⋆𝐃𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠⋆ - 𝐓.𝐌.𝐑

𝟎𝟒𝟏 - 𝐉𝐮𝐝𝐚𝐬 𝐈𝐬𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐨𝐭

The clairvoyant feeling is exactly that, a feeling. The premonition of oncoming doom is but a thought spun like glass in her head – her mind being cut upon it. The surefire signs are merely a chain of coincidences to those willfully blind or otherwise disinclined to reason, and Hogwarts sure has had her fill of those, shuttling them off to the Ministry when they age out.

No shade of blue spelled by the "Come and Go" room can ameliorate her mood, pressing chaste kisses to the floor, she swivels and and spins as though it is a punishment. Globules of sweat bead on her skin like seedlings of diamonds – both are formed under pressure, so she'll reserve the right of comparison.

Elizabeth was always clear on how she'll die. Collapse one sunny day and pass from unknown causes, whatever illness has inhabited her for ages finally reaping its efforts – cut her up in the morgue and find graveyard dirt in her lungs.

But now she was scared, because Elizabeth had healed away most of her aches months ago, meaning her death could occur just as sudden as anyone's.

Uncertainty. That was what terrified her.

Just as she now terrified Abraxas and Reinhard, who would address her with their heads bowed and eyes downcast. When she complained of it to Drue, the blonde mused that it was better than being looked down upon.

When Thomas quizzed her about details of the event, he amusedly complimented the pistol illusion and didn't even mention the Thestrals by name, but her darling's eyes reflected a perverse desire to swallow her whole.

The music picks up once more, and with it her body contorts to its limits and beyond as Elizabeth pushes herself further – harder. Every atom in her body  in accordance with the fact it is through exhaustion that she is absolved of her weak and cowardly (and mortal?) heart. 

⋆

Thomas is waiting by the door when she calms down, when the music ebbs away,  and her satin-clad feet find ground once more. His gaze passes over her slowly as she walks towards him, taking in the tops of her thighs left bare by the woolen stockings and the black leotard that envelopes the rest of her.

They always find each other on early mornings when even the sun can't see them.

He holds that odd ash-colored, leather-bound journal of his, tucked soundly in the crook of his arm. The one she'd only ever caught passing glimpses of. It is Thomas' constant companion these days and he pulls it behind him as they embrace, hugging her to him one-armed, wrapping securely around her waist.

The scent wafting up from the leather is lemony to her nose, smelling it over his shoulder as he prolongs the embrace with a not unfamiliar sense of desperation.

Thomas buries his face in her growing curls – they were pinned back when she started dancing, but she supposes those pins are strewn somewhere about the room now. He takes soft breaths that ghost against her nape and the arm around her torso tightens minutely before he releases her to take another look at her outfit.

She should've thought longer before giving Walburga her measurements.

He shifts his weight slightly, grimacing and changing his hold on the journal as though it is a burdensome dumbbell he has to lug.

In the silence, she reaches out and takes hold of his free hand, gently bringing it up to her lips which Elizabeth presses to the knuckle of his pointer finger – looking up at him through her lashes as a slow smile finally breaks the severity of his expression.

"How did you sleep?" she wonders, "did the boys keep you up all night, or was it the books?"

"Observent little thing, aren't you?" Thomas chuckles, his fingers leave her hold and trace a blazing path up her arm and down to her shoulder blade, settling there and kneading pleasantly at the sore muscle. "The books, but no matter. You look lovely like this; I'd go days without sleeping to witness you as you are now."