⋆𝐃𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠⋆ - 𝐓.𝐌.𝐑

𝟎𝟏𝟐 - 𝐍𝐨 𝐅𝐮𝐧𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐥𝐬

⋆

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.