⋆𝐃𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠⋆ - 𝐓.𝐌.𝐑

𝟎𝟏𝟗 - 𝐌𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐌𝐨𝐫𝐢

⋆

𝗡𝗼𝘃𝗲𝗺𝗯𝗲𝗿 𝟭𝟯, 𝟭𝟵𝟰𝟰

The fire blazed away in the wrought iron firepit nestled at the center of the Ravenclaw common room, kindling crackled as it surrendered itself to the tyrannical rule of the lazy flames - the heat seeping into the wary bones of the few seventh years yet awake and slaving away over their NEWTs assignments with fatigued fervor.

They loitered around the conversation pit, pieces of parchment and heavy tomes balanced precariously on their knees whilst they made their best attempts at some late-night bullshitting. The scratching of metal nibbed quills - whose ink dripped aimlessly more than it recorded due to sheer exhaustion - harmonized with the burning wood and quiet snores, verses strung together by mumbled expletives-

-when some poor sod noticed their mug had left a ring on the ancient oak banister, or their essay had been reduced to a soggy mess of wasted loose leaf under a hand too long idle-

-and muffled yawns against sweaty palms, punctuated by rustling of frantically flipped pages; the rank combination of coffee, tobacco and old leather - truly an all-encompassing symphony played on your senses.

The musical sound of academic burnout, and so early in the year too.

How sad.

Elizabeth watched them apathetically from above, leaning over the railing while her hands absentmindedly trailed the baluster as she catalogued their actions - it fascinated her sometimes, how other people could go about their (long)lives unhurried, healthy and unburdened by pain, treating due dates as 'do dates' and generally employing a lackadaisical attitude that she seemed to be incapable of hiring.

They could enjoy the freedoms of developing actual personalities, and bonds, and hobbies - something with soul, something worthwhile and human - not the haphazardly stitched together mass of coping mechanisms and means to an end that she tried to pass off as her own identity.

If they were to look up, they would surely spot her. Creeping, keenly scrutinizing their every move with vacant eyes - severely underdressed too, only sporting a white cotton nightgown that left her looking every inch the ghost of a sickly Victorian child.

Rationally, she knew the sight of her would scare them - and not solely due to shock either - something about the thought bothered a terribly repressed part of her.

The bookshelf/door to the common room swung open and then closed, the quiet whooshing sound barely registering in her mind as Elizabeth zeroed in on the dying flames - probably a prefect who finished their rounds late, or perhaps Professor Rhombus checking on their ravens.

She hated the firepit.

Sitting near it always left her with blisters, and the incandescent blaze left panic swirling around in her throat - heart palpitating for reasons entirely beyond her comprehension.

"How did a bloody cat get in?"

Oh. They reached the hallucinatory part of the night early.

"By answering the riddle, Leopold, maybe you should it ask it for some tips," a yawn escaped the blond speaker's lips, "you know, because you couldn't figure it out for yourself."

A pause, she could hear soft rustling which she attributed to one of the students tossing around.

"Shut the fuck up, Lovegood."

She had to muffle her snort - these were the future leaders of the British Wizarding world, Merlin help them - a sardonic smirk curled on her lips as she continued gazing down at the conversation pit, trying to spot whatever thrice damned thing these pillocks had mistaken for a cat.