⋆𝐃𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠⋆ - 𝐓.𝐌.𝐑

𝟎𝟐𝟕 - 𝐏𝐮𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐃𝐚𝐢𝐬𝐢𝐞𝐬

⋆

𝗝𝗮𝗻𝘂𝗮𝗿𝘆 𝟱, 𝟭𝟵𝟰𝟱

"This is horrendous, must we gossip outside?", Walburga's complaints are hissed through chattering teeth for the sake of maintaining decorum in public.

"You're wearing some poor bear's entire family, you're fine," Drue hisses back - done with her attitude which had been going since before they left for the castle grounds.

"I'm being murdered, the blood is freezing in my arteries-"

"-It's not that cold, good grief-"

-"I can feel the consumption take hold!", Wally ignores her remark in favor of acting as though she's about to faint, bringing a mitten clad hand to her forehead dramatically.

Elizabeth can concede; yes, it is frigid outside, January in the Scottish countryside feels as though the foot of powdery snow covering the Hogwarts grounds is personally out for her head - never mind the wind that's howling in her ears.

But they are witches for fuck's sake, it's manageable with their resources.

She remembers something, "Wally, isn't it colder where your beloved lives?"

"Valentin would never subject me to the Soviet winter, he promised," Walburga beams at her, "besides, I'll castrate him if he dares." She boasts with malicious glee. Durmstrang student and Estonian native, the Dame Black's boyfriend is almost a mythic character in Hogwarts - anyone would need mythical qualities to survive her.

And, you know, to survive the siege that Grindelwald had his school under since 1940.

With Walburga being the shortest of the three now, she and Drue easily share a commiserating glance over her curly black mane. They're making their way through the shoveled paths carved out from the snow, dressed in furs - Elizabeth's are borrowed, as most of her things are nowadays - and plied with warming charms.

A venomous thought plunders her mind, different face and body and hair - different, expensive clothes;

Jacques wouldn't even recognize her.

The icy wind is no longer the sole culprit in the case of her stinging, watery eyes; and she lets out a slow exhale that manifests opaquely in the cold air. It is a good different, a necessary one - she tells herself - her different voice is unconvincing to her ears.

"Speaking of beloveds," Druella splits the turbulent sea in her mind, "let us address why we've gathered here today."

"Sounds like a wedding, Drue, it's only an interrogation of Ghostie here," Walburga teases. They find a stone bench near the now frozen-over Black Lake, somewhat sheltered from the wind by a willow tree. Elizabeth defrosts it with a flourish of her wrist and they sit down, 2 peacefully and 1 wearily.

"You lot aren't getting shite out of me," she murmurs. Elizabeth's eyes track the numerous students using the lake as an ice-skating rink. She always wondered if ballet would lend her a hand in the sport, but orphans don't have the money for ice skates.

The two hum in unison, which is minutely terrifying. "So, has he sent a courting offer to your parents yet?", the blonde wonders.