⋆𝐃𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠⋆ - 𝐓.𝐌.𝐑

𝟎𝟐𝟎 - 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐄𝐫𝐚

⋆

𝗡𝗼𝘃𝗲𝗺𝗯𝗲𝗿 𝟭𝟯, 𝟭𝟵𝟰𝟰

It took several seconds of stunned silence before the students erupted in a flurry of alarmed cacophony, the younger years looking up to their elders for reassurance that they wouldn't be targeted next. Despite Hogwarts being the cesspool of teenage angst and warring opinions that it was, tranquility within her walls was sacred and had rarely been disrupted so plainly – public tiffs having lost their luster in the midst of ongoing wars.

"𝐒𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞! Settle down! All of you."

Bloody hell, and this was the man she had expected to exact her retribution.

Even plied with the Sonorous charm, headmaster's Dippet words held themselves to the esteem of a lowly street beggar. Whoever's spine he had tried to pass off as his own was likely an unqualified donner – and besides, most of the student populace knew him well enough to recognize that his newly acquired vertebrae would vanish the second he slumped back down in his wooden throne.

So, while they did all sit down – leaving her and Riddle the last ones standing – the nerves didn't quell; the air was yet thrumming with residue from the offensive magic and it conjured up horror stricken scenarios in their minds.

Magical schools were the most common battlefields of the magical war.

"Settle down Miss Warren, Mr. Riddle. The prank's over," Professor Dumbledore's voice was chiding, coaxing them to not make a scene out of something that deserved a play – it was rare that the beloved teacher had anything other than a blithering smile upon his face, but though his disappointed frown tugged unfamiliarly at his beard, his eyes yet twinkled with barely disguised amusement.

He was laughing at her.

She shared a meaningful glance with Riddle before looking around wildly, noting the boggled eyes and pointed fingers with the manner of a wounded animal. Her hands dug roughly into the fabric of her knee length skirt, bunching the pleats, rapidly clenching and unclenching as her breaths became labored with indignation.

The nauseating smell of burnt hair was what pushed her over the edge.

"A PRANK?", the horrifically strident screech made those who met her eyes cower away.

Musty Myrtle never yelled, and rarely spoke without careful planning. With a voice like hers she couldn't afford to miscalculate the way in which air strummed across her vocal cords and reverberated back – lest whatever she said be drowned out by the unflinching shrillness of her tone.

"I'm nearly fucking bald and you call it a prank?", she seethed. Unamplified, her voice still thundered louder than Dippet's enhanced one as she glowered at the bastard's Deputy – meeting his beady, bug-eyed, revoltingly twinkly fucking stare.

How dare he downplay this?

"Language Miss Warren! 5 points from Ravenclaw!", Dumbledore's admonishment had a strong undertone of genuine surprise – like the rest of the staff, he probably assumed that an unfortunate looking mudblood such as her simply wouldn't bother to make a fuss.

Elizabeth could hear her housemates – those that were no longer shellshocked by the morning's events – voicing their complaints about the punishment, but the blood rushing through her ears watered them down to simple white noise.

There was a commotion at the head table, her eyes flitted unwittingly to her head of house, Professor Rhombus as they stood up fuming. Their chair toppling over as they crowed out "15 points to Ravenclaw! -", they paused, gasping for air in their vehemence,"-for steadfastness in the face of injustice."