⋆𝐃𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠⋆ - 𝐓.𝐌.𝐑

𝟎𝟐𝟏 - 𝐖𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐡 | 𝐏𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞

⋆

𝗡𝗼𝘃𝗲𝗺𝗯𝗲𝗿 𝟯𝟬, 𝟭𝟵𝟰𝟰

Even a boor with the basic most understanding of arithmancy, knew that 3 was a powerful number – a typological number if Christianity were to be given a say in the discussion. 3 numbered the Moirai of ancient Greece – Lachesis, Atropos and Clotho, the faces of the goddess Hecate – mother, maiden and crone; and if, once again, any weight was to be doled out to the words of his old Sunday school teachers – the most famous of all would be the Holy Trinity : father, son and the holy ghost.

While he himself deferred to the number 7, deeming it of the utmost magical prowess and implementing it generously throughout the rituals he had authored and orchestrated with his cohorts – 3 was not to be underestimated. It denoted divine perfection, birth, life and death, beginning, middle and end – harmony.

Now, however, Tom would like to present before the court a new tertiary order. One so dissonant it could've driven the conductor of his old thrice-damned boys' choir to insanity – had he not done so himself already – an Unholy Trinity-

-Black, Rosier and Warren.

The mad, the maddened and the maddening.

Had Tom known that sending the two predatory socialites after his ghost would spawn such discombobulating circumstances into his world, he would've willingly tempered the sure reprisal of her rage for he would've gone in their place himself – never mind his knowledge of weaving beauty out of ruin left much to be desired.

Usually, his hands brought about quite the opposite transformation.

Regardless, it would've indubitably prevented the pathetically human reaction he had suffered after witnessing Warren's (art) nouveau look.

At the present moment, her hair was sprinkled with half-formed snowflakes courtesy of the early Scottish winter, some falling down to coat her dark lashes. Translucent skin was stained a mottled red across the bridge of her nose like a watercolor rendition of brutality as she stood glowering glacially at the remaining two-thirds of the trinity.

Bewitching.

Heiress Rosier and Dame Black were attempting to corral a disgruntled male unicorn towards Warren, however miserably failing in the endeavor. In part due to the vexingly loud noise of their dragonhide riding boots against the slushy snow warning away the creature – and, perhaps, the ethereal beast's odd apprehension at the sight of the ephemeral girl.

They would manage to coax the unicorn towards them with croons and promises of tantalizing sugar cubes – only to withdraw the saccharine reward and corner the beast, at which point it would whine confusedly. Next, they would gently shepherd the unicorn towards where Warren stood like an erected ivory headstone.

Once getting within a five feet radius of the girl, the beast would stiffen – before dashing back towards its kin.

This bizarre dance had been repeating for the 30 minutes, bringing the lesson to a standstill as his serpents and the Ravenclaws watched on with fluctuating degrees of bemusement.

They congregated at the edge of the Dark Forest for a Magizoology lesson, a last-minute change in lesson plans since professor Kettleburn managed to wrangle together a small herd of unicorns and couldn't pass up the opportunity.

The haphazardly-pieced-together teacher's excitement at the prospect of getting them all to pet the flighty creatures was swiftly stifled when Warren's turn arrived and the herd had gone into a frenzy – tripping over themselves in an attempt to flee back into the umber woods. Kettleburn was forced to erect a barrier spell to stop the escape and Tom had graciously lent his help in the casting.