⋆𝐃𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠⋆ - 𝐓.𝐌.𝐑

𝟎𝟐𝟖 - 𝐒𝐥𝐨𝐭𝐡 | 𝐃𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞

⋆

𝗝𝗮𝗻𝘂𝗮𝗿𝘆 𝟲, 𝟭𝟵𝟰𝟱

Reinhard closely follows his Elizabeth into the Great Hall, hands to himself as instructed, but Tom still feels the rose disintegrate - coloring the pocket lining of his robe with ash. What were they doing, he wonders, what necessitates that the only remaining rivalry within their group come undone.

Did he tell her about his vision, would she see him as some heroic savior?

He minutely shakes his head, sending a sign to the rest that the courtship proposal won't happen today, but a funeral just might.

Perhaps in public isn't the right setting for their situation.

Elizabeth sits down across from him, between Druella who levels him with an unimpressed glare and Walburga who seems content to languish in the subtextual chaos. The dame Black sees fit to get handsy with the resurrected ghost beside her, toying with Elizabeth's curls as she sends him suggestive glances.

Ignoring the girl's halfhearted protests against the petting until a bright flash of blue encompasses her hand - refracting beautifully off the porcelain dishes and silver cutlery.

"If you insist, at least use the correct tools," Elizabeth huffs snidely just as Walburga starts screeching - gazing in horror upon her hand that had been transfigured into a bone colored hair comb from the wrist down.

How could he have ever loathed her?

Before the screeching can reach a crescendo, Tom casts a muffling ward upon their slice of the Slytherin table - lest any bearded wizards on probation see fit to intervene in inner house politics. Private pride blooms under his skin at the sight, he attempts to catch her eye but she's clearly preoccupied within her mind.

Silently, they eat their lunch as Walburga seethes, ignoring her screeches until they die down on their own - she had brought it upon herself by provoking the death omen. They've already finished the appetizers and main course by the time peace returns.

Once done with the madeleines he had so gallantly sourced for her dessert - ones filled with red currant jam, just as Tom had convinced the house elves to make them for an occasion that won't be taking place - Elizabeth quietly offers up her hand, palm up, to the grey-eyed girl.

Walburga scoffs lowly and turns her head, but they all know she's playing up the offence.

His Elizabeth isn't one to beg others to accept her misplaced mercy, she goes to retract her hand when Orion pipes up, trying to talk a sliver of sense into his cousin. "Accept the bloody peace offering, Wallaby."

Elizabeth slowly returns her benevolent hand to its previous position whilst Walburga scowls, "I don't need her favors - it'll go away on its own."

"It won't," a thin smile graces her lips as she singsongs. Her remedied voice contorts in such an entrancing manner - threats sound melodic dripping from her teeth like viscera.

"Stop being a child, Walburga. Give her your hand," Tom commands. The girls had been proving a headache in the last few days, first there were the incessant talks of courting - they hounded him until he cursed their mouths off. And only yesterday did he need to referee a duel between them in the common room.

One fought for Cygnus' honor of all things.

As if the boy had any.

Walburga seems to blossom at once, she regains her aristocratic posture and chirps, "yes, of course, my darling Thomas."

She daintily lays her hand in Elizabeth's and the precious seconds it takes him to get over his distaste for anyone touching her - are the same seconds during which Elizabeth swallows down her wrath at the juvenile pet name.