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𝗢𝗰𝘁𝗼𝗯𝗲𝗿 𝟭𝟳, 𝟭𝟵𝟰𝟰
Professor Merrythought's poison for the day was dueling - not against herself, thankfully - but rigid, classic duels between randomly decided pairs, because "the battlefield is full of surprises, my darlings!"
Mulciber seemed to be in for a particularly nasty one.
The fates had apparently heard out her plea for a plaything to rip into, a request spoken through the bleeding tongue that she had gotten so tired of biting over the last few days, and allowed the madwoman to pair Elizabeth up with her previous victim.
He strutted unto the wide platform relegated to them - one of several conjured into the gymnasium, because Merrythought liked efficiency - with all the arrogance expected of someone who thought they were getting their well-earned vendetta against an inferior opponent who only bested them by chance.
They bowed to each other stiffly, she obviously going lower than him because rules were rules, no matter the idiot in front of you - the miniscule tilt of the head she received in return only served to discredit him, rather than her.
She loved it when they doomed themselves.
Despite the twenty steps expected of them before wands were drawn, his was out and aimed at her back on the eighteenth - the bitch. She felt it, of course; over the magical charges emanating from the other duels, over the beginnings of scandalized murmurs, she noticed the air currents reforming around her to account for Mulciber's early release.
So, she turned around too - fair's fair, isn't it? - twirling as she subconsciously went on her tippytoes to add momentum, as though she was dancing. Her ire flared and tainted her choice of retaliatory spell, zipping down her veins and through her roughly hewn wand.
Ollivander skimmed in details on the monstrosity he handed her, but the books didn't - banshee hair cores were lethal in duels.
Mulciber left the gymnasium under a stasis spell, so as to prevent the shards of his pulverized ribs from perforating his lungs, his dazed expression frozen onto his face.
Something within her hoped it would get stuck like that.
It was only a 5 second duel, by the end of which she had earned herself 10 points to Ravenclaw for justified arsekicking - as Merrythought had so giddily put it, the woman had clapped her hands like a child before sending a hyena Patronus to Madame Goodacre for evac.
It was the highlight of the period, which didn't bode well for her plan to remain unnoticed until she decided on how to approach Riddle.
So, she changed the plan.
Instead of some conniving scheme that felt far too green tied for her taste, she decided on her own brand of simplicity.
Which explained why she was now on her way to the same seventh-floor corridor that she had opted to avoid for the last three days, dearly cherished burlap sack in hand.
Her oxfords played a melody of evenly paced clicks against the tiled floor. Braids lapping at the air behind her as she forced herself to walk with the conviction she lacked - this was fine, she wasn't doing anything illegal, for once. They couldn't do shite to her for just walking.
Right?
She made the turn and Riddle's choice of guards for the hour came in to view - Bulstrode and Dolohov, the poor sods - the two were arguing over a previous quidditch match in the African League between the Tchamba Charmers and Sumbawanga Sunrays, the heated debate centering on whether the Sunrays' win due to their keeper catching the snitch should've been counted or not.
She didn't lend much thought to quidditch, only knowing the context of their argument due to her inane habit of reading any newspaper front to back - she did however think that the win being counted was right, if only for the discord it sowed in the community.
Chaos unraveling was as good an entertainment as any.
Their head snapped towards her at the same time, eyes widening as they took in what they surely considered to be a suicide mission on her part - did they feel bad for her? How sweet. Bulstrode kept staring at her dumbly while Dolohov - the smarter of the two, clearly - eyed her burlap sack with thinly veiled suspicion.
She came to a halt in front of them, nodding her head respectfully, before she started marching up and down the corridor unabashedly.
Give me a place to practice ballet.
Give me a place to practice ballet.
Give me a place to practice ballet.
They sprang apart at the sound of the stones shifting behind them as the door appeared, both looking at her as though they wondering if they should have her involuntarily committed into the Janus Thickney ward at St. Mungo's.
Perhaps they should.
They didn't stop Elizabeth, however, as she marched through the gap they left in between them and opened the heavy door, ignoring how they both childishly tried to take a peek inside.
Her hand was on the handle as she turned her head to face Dolohov, tilting her chin up at the mongrel - "call him", slightly squeaky - but at least her voice didn't break.
With that she closed the door in their bewildered faces.
There was no need to specify who's him.
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When Riddle came in, she was sitting on the floor with the journal documenting the upkeep of her previous pointe shoes floating in front of her. She was just finishing up with copying down a diagram of the shoe's parts into a new journal when the old one slammed shut in her face and dropped to ground with a thud.
Someone's angry.
