⋆
𝗢𝗰𝘁𝗼𝗯𝗲𝗿 𝟭𝟳, 𝟭𝟵𝟰𝟰
"Oh?"
She sewed one strip of elastic into a loop, checking again that it still sat snugly on her ankle before reaching for her shoe – only to have a shiny oxford invade her line of sight and toe it out of her reach. Elizabeth's eyes followed the line of the oxford up up up until their eyes met, she leveled him with a glare which he took in stride, looking far too smug about finally having her undivided attention.
"Indeed" – she wanted to slap him, the absolute wanker – "name your hours and I'll be sure to have a contract drawn up swiftly", a contract – they were fucking teenagers. And, he wouldn't even draft it himself.
He did push the shoe back towards her though, now that he felt like he won.
"I'm here every day", she had – finally – started attaching the ankle strap onto the shoe, huffing a breath as she had forgotten how stiff the heel seam was, "but my hours vary."
"Every day? How fervid."
This bitch.
She finished attaching the strap and hummed before looking up at him, "I prefer committed but sure" – she sighed, weighing her offer for any detriments to herself – "we could play it by ear."
"Which means?", he drawled.
His tone was... mocking, almost, like he had already gotten the laurel wreath and was just taking the piss at his fellow contestant – how unsporting. Elizabeth assuaged herself with the knowledge that the next part of her shoe alterations would likely be the most irritating.
"Which means, that if the door's already there – you wait."
"No."
"No?", the pure, unadulterated audacity of him. "What would you have us do, then?"
Showtime.
"Well,"- 𝘽𝙖𝙣𝙜! 𝘽𝙖𝙣𝙜! 𝘽𝙖𝙣𝙜! – "Well, I would"- 𝘽𝙖𝙣𝙜! 𝘽𝙖𝙣𝙜!
Oh, they'll never find her body.
"Just what", he was actually going to kill her – if his tone was anything to go off of, "do you think you're doing, Warren?", his magic swirled the room again; worse than before, and it would've been entrancing if she could breathe.
"Breaking-", her voice failed on her and his aura let up slightly at the pathetic display – "breaking in my shoes". She wasn't lying at all, by the way, she had to thump the box part of the shoe to soften it so it wouldn't thud loudly while dancing.
He watched her like a hawk, trying to sniff out any lie in her statement – perhaps he could see it like she did with magic. Whatever he saw, it had his stance deflating a little. "Fine, what I was trying to say-"
𝘽𝙖𝙣𝙜! 𝘽𝙖𝙣𝙜! 𝘽𝙖𝙣𝙜! 𝘽𝙖𝙣𝙜! 𝘽𝙖𝙣𝙜!
-"is that, your suggestion isn't entirely terrible."
𝘽𝙖𝙣𝙜! 𝘽𝙖𝙣𝙜! 𝘽𝙖𝙣𝙜! 𝘽𝙖-
Wait, what?
Her confusion must have been quite obvious because Riddle had looked almost victorious in the semblance of quiet it had earned him. "It is the waiting part-"
𝘽𝙖𝙣𝙜! 𝘽𝙖𝙣𝙜! 𝘽𝙖𝙣𝙜! 𝘽𝙖𝙣𝙜!
"That I-", oh he's given up.
𝘽𝙖𝙣𝙜! 𝘽𝙖𝙣𝙜! 𝘽𝙖𝙣𝙜!
"Disagree with."
She pressed down on the box part and found herself satisfied with its hardness, at last. Elizabeth looked up at him, trying to widen her eyes in a show of innocence, "what part of it?"
Riddle looked genuinely surprised that she was verbalizing her responses again, and almost hesitated – stiffening up as though readying himself for another barrage – "every part," he breathed out, "I believe there should be a time limit on waiting, after which, the one waiting should make their presence known. By knocking, perhaps."
"Oh," she hadn't expected that, "that's surprisingly... civilized, of you". Elizabeth cleared her throat, shoes all but forgotten as the confrontation became something else. "An hour should work, as the time limit, I mean."
