⋆𝐃𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠⋆ - 𝐓.𝐌.𝐑

𝟎𝟏𝟔 - 𝐂𝐚𝐮𝐥𝐝𝐫𝐨𝐧 𝐁𝐨𝐢𝐥

⋆

𝗢𝗰𝘁𝗼𝗯𝗲𝗿 𝟮𝟱, 𝟭𝟵𝟰𝟰

Perhaps she should've foreseen this, expected that Riddle wouldn't take too kindly to a pawn refusing to be knocked over in favor of his knights – understood that some kind of intervention would take place in order to prevent her from offending his precious nepo babies again.

Nevertheless, it was way too fucking early for this shite.

She had just sat down at their designated table, murmurs from other bleary-eyed students slowly filtering through her ears. Despite it being a frosted, cloudy morning in the Scottish Highlands, Slughorn's classroom remained as brightly lit as ever and comfortably cozy in a way that had her perpetually squinting her eyes and shedding some of the layers she had donned for the descent to the castle's dungeons.

He had got here before her, and she could feel his eyes boring into the side of her face as she took out her notes and quill. Elizabeth's eyes flitted over their table, quickly inferring that he had already dispelled the stasis charm on their potion but had yet to start without her.

How quaint.

she allowed her bony fingers to trace along an imaginary line going down the middle of the oak table as she poured over her notes to figure out their next step – once, there was an actual line scorched into the wood by Riddle's wand, separating them into two warring nations and leaving the poor cauldron to toe the border.

It has since been vanished, but she swore she could still feel the lingering magic of their animosity.

A warm hand touched hers and she violently flinched away from the contact on pure instinct.

Whipping her head around, she faced Riddle with wide eyes and a racing heart – trying to drown out unwelcome images. He, in turn, looked at her like she was a particularly uncooperative specimen.

"I called your name thrice and you didn't answer," he said, as though it validated the breach of her personal space.

The last time they touched, bombs were falling.

"I'm sorry," Elizabeth forced herself to swallow – her throat was still tight from primal anxiety and squarely opposed the endeavor, "should I get the Grindylow scales or will you do it?"

"I'll do it, start stirring in the meantime."

It was how they worked ever since the agreement – there had been no more need for him to badger her and so they devolved into pragmatic silence other than communicating the next step of the brewing process.

She watched him leave and forced herself to abide by his words, closing her eyes to better see the magic wafting from their cauldron so she could pinpoint the right time to add the scales.

The mossy green flakes were amongst the only truly fresh ingredients they worked with, due to being inhumanely harvested from Hogwarts' very own Grindylow habitat in the Black Lake. No one ever tried to oppose this particular bit of creature cruelty, because if you've ever made the mistake of trying to swim in the lake – you'd know the fuckers deserved worse.

Her eyes popped open when she sensed Riddle's aura nearing their table, and she was immediately treated to the gratuitous show of him shrugging off his robe and rolling up the sleeves of his button-up to the elbows.

Fucking hell.

Elizabeth turned back to the lead-tinged concoction she was supposed to stir – hopeful that her flushed cheeks could be disregarded as a result of the vapors. She noted the rhythmic *chop*chop*chop* that signified he had begun dicing the hard scales and allowed his melodious competence to lull her into a quasi-trance.