⋆𝐃𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠⋆ - 𝐓.𝐌.𝐑

𝟎𝟑𝟗 - 𝐖𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠'𝐬 𝐎𝐧 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐖𝐚𝐥𝐥

Thomas leans in, brashly brushing their noses - though she has the maneuver room, she doesn't tilt her head away. "But I haven't gone yet, the idiots are tasked with scheduling a meeting with the Goblins - apparently what I'm looking for is a rather... illicit service," he breathes, hot air fanning over her hollowed face and warming her blood. "Highly regulated."

"To protect the sensibilities of people like us, I assume," Elizabeth controls every syllable that drips off her tongue, attempting to stay composed under his improper attentions.

Were they bound in an old-fashioned courting contract, this would be a breach.

Elizabeth is madly glad they aren't.

"So clever," he praises against her skin, plush lips having wandered to the soft spot just below her jaw. "My darling."

Elizabeths hums appreciatively and lets her head thump against the cobblestone, baring her neck further to his ministrations. It is a different touch, but not unwelcome.

"Once I get my birthright, we'll have all the coffers and power needed - and I'll cure you... and we'll get revenge on whomever dared harm you in the first place," she feels teeth at her paper skin and doesn't fear getting cut.

He has quite the fixation on fixing her.

Elizabeth had feared that if he fails, he'd mourn the failure more than herself, but he marks her so well that fears feel silly.

There's a balmy, tender press of his lips after, and her eyes linger on the yet-floating bouquet - zeroing in on one of the filmy pearlescent petals until white is all she can see.

⋆

𝗠𝗮𝗿𝗰𝗵 𝟵, 𝟭𝟵𝟰𝟱

White is all she can see.

Elizabeth knows that Thomas is concerned for her, that they all are. Soft touches linger at her robes, firm tugs try to shake consciousness into her - but only succeed in rattling her like a sack of bones.

She's drowning, floundering.

she knows she should be listening to professor Quark's ongoing lesson on some new spell that would meet them in the OWLs - or at the very least pretending to listen, even though she's probably already learned it on her own.

But her head is lulling from side to side as she fights to stay awake, her heavy lids close for a particle of time. And when she opens them again there's another crooked scramble of ink under her quill, and Quark's speech has skipped forward as though played on a faulty record player.

She barely feels the harshness of the ancient seat beneath her bony bottom, fading in and out of the present, waning and wilting like the moon past her prime. Her eyes close again, white reflects off the inside of her lids.

Just a wink, torturous as it might prove.

Elizabeth had spent too long staring, hours perhaps, at the cocoon.

The faculty had tried to stifle the panic, citing a spell gone awry - promising that the victim will be back in class and in good health in no time.

But the screech of the poor Hufflepuff - the lass who found them, just because she dared linger out past curfew - had imprinted itself in castle walls. It echoed when the wind whistled through the stones, ever reminding, it plundered her ears at all waking hours.

Elizabeth had once thought herself terribly clever for earning the head intern position - it opened up all sorts of avenues for her, for her business. But now she was the one in charge of managing the situation until Madame Goodacre returned from the front lines.