⋆𝐃𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠⋆ - 𝐓.𝐌.𝐑

𝟎𝟐𝟎 - 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐄𝐫𝐚

What?

It wasn't done for her, surely.

The head table teemed with chaos, teachers chiming in with their own arguments as Dumbledore and Rhombus engaged in a standoff while Dippet appeared to slowly melt into the floor. Finally, the bearded fuck admitted defeat to his colleague, turning to face the alarmed students, he pathetically avoided her glare before his eyes finally zeroed in on the Slytherin table.

On the only student beside her who still had their wand out.

"Detention Mr. Riddle! For assaulting a fellow student," he actually looked proud of himself for the choice of scapegoat, unaware or perhaps purposefully obtuse to the reawakened disapproval of his fellow staff. The Slytherin table exploded with dissent, whilst Riddle's face became blank as he stared down his famed nemesis, not putting up any fight with his punishment.

What the fuck?

Elizabeth was ready to come to his defense, her mouth gaping as she was utterly flummoxed by the accusation – but it was unnecessary.

"Are you out of your mind Albus!?", if Dumbledore seeming any less than jauntily delighted was a rare sight, then seeing Slughorn in such a ravingly mad state was unheard of. The bloody head table actually shook from his haste to rise, plates clattering shrilly as he fought to get out of his chair. "Have you gone so senile that you can't recognize a blasted Protego?!"

His roar resounded throughout the Great Hall, unnerving the barely recovered students, and she dully noted that the ones bearing green ties were the only ones unruffled by the display.

Dumbledore stuttered over a response, probably unready to have his readily made excuses taken apart so rapidly. "W-well we can't very well Priori Incantum the entire hall my friend," it was a flaccid, lousy answer – especially from such an esteemed figure.

If nothing else, perhaps this ordeal would manage to shake the student body's unwavering trust in the cunt.

Slughorn looked positively rabid, about to pounce on the bearded wizard in defense of his preferred student when she piped up, again. "You don't need to," Elizabeth began, putting on a wan smile as eyes turned to her again. She had to swallow up her glee as the narrative tentatively ease back into her grasp, "I make a habit of casting Recordum Magicae every morning" – her tone turned accusatory as she pinned Dumbledore with her eyes, "-just in case."

A record of magic. Every muggleborn remembers their first lesson of Wizarding Traditions – taught by one Melania Black neé Macmillan, the quintessential socialite and mother of Orion Black – the lesson intended to be a warm welcome but falling just short of that, and ending up at tepid warning. They all remember being strongly urged to cast the spell daily, just in case.

While not truly habitual, it was indeed one of the protection spells that she had cast on herself in preparation for the ambush. It did fuck all to protect, but it served to link her to the attackers – a magically generated suspect list, if you will. With a flourish of her wrist, she held the attention of the entire hall as sheer tethers languidly oozed out of her person.

Attaching themselves to the sternums of 4 people in total.

Riddle's tether appeared like a silvery rope of magic, blindingly bright and in complete opposition to the rest of the inky black strands – the spell registered intention as well, thankfully. Elizabeth allowed his strand to hang on a few seconds for dramatic affect before dispelling it, meeting his guarded eyes and nodding her head in gratitude.

She kept her eyes resolutely on Dumbledore, ignoring the symptoms of an oncoming headache as she silently dared him to do his job and live up to his title as champion of muggleborns. Her curiosity as to the identities of her adversaries barely restrained for the moment.