She flinched at the sudden noise before tsking, and turned her head to level him with an annoyed expression - she watched him take in the room around them; the standard studio conjured for her practices, a muted color pallet of greys and plenty of mirrors that granted their confrontation a more ominous feel.
"Are you going to continue sitting on the floor like a savage?", his voice was haughty - and infuriatingly smooth.
"You've sat on the floor with me, before."
His face turned livid - such a stark difference to his usual façade that she nearly got whiplash - and his magic started emanating from him again, bloody and beautiful and choking. There was no Merrythought here to keep his radius in check, and the saccharine tendrils filled up the room rapidly, swirling around her as they inched closer.
It seemed he didn't appreciate the reminder.
When his magic got too close for comfort and she could feel it warming her up again - it was so enticingly cozy, and her bones were so cold, wouldn't it be so nice to just give in - she batted away at it with her hand. The motion made the tendrils retract for a second - like scolded puppies - before they were retracted entirely and she could breathe again.
Riddle was looking at her as though she was a new star he had discovered, eyes shining greedily with notions of glory and renown and power.
Did he get off on being thwarted? Interesting.
She watched him stalk over to her until he was in her space, she looked up at him only to notice him scrutinizing the yet closed burlap sack resting in her lap.
"Interested?" - good, make it seem like you don't care he's staring there.
He made a humming sound at the back of his throat that had her occluding until her world narrowed down to a pinprick - she took a deep breath before her fingers reached to slowly unravel the sack and pull out the lilac satin box inside, opening that too, she then pulled out her shoes.
It might have appeared to be an error on her part, to divulge such a secret to someone who ran in circles where muggles - and thus, the muggle arts - weren't particularly appreciated. Sure, there was Wixen ballet, but that mattered little when her shoes clearly weren't magically crafted.
But Elizabeth had a plan here. Riddle was the quintessential Slytherin; who bartered in secrets and blackmail, to offer him a secret on a silver platter was her key to a peace treaty.
And if she ever planned to gamble on her chances, his shrewd smirk meant she hit jackpot.
"That explains quite a bit Warren," his smirk widened at her apparent confusion and he continued - "so, you come here to dance? Is that all?"
She hummed in confirmation before biting her chapped lip, "my ballet practice is done here, yes". If he took the bait, she might even have him in her debt for future favors - pretty boy had power.
"I see, I suppose we could create a schedule to prevent future misunderstandings, if you find that agreeable Warren?", he looked predatory, daring her to decline. He also skipped over her bait and didn't return the courtesy of stating his own business with the room - bitch.
The conversation was not going in her favor and she needed to disorient him, so she pulled out shrunken kit from her robes pocket and enlarged it - it contained all the trinkets she needed to break in her shoes. Elizabeth hummed in confirmation again, so as to not seem like she was ignoring him.
"What are you doing?", and he's annoyed again.
"Well," - she threaded a needle with pink twine - "your little foot soldiers prevented me from breaking in my shoes" - the sound of her scissors snipping away at the ribbons of one shoe - the standard placement didn't provide enough ankle support for her taste - was deafening as it rang around the studio - "so I'm doing it now."
"They are not my foot soldiers."
Touchy.
She finished sewing one ribbon before deigning to answer him, "sure, they aren't" - another snip echoed as she moved on to the other ribbon - "they simply do your bidding because they love you."
He spluttered indignantly and she felt the room clouding with his angsty magic again, "they do it", he seethed, "because they respect me, Warren." His tone turned arrogant and self-assured, "you'll do well with learning to emulate them."
She checked the security of her stitching by tugging on the ribbons, allowing herself a second to be satisfied with her work before she looked up at him and raised a brow. His magic thickened around her like a visible cloud of miasma, before receding again in the face of her indifference.
Sure, she was occluding so hard she couldn't feel her skin on her bones but as long as she didn't embarrass herself, that was fine.
"Oh, I'm good" - she pulled out a roll of elastic, wrapping it around her ankle before adding an inch for seam allowance and then doubling it - "about that schedule, when would you like it?" - another snip echoed as she cut the elastic strips.
Circe forbid that she let him have control of the schedule, she wasn't stupid enough to trust him not to fuck her over.
Riddle chuckled at her impudence; a deep, dark and menacing sound that had her cheeks heating up. "Your generosity is noted, but unnecessary" - her scissor blades made a particularly harsh sound that cut him off and he cleared his throat in blatant vexation - "I'm certain I can come up with an agreement that will serve us both well."
"Oh?"
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A/n. Writing dialogue scares the shit out of me, but research on pointe shoes is fun so there's that. The African quidditch groups are legit btw and I'm banking on the assumption that Africa wasn't terribly affected by Grindelwald for why there are still games there. Credits for the title once again go to Leigh Bardugo.