⋆𝐃𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠⋆ - 𝐓.𝐌.𝐑

𝟎𝟏𝟓 - 𝐆𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐒𝐚𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐚𝐧

⋆

𝗢𝗰𝘁𝗼𝗯𝗲𝗿 𝟮𝟰, 𝟭𝟵𝟰𝟰

The scent of myrrh hung heavy in the air, and heavier on her conscious. Perhaps, in some alternate universe, there was a less traumatized version of Myrtle Elizabeth Warren – one that could stand to be in a room saturated with incense smoke without wanting to lobotomize herself.

Elizabeth tried to understand – she really did – that this was a matter of necessity more so than aesthetic, when it came to Divination lessons at least. That the resin's psychedelic qualities encouraged clairvoyancy in even the most narrow-minded of her classmates – and gave them a fighting chance for an O in the subject.

On the other hand, Astronomy did not require incense and Fuck You Dietrich for using it – you'll never get the Divination post.

But irrationality was a base part of any definition delegated to the word Anxiety, and so her comprehension of the matter did fuck all to absolve her of deeply entrenched and terribly grim childhood memories.

if she closed her eyes and blocked out the gothic architecture and dull chatter, the sodden crystal ball in front of her and the soft pillow that replaced the pew under her bony bum – Professor Mancy's lecture almost sounded like a sermon, and she could nearly feel the rosary digging sharply into her palms, drawing rivulets of blood that would never be clean enough.

Ah, never mind, those were just her nails.

She unclenched her fists and tried to discreetly wipe off the blood unto the unassumingly dark fabric of her robes, leaving behind jaggedly carved crescents as the only proof of her sins – some dittany courtesy of greenhouse no.5, and she'll be holy again by lunch.

Chancing a glance around from her seat in the highest ring of the Amphitheatre-shaped classroom, she reassured herself that none had noticed her slipup. It didn't take long due to Divination being one of the few classes that taught only two houses at a time, something about smaller groups allowing for better focus or some other bollocks.

Ravenclaw had it with Slytherin this year, a welcome change from Hufflepuff which somehow always managed to derail the lessons with either joking about lacing the thurible with other hallucinogens – or actually doing it.

Fun times.

While observing her classmates, her eyes caught on Reinhard Lestrange, who was staring slack-jawed at the incense smoke emanating from the thurible rather than his allotted crystal ball. His gaze was completely glazed over and the sight of Riddle and the rest of his groupies looking at him worriedly had her turning away.

Despite her need to know™, Elizabeth wasn't inclined to shatter whatever fragile bit of trust existed between herself and Riddle by intruding on what felt like an intimate moment.

"-as I am sure Professor Dietrich had tried to explain in depth, this year's Samhain is further amplified by synchronizing with the full moon in Taurus-"

Right, there was a lesson going on still.

The titters got louder and she allowed a slight quirk of her lips at the dour teacher's attitude towards his German-born would-be usurper – the entire school had become enamored by this ongoing rivalry, the drama, the academic enemies-to-lovers, the grumpy/sunshine dynamic.

Better than any of Gretta Skitter's lurid Wixen romance novels.

He kept drawling in that patronizing tone of his and Elizabeth allowed her head to thump against the stone wall as she tuned him out again in favor of staring at the vaulted ceiling – she knew his words would be of no use to her.