Chapter 13: What Lives in the Dungeon Archives

The dungeon entrance smelled of old stone and something older than stone — a mineral cold that had nothing to do with temperature and everything to do with depth, the kind of air that had not been exchanged with the world above since before anyone living had been alive. Holmes registered it the way he registered everything: clinically, categorically, and with the small inward note that this was a smell he had not encountered before and would need to add to his olfactory index at the first available opportunity.

They had authorisation, technically. McGonagall had returned from her Ministry meeting at half past eleven looking as though she had spent two hours being politely told her own school was not her concern, and had written the access permission in four words and signed it with the authority of a woman who intended the signature to serve as a warning. The parchment was in Hermione's bag. The dungeon stairs were ahead of them. Pemberton, who held the formal investigative priority, was presently occupied with a Ministry communication session in the Transfiguration classroom that Holmes had noted was scheduled to last until two o'clock and had accordingly timed their departure for half past one.

Hermione had not asked how Holmes knew about the communication session's schedule. She was learning when not to ask.