon on his first day that Obscurus was actually alive. That if you wandered through a door that you'd never noticed before, you'd probably never come out. That the basement, with its huge iron door and multiple bolts across, was locked for a reason. That the last scribe to lock up on a cold October night would sometimes hear piercing screams and wild cackling. The last new 'un, as they called scribes like him, had once tried to force open the door when it was his turn to close shop, having apparently heard the voice of a young girl calling for help. Next thing they knew, he was found on the Gringotts roof the next morning, eyes staring and mouth clamped shut.
"He's still in St. Mungo's. Never 'eard him speak since."
So as Oberon made his way noisily down the stairs, he thanked the gods that he was only on his way to see the chief scribe, not whatever lay beneath the building.
Seven and three fifths minutes late.
Having finally reached the equally dark ground floor landing, he turned to face the double doors leading into the main workplace. The frosted glass on either door did nothing to show what was happening inside, as did the utter silence of the landing. The chief scribe wanted all prospective clients to have the impression that everything was under control at Obscurus, hence the Silencing charm on the doors and walls. That however didn't stop the house from slamming its shutters, suddenly popping a floorboard and tripping somebody, and causing screams and howls to erupt from the basement, much to the chagrin of the most gracious host.
But now all was silent as the house slept. Or quietly awaiting its next victim, Oberon thought as he wiped his feet on the rug just in front of the doors. The chief scribe hated dust too. He then placed a hand on each door, feeling the charms swirling just underneath the wood. Pushing them open with a heave, he revealed a scene of highly organised chaos.
Stacks of printed parchment flew across the room making a neat pile at the far left beside the roaring green fireplace, from which several green-robed scribes emerged coughing. A rotund witch was waving her wand at a piece of cured leather, making it change colour. A group of middle-aged wizards perched on rickety stools were discussing something that required a lot of wand waving and spell-shouting. That was probably the reason why several brightly-coloured birds were flying around the scribes' heads as they hunched over their desks, quills scratching on parchment. Creating the background noise to the riot that was on the brink of happening as Oberon stepped into the room.
Nobody seemed to notice his entrance except Dolly, the round witch, who nodded to him before looking back to her cured piece of leather. He glanced to Jerry's empty desk on reflex, felt his heart sink when it registered that he wasn't in. Although it was his job to take on any task that couldn't be completed by scribes, he actually liked Jerry. The skinny, freckled man was the closest thing he had to a friend at Obscurus. Before he could become distracted by thoughts of how his colleague was feeling and how soon he would be back to work, he remembered why he had come here in the first place. And checked the large clock that hung at the head of the room.
Eight and five seventh minutes late.
Hands sweaty, his eyes travelled from the clock-face to the gilded doors just below it. They stretched from the flood to the ceiling and looked wildly out of place in the humble, bustling room he was in now. But as he moved closer, he felt all noise fade away. The space in front of the doors was strangely silent. No scribe desks stood within five feet of the doors. Even as he stood there, hesitating to curl his fingers around the cold, house-elf shaped knocker, he felt wildly out of place.
He turned around only to meet Dolly's eyes. The leather had disappeared now and she held her wand pointed down. Her lips, which were disconcertingly red, mouthed good luck at him. Yes, Oberon thought as he turned back to the knocker. He was going to need all the luck he could get.
Rapping the knocker three times, he stood and waited to be received.