⋆𝐃𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠⋆ - 𝐓.𝐌.𝐑

𝟎𝟏𝟏 - 𝐍𝐨 𝐌𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐫𝐬

⋆

𝗢𝗰𝘁𝗼𝗯𝗲𝗿 𝟭𝟳, 𝟭𝟵𝟰𝟰

Riddle was hunting her again.

He would hound her with questions during Potions, whispered harshly under his breath as his jaw jutted forward, demanding – hostility and suspicion oozing out of every word as he would regard her over their cauldron's fumes – looming.

Sometimes, his postulations would manage to hit a nerve and they would have to get more of some ingredient because Elizabeth was in charge of crushing it in the mortar and "a bit heavy handed today, aren't we Warren?"

She would bide her time until professor Slughorn would pass by them and Riddle would be forced to abdicate his current line of questioning for his usual cordial countenance in order to converse with the Professor. Otherwise, she would give clipped, single-worded and terribly vague answers that betrayed nothing.

She felt like ripping her hair out.

Or what was left of it, at least.

Her business felt the brunt of this little reprisal of the first few days of school, as she hadn't dared to slink around the halls with contraband now that she – once again – had a prefect on her arse.

he posted a fucking stakeout near the 'Come and Go' room.

From 4 am to curfew – she checked, obviously – he would have someone posted in the remote seventh-floor corridor, which meant that she couldn't sneak past to have her ballet practice, or break in her gift.

His underlings would eye her nastily in the corridors and during meals; they've yet to dare and seek her out – Mulciber's punishment hanging over their heads like Damocles' sword – but she supposed that should she draw this out any longer, they just might.

She was reminded of what happened in the days that came before beginning ballet and trying out potions for her ailments. Of feeling like a trapped animal pacing the length of her own body, wanting to cleave her way out with the kitchen knifes that Jacques took to always hanging higher than she could reach.

Spending daily prayer on her knees at the pews, praying – begging, really – for deliverance from her innate infirmity.

It was blasphemy at its core. Would you dare ask a God who supposedly made you in his image, for salvation from said image?

Elizabeth dared; because they said he was a merciful God and she didn't know any better as a naïve child.

Well, they should've weighed their words better.

Despite persevering, she didn't particularly enjoy the reminders of her torrid beginnings. She found memories to be a cursed invention of the mind, summoning with a will of their own – you'd think you had a memory, but it had you.

She wasn't a Gryffindor or a Slytherin, not one for the epic confrontations, nor was she satisfied with the drawn out, conniving schemes – that bore fruit only after years of careful planning and outmaneuvering your enemy. She wasn't a Hufflepuff either, with their penchant for letting go of grudges and eating the shite handed to them until they finally erupted – at a detriment to their own wellbeing.

Elizabeth was a Ravenclaw, neither patient enough for the Long Con nor cocky enough for the Big Final Battle and she ran on grudges and pure spite. She dealt with inconveniences in the most effective and efficient way afforded to her within any given circumstances and only employed mind games when the risk-reward equation totaled in her favor.

She believed that the best way out of a situation was often straight through it.

There was a sense of urgency in her steps as today was a new moon and she was backlogged on orders – most of which could only brewed during said celestial event – so unless she wanted her business to stagnate and fuck up its reputation for the rest of the year, she had to resolve this little snag within the next few hours.