Elizabeth didn't do positive interactions, with anyone other than Jacques at least – and this was an incredibly different dynamic. She was unequivocally out of her depth.
He hummed again, and she knew her cheeks looked as though she had gotten in a fight. "That would be agreeable, yes."
She had to muffle the sigh of relief that threatened to escape her – he would leave in a minute and then she could finish up here and go take a justified bloody nap.
"Don't look too relieved, Warren, we aren't done here."
Oh, fucking hell.
"What else is there to talk about?", she knew very, very well that there still things left unsaid in between them – could feel it, every time their gazes caught.
But how do you vocalize that?
I held your hand when the world was crumbling down around us and we thought we were about to die. You hate me for seeing you at your weakest. You saved me when you thought I was going to fall to my death. We haunt each other's every waking moment. We don't trust each other.
How do you vocalize that?
"You know just as well as I do, now-"
*𝘾𝙧𝙖𝙘𝙠*
Oops, did I step on your moment?
His glare pinned her to the spot – the spot being her on one knee, pressing down on the vamp of the shoe with her heel, her expression open and obnoxiously innocent.
"Now-"
*𝘾𝙧𝙖𝙘𝙠*𝘾𝙧𝙖𝙘𝙠*𝘾𝙧𝙖𝙘𝙠*𝘾𝙧𝙖𝙘𝙠*
He plowed on, uncaring – or perhaps, immunized now, to her shenanigans – "I do wonder, where did you find the courage to do this conversation?"
"What?", did he just call her a pussy?
"You run from things, Warren, cowardice is a virtue to you-"
*𝘾𝙧𝙖𝙘𝙠*𝘾𝙧𝙖𝙘𝙠*𝘾𝙧𝙖𝙘𝙠*𝘾𝙧𝙖𝙘𝙠*𝘾𝙧𝙖𝙘𝙠*𝘾𝙧𝙖𝙘𝙠*
He did, the bitch.
Well, at least it was back to being a confrontation, she could do those.
"So, my question is-"
*𝘾𝙧𝙖𝙖𝙘𝙠*𝘾𝙧𝙖𝙖𝙘𝙠*𝘾𝙧𝙖𝙖𝙘𝙠*
She was now back to sitting crisscrossed, bending the shoe in half to work on extending the flexibility of the shank.
She noticed him throwing a worried glance at the mangled thing, before he recomposed himself.
"Why did you stop running?"
*𝘾𝙧𝙖𝙖𝙘𝙠*𝘾𝙧𝙖𝙖𝙘𝙠*𝘾𝙧𝙖𝙖𝙘𝙠*𝘾𝙧𝙖𝙖𝙘𝙠*𝘾𝙧𝙖𝙖𝙘𝙠*
She didn't deign to dignify him with an answer immediately, opting to instead analyze her now perfectly altered shoe before setting it down gently, somewhat proud of her own handiwork. Tilting her head up towards him, she found him already looking at her with an inscrutable glint in his eyes.
"I got tired", a rare, mirthful smile climbed onto her face – she was always tired – "that's all."
"And-"
"Now", she made a show of grabbing the other, flawless and unaltered shoe and wiggling it menacingly at him, "did you have anything else to add?", she asked sweetly.
Riddle seemed to actually consider his chances, before he rolled his eyes at her and turned to leave.
And what a lovely view that made for.
With one hand on the handle, he turned his head slightly to the side, not facing her per say – but obviously lending her his attention.
"One hour."
The simplest answer was, you did not vocalize it at all.
⋆
𝗢𝗰𝘁𝗼𝗯𝗲𝗿 𝟭𝟴, 𝟭𝟵𝟰𝟰
Her morning practice went by undisturbed, no guards at the door to balk at her and no knock to strongly suggest she hasten her steps and get out. Sure, it sounded slightly pathetic to her own ears; the bare minimum once upon a time – but now? Truly a miracle to revere.
Was this how Stockholm syndrome began?
She even swung by the owlery to distribute the orders of her illicit business, which had taken her until the witching hour to finish up brewing – how poetic. If she had still believed in anything beyond her own mortality, Elizabeth would've perhaps sent out a prayer to whatever higher being protected her profits during this unfortunate hiatus.
