⋆𝐃𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠⋆ - 𝐓.𝐌.𝐑

𝟎𝟐𝟐 - 𝐏𝐚𝐩𝐞𝐫 𝐅𝐚𝐜𝐞𝐬

⋆

𝗗𝗲𝗰𝗲𝗺𝗯𝗲𝗿 𝟭𝟯, 𝟭𝟵𝟰𝟰

To be quite frank, she somewhat expected her self-imposed vow of silence to weigh heavier upon her shoulders, feel more restrictive and alter her routine to a greater extent. Of course, there was some friction – she now had bothersome companions of the cold-blooded reptile variety who seemed incapable of taking the break from her (previously) shrill voice, for the blessing that it was-

-but should the epiphany that brought upon her current predicament, had happened as little as one month earlier – there would have been scarcely any change at all.

And what a miserably pathetic thought was that.

And a useless one.

Because the epiphany occurred when it did – fueled by so-called divine timing, surely – allowing Elizabeth the precious opportunity that she was currently extorting to her heart's content – and her heart was like a gaping, abyssal maw, that took and took and took.

Here she sat, in the midst of Potions class, amongst the numerous groups of students both hard and idle at work over steaming brass cauldrons of shoddily concocted Quadraginta potions – doing absolutely fuck all. With permission.

While day drinking!

And! simultaneously bothering Riddle with silently conjured, polychromatic remarks about the instructions – that he would then agitatedly bat away in order to read the actual instructions while she looked on smugly.

Most professors had no qualms with allowing such privileges to a student that was both typically diligent and high scoring, and had experienced several tragic events within the last month. Most, as a prefix, was necessitated by one particular professor's troubles with fully comprehending her totally legitimate healer's note, over the length of their own beard; and subsequent refusal to adhere to the healer's recommendations until encouraged at sword point by one professor Merrythought.

Well, the last on the list of tragic events in her life was entirely fabricated, but she digressed.

For the official records would go on to state that one Myrtle Warren was poisoned during lunch time on the fifth of December, 1944, by unknown adversaries – assumingly in cahoots with those involved in her public haircut – spending the next hours in anguish – leading her to miss supper in the Great Hall. The oh-so gallant prefect Tom Riddle – who had charitably taken her under his wing – would've then noticed her absence and scoured the castle for the traumatized girl before leading her to the Med Wing. There, the poison had been diagnosed as a Muting Macerate, which explained the poor, unfortunate soul's sudden loss of voice.

Unsurprisingly, Riddle was the one to come up with this version.

Thusly, she would be excused from participating in lessons with no harm to her grades until the recovery of her voice. The recovery process would include a rigid regiment of lilac-hued healing tinctures taken at every round hour that is not to be interfered with. Furthermore, she'd be allowed to employ an alternative method of communication of her own choice.

Signed, Madame Goodacre*

Matron of Hogwarts. Potions Mistress. Selwyn Guild of Welsh Mediwix.

*Or, in absence, Med Wing intern on shift.

And guess who that was.

Sipping away on elderflower wine from her glass flask, Elizabeth once more conjured forth gaseous letters to float right before Riddle's eyes – this time in an odious lime green color, and spelling out 'did you remember to grind the lionfish spine?'