⋆𝐃𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠⋆ - 𝐓.𝐌.𝐑

𝟎𝟑𝟔 - 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐆𝐫𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐲𝐚𝐫𝐝 𝐒𝐡𝐢𝐟𝐭

⋆

𝗙𝗲𝗯𝗿𝘂𝗮𝗿𝘆 𝟭𝟵, 𝟭𝟵𝟰𝟱

Her hands are buried knuckle deep in frigid, stiff dirt – and yet it is the first time her nails remain clean of filth and phosphorous.

The minute uptick in average temperatures that February often introduced to the Scottish Highlands, meant that they were once again expected to venture outside of the castle for very early morning Herbology lessons.

Back to her nails, and why they smell of soap.

Jacques tried to explain it to her once, years ago, that a person is made up of countless other people – that everyone could stand to learn from each other. He tied his apron in a knot that a soldier from the French Navy taught him before he went down with the Danton in WWI, he combed his hair the way his father taught him to.

But explaining an interwoven net of sinew and flesh and ligaments, to a child of paper and ink – for those were her sole companions besides him – was useless.

But Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw have Herbology together, and since the pink hair dye fiasco, Ursula Laveau had grown on her like English ivy on an abandoned house – unwilling to part.

And she suggested that Elizabeth scrape her nails unto a bar of soap, to create a barrier that would prevent the dirt from seeping in and tarnishing her further.

Like the Knights of Walpurgis – for that was their group's name, which no one thought to inform her about up until yesterday – contributed to numerous little habits and mannerisms and idiosyncrasies cropping up within her like mushrooms on lightning-struck, wettened soil.

Graveyard soil that had been thought barren for years.

All of these nature-based allusions and yet she still forgets herself until her fingers bluntly strike something hard beneath the dirt and Elizabeth curses under her breath. Instinctively, she stifles her emboldened magic before it breaches the surface of her fingertips and causes the entirety of the vegetation and flora in greenhouse no.3 to shrivel up and die.

"Careful," Ursula mumbles absentmindedly. Her nimble fingers work the shrivelfig's aggressive roots with seemingly no problem, brushing away clumps of soil to remove the medicinal plant as harmlessly as possible from its earthy confines.

"Thanks for the forewarning, Ursa."

What? The Blacks' astrological fixation bore decent fruit sometimes. 

Ursula sighs, and finishes uprooting her specimen before turning to face her. "There's no need for the affront, ma sauveuse. I was simply trying to be helpful," her creole accent peeks through the words and makes her all the more endearing.

Elizabeth purses her lips, biting the inside of her cheek in a sort of self-flagellation – like with Minerva McGonagall who asks how her day has been at every prefect meeting, there's a certain struggle there. Female friendships were something she had to adapt to, as all of her prior experience with other girls and women had been painfully and scaringly negative.

The nuns and future nuns of St. Joan's, the girls at the ballet studio, her dormmates who are currently glaring at her from across the greenhouse.

Every friendly interaction with another girl makes her feel like she's the gravel on a smooth road, which impedes otherwise frictionless movement. Wally and Drue had been a balm to her, but childhood wounds were something that required constant care and didn't heal quite as linearly as one would hope.

Noting the peeping eyes – and likely perked ears – Elizabeth switches over to a language both she and Ursula share.

"Je sais, Je suis désolée."