Nevertheless, her neurotic productivity had taken its toll on her and Elizabeth was nursing a beastly headache – which was why she was now at the Med Wing, attempting to filch a Pepperup from Madame Goodacre's stores without tripping off the thieves' bane that the infernal woman had decided to cast.
Was this exactly the reason why it was cast? Sure.
Was Elizabeth still cursing her for the inconvenience? Absolutely.
She stood in front of the medicinal closet like a sentry, wand out since setting wards was fickle and unraveling them was even more so – especially a heinous bitch like this one – and she didn't fancy losing her fingers from unforeseen magical backlash.
Finally, after about twenty minutes of pulling at the magical fibers of the ward to loosen a hole in its fabric – she had a vial of Pepperup in her hand and an even nastier headache, causing her to quickly uncork it and drain it of its contents.
And then there was a hand on her shoulder and she didn't have the now empty vial in her grasp anymore because she dropped it from shock.
"JESUS FUCKING CHRIST!"
Elizabeth stared blankly at the pile of glass shards at her feet for a few seconds before whirling around to face the abominable cunt who had just ruined her morning.
It was Riddle.
Well, at least he looked slightly apologetic about it.
Pepperup potion cured minor colds and headaches, sure, but it also caused the consumer to have steam erupt from their nostrils and ears in an almost cartoonish fashion.
Which meant that he swiftly lost any benevolence his apology might have earned him by snorting in her face.
The bitch.
She glared up at him through the smoke that her orifices kept emitting – knowing that any threat would fall short in her current predicament. So, she delegated herself to flicking out a wrist and levitating the shards to eye level.
Something within her urged her launch them at his face.
She didn't do that, instead, she had simply repaired them back into a vial with a thought – only to have Riddle snatch it and start twirling it between his fingers while grinning at her.
She should've listened to her urges.
"What do you want?", she sighed out at last, when it became obvious he was content to silently rejoice in her suffering.
"Let me walk you to breakfast", his posh accent washed over her and she was forced to once again recognize that this was Adonis incarnate – and he was talking to her.
What the fuck was he playing at, "why?"
"If I were to be alone right now", his voice was teasing – like he was letting her in on a joke, "I might be inclined to preform my prefect duties, and report to the Matron about a breach in her wards."
She undeniably, and irrevocably, loathed him.
"Fine."
That was, perhaps, the most uncomfortable trip she had ever taken to the Great Hall. No words were exchanged between them and she kept her eyes squarely on heads of the people in front of her, glaring whenever they turned around to stare at the odd couple that she and Riddle had made for.
He stole glances at her, from time to time, she could tell it from her peripheral – but she dutifully refused to return them.
When they had gotten to the entrance, she finally looked up at him, trying to convey with her eyes that they should separate now to prevent rumors from spreading – she wasn't in the mood to fight off his fandom, alright?
He stared right back at her, unflinching, a dimple appeared in his left cheek as he grinned viciously before gesturing for her to go in first.
Did he want her to get lynched?
She exhaled loudly to emphasize her discontent before going in, knowing that he was right by her side – by the time they had reached the house tables, the entire Hall was staring. It was crowded, people milling around because breakfast hadn't appeared yet.
But she had managed to spot Smith none the less. Her magic sparked to life under her skin, bloodthirsty and scorned, and she flicked her wrist out to release her wand from its holster.
She needed precision for this.
Riddle was staring at her suddenly stiff form appraisingly – but something within her trusted that he would keep quiet.
The low murmurs of bleary-eyed students were pierced by a shriek as Augustine Smith fell to the floor, if her leg was as it should've been – she would be clutching at her knee while sobbing.
It wasn't though, the leg she had purposely extended to trip Elizabeth was now twisted 180 degrees at the knee joint and flailing around wildly.
She was not a pussy.
⋆
A/n. Less than a week between chapters? Inconceivable. Also,
Myrtle anytime she's annoyed : bitch.