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𝗢𝗰𝘁𝗼𝗯𝗲𝗿 𝟮𝟱, 𝟭𝟵𝟰𝟰
Perhaps she should've foreseen this, expected that Riddle wouldn't take too kindly to a pawn refusing to be knocked over in favor of his knights – understood that some kind of intervention would take place in order to prevent her from offending his precious nepo babies again.
Nevertheless, it was way too fucking early for this shite.
She had just sat down at their designated table, murmurs from other bleary-eyed students slowly filtering through her ears. Despite it being a frosted, cloudy morning in the Scottish Highlands, Slughorn's classroom remained as brightly lit as ever and comfortably cozy in a way that had her perpetually squinting her eyes and shedding some of the layers she had donned for the descent to the castle's dungeons.
He had got here before her, and she could feel his eyes boring into the side of her face as she took out her notes and quill. Elizabeth's eyes flitted over their table, quickly inferring that he had already dispelled the stasis charm on their potion but had yet to start without her.
How quaint.
she allowed her bony fingers to trace along an imaginary line going down the middle of the oak table as she poured over her notes to figure out their next step – once, there was an actual line scorched into the wood by Riddle's wand, separating them into two warring nations and leaving the poor cauldron to toe the border.
It has since been vanished, but she swore she could still feel the lingering magic of their animosity.
A warm hand touched hers and she violently flinched away from the contact on pure instinct.
Whipping her head around, she faced Riddle with wide eyes and a racing heart – trying to drown out unwelcome images. He, in turn, looked at her like she was a particularly uncooperative specimen.
"I called your name thrice and you didn't answer," he said, as though it validated the breach of her personal space.
The last time they touched, bombs were falling.
"I'm sorry," Elizabeth forced herself to swallow – her throat was still tight from primal anxiety and squarely opposed the endeavor, "should I get the Grindylow scales or will you do it?"
"I'll do it, start stirring in the meantime."
It was how they worked ever since the agreement – there had been no more need for him to badger her and so they devolved into pragmatic silence other than communicating the next step of the brewing process.
She watched him leave and forced herself to abide by his words, closing her eyes to better see the magic wafting from their cauldron so she could pinpoint the right time to add the scales.
The mossy green flakes were amongst the only truly fresh ingredients they worked with, due to being inhumanely harvested from Hogwarts' very own Grindylow habitat in the Black Lake. No one ever tried to oppose this particular bit of creature cruelty, because if you've ever made the mistake of trying to swim in the lake – you'd know the fuckers deserved worse.
Her eyes popped open when she sensed Riddle's aura nearing their table, and she was immediately treated to the gratuitous show of him shrugging off his robe and rolling up the sleeves of his button-up to the elbows.
Fucking hell.
Elizabeth turned back to the lead-tinged concoction she was supposed to stir – hopeful that her flushed cheeks could be disregarded as a result of the vapors. She noted the rhythmic *chop*chop*chop* that signified he had begun dicing the hard scales and allowed his melodious competence to lull her into a quasi-trance.
"Tell me when."
He had whispered it directly next to her ear and it seemed as though her body had forgone both fight and flight modes, because she froze.
Like lightning spreading across the sky, weaving itself in and out of the clouds in web of energy descending from one specific point, shivers coursed through her – tingles sprouting from just below her ear to span the length of her. Body and soul melded together for one singular moment.
It was effervescent.
He trusted her. Here, at least.
"N-now", it was embarrassing – how her voice shook like some vapid tart in those raunchy movies produced for the muggle soldiers to enjoy and get off to.
She moved back to give him space, seizing the moment to recompose herself while he added the scales to their potion – watching warily until it turned a bright chartreuse as dictated.
It had been the most precarious step on their agenda today, followed only by periodically spaced incantations and oddly shaped figures to stir in – for which they had to triple-check the instructions, because Riddle was befuddled by Slughorn's belief that their classmates even knew what a hentriacontagon was.
A 31-sided polygon, by the way.
She had to conjure iridescent clock-like notches in the air above their cauldron, so he'd have a pattern to follow.
Circe forbid they miss an angle and get their faces horrifically boiled off like poor Eun Song – though, she was a loyal customer of Elizabeth's business so she couldn't have been that poor.
Once they finished with the instructions for today's lesson and reapplied the stasis charm on their potion, Elizabeth finally allowed herself to sit down. She was fully content to continue her current read – a copy of some seamstress' grimoire from the eighteenth century – with only the randomly exploding cauldrons of her less fortunate classmates as a soundtrack.
Her hand paused in reaching for the book in her satchel when she felt the heaviness of silencing wards settle over her.
Alright then. Bitch.
She turned towards him with a raised eyebrow, hoping that if she managed to convey how little she cared to converse with him, he might let her off. In turn, Riddle met her gaze with an unimpressed expression.
A staring contest, how juvenile.
He broke first, exhaling loudly through his nose before assuming an obtusely charming expression, equipped with a boyish smile – it was probably one of the more sociopathic things she had ever witnessed.
And she had grown up in a church.
"It was rather impolite of you to occlude during a civil conversation," his tone was light, deceptively teasing – smile too sharp, as though it was begging to be stained with someone's blood. "They were heartbroken, Walburga and Abraxas in particular". A Black and a Malfoy, two very heavy names to burden yourself with.
"I sincerely doubt they care so mush about failing to bully me," she breathed out, trying to sound to sound dismissive. He looked genuinely confused for a second, before taking up an amused façade – "I know Reinhard was a bit harsh, but none of us tried to bully you," he bit his plump lip before adding, "I didn't peg you as one for stereotypes, Warren."
You didn't peg me at all, arse.
But also, excuse me?
"Excuse me?"
"Ah, you know; every Slytherin's a bully, their parents probably support Grindelwald, et cetera, et cetera", he started off chiding but his tone turned scathing half way through – like a wine oxidizing to vinegar upon your tongue.
"What was I supposed to expect," she gritted out – suddenly turning irate as she felt backed into a corner, she never had to defend her coping mechanisms before – "when the king of Slytherin and his court tried to fraternize with Musty Myrtle, calling me nicknames like we're bosom buddies."
She was victimizing herself, she knew, but it was warranted – because it was true, people like them didn't come near people like her, not with kindness in mind.
He laughed in her face.
This utter bitch.
"Why is it that you constantly think," he mused, "that everyone's out to get you?"
Because Oscar Wilde wrote that a burnt child loves the fire.
"Have you seen any proof of the contrary throughout our schooling?" she was whispering now, like our wasn't something she could bring herself to say aloud.
Something in his eyes softened, some imperceptible glint of affront that was there throughout the entire interaction and yet she only noted once it was gone.
"Consider this an olive branch, then."
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A/n. A bit short, because jesus fuck this one was a bitch to get out of my head and onto a document. Myrtle has trust issues - but don't we all?