❝ 𝐈𝐧 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐜𝐡 𝐓𝐨𝐦 𝐑𝐢𝐝𝐝𝐥𝐞 isn't the only Londoner in Hogwarts, dreading summers under
the German air bombings, wondering if he'd live to enact his plans. Cue a girl living on borrowed time, who couldn't give less of a shit about dying.
╰...
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𝗙𝗲𝗯𝗿𝘂𝗮𝗿𝘆 𝟰, 𝟭𝟵𝟰𝟱
She imagines what might've gone through Salazar Slytherin's mind when he decided to sit down and design a dormitory for his house.
She can tell you exactly what must've gone through his body - ale. And lots of it. Perhaps even some medieval drugs, opium? Ether?
Let's put them in the dungeons, like criminals!
No dungeons? No problem, let's carve into the fucking lake bed! Anyone with thalassophobia or a dislike for being ogled by Merpeople can go fuck themselves!
Heating? What are they, twats? They can have one (1) fireplace. Ooh! Let's connect them to the bloody sewer system for no apparent reason!
And listen, she was partial to the color green, but this was pushing it even for her.
Granted, when empty barring her and Thomas, the common area had a certain beauty to it. Like a city carved into stone - her mind recalled the Jordanian city of Petra from a grimoire donated to Hogwarts by the Shafiqs - the cavernous commons boasted chiseled gothic columns and arches draped in silvery silk swathes that danced to the breeze's silent music.
The commons were enormous, consisting of various stone platforms connected to each other with small escaliers, suspended in the cavern - all of which circled the main platform, with the fireplace and the regal verdant seating of the court of Slytherin. Everything was dappled and bathed in the soft mossy light filtered by the Black Lake's waters and pilfering through the large windows - lending it a feeling of staging, of a never-ending spectacle.
And so much green, fucking hell.
It has become a freaquent setting in the last two days, that and the library where they made a game of seeing who can finish more assignments in the span of time between lunch and supper.
A tie so far.
The late morning light swaddles them with serenity, Thomas is sitting across from her, twirling his wand hypnotically between his fingers as he weighs his next move - they are playing Wizarding chess, and she's fucking throttling him.
To be fair, she's also cheating, but that's neither here nor there.
In fact, Elizabeth thinks it's rather befitting of all the Slytherin paraphernalia around her.
They decided on ground rules : A. no talking like in muggle chess, which means B. the pieces are moved solely by their magic - and considering she could see magic, not that he knew, it was rather easy to foretell his next move.
Elizabeth slyly watches his tendrils of ruby red magic move forward the rook piece they had been wrapped around since before her last turn - she'd taken the time to calculate each route the rook might take and had an according response prepared - there are no stakes in the match besides their respective egos, no audience besides the Grindylow in the windows and Salazar Slytherin's ever silent portrait behind her.
