⋆𝐃𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠⋆ - 𝐓.𝐌.𝐑

𝟎𝟑𝟏 - 𝐍𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐂𝐫𝐨𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐬

⋆

𝗝𝗮𝗻𝘂𝗮𝗿𝘆 𝟮𝟵, 𝟭𝟵𝟰𝟱

"Would you pass me the aconite, Lilibet?"

If someone could lobotomize her, that'd be absolutely grand.

Elizabeth barely even responds to the quietly voiced request, the shiver down her spine that Thomas' tone elicits barely even affects her as she incrementally raises her head from her crossed arms.

Their table is somewhat chaotically ladened with various crystal receptacles of potion ingredients - the absolute final stretch of their yearly project showing its signs - doling to Elizabeth the duty of blearily scouring through the vials and jars and decanters. She chants 'purple murder flower' repeatedly in her head until she finds and hands over a dish of indigo-colored blooms. Once the transaction is done, her head drops right back upon its resting place.

Long pianist fingers trail over her nape as Thomas chuckles lowly, they circle the vertebrae of her neck, tempted, before continuing upwards. The fingers muss the hair at the base of her skull before sinking into her short curls - carding and spreading out covetously.

A low hum of pleasure leaves her unconsciously at the action.

"Statistically speaking, you are the most likely to murder me, darling, but handing me foxglove isn't the correct way to go about it," his voice curls around her ears in amiable mockery, and the fingers grip her roots - if anyone were to look up from their own cauldron, the sight would appear romantic. "It would also ruin the potion, and what a terrible shame would that be."

Even if Thomas were to turn in a bastardized caricature of Slughorn instead of the potion - the professor would sign it, frame it in his office, grade it an O, and kiss him on the forehead.

The grip on her hair tugs, fingers tenaciously pulling her head up from the table and back until she is forced to look him in those pretty blue eyes. The pain at the roots is a pleasant, warming burn that has her gritting her teeth as she scowls at him exhaustedly.

"Too loud, darling," she complains halfheartedly - there is nothing she can say to gain the upper hand when he holds her head at his whim.

"Oh, I know," he pouts at her condescendingly, "the world is so unnecessarily cruel to little witches who don't get enough sleep-"

-"shove off," she huffs. Elizabeth tries to tilt her head away but his grip on her hair is unrelenting - forcing the conversation on her. The quasi-noxious fumes surrounding them and the unnaturally bright potions classroom are suffocating her - never mind that she stayed up to brew for her dealings until the Gray Lady forcibly lullabied her asleep.

Yes, she and the ghost of Helena Ravenclaw had made up, despite the ghost abandoning her in her time of need after the Yule ritual. It did take nearly a month, but the dead woman had since silently resumed her vigils at Elizabeth's side when she brews. Silently, because they had yet to exchange a single word; as whenever she looks at Helena straight on, the ghost blanches further - becoming nearly diaphanous.

Like she'd just seen a ghost, herself.

"Stayed up to look at the full moon, did you?" Thomas hums, plowing on with his barely concealed interrogation. His eyes search hers incessantly, forehead creased with what might be concern, "got a bit moony? I reckon our friends would kick up a great fuss if they heard I stood idly by as my-"

My-? Go on, spell it out.

"My two star pupils working together! Tom my boy, how's your progress, hm? Do you wager you'd be done by Imbolc?"