⋆𝐃𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠⋆ - 𝐓.𝐌.𝐑

𝟎𝟑𝟕 - 𝐆𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐨𝐰𝐬 𝐇𝐮𝐦𝐨𝐫

⋆

𝗙𝗲𝗯𝗿𝘂𝗮𝗿𝘆 𝟭𝟵, 𝟭𝟵𝟰𝟱

Her first mistake was, perhaps, assuming that Tom Riddle was capable of pity in any capacity.

"You're dying?" he asks.

And the grand crystal chandelier above their head is suddenly threatening to fall and quash her like an insect, and the light refracting from it is now hitting the green porcelain bricks around them in a way that burns her retinas – and the shadowed faces of her friends overlooking from the balcony are now just shadows and a cacophony of sound. Ursula Laveau is wearing a grim expression, decent enough not to bask in her win.

Her second mistake was accusing a Hufflepuff of disloyalty.

And Thomas' voice isn't mournful or bereaved at all – it is a seething, hissing riotously coiling and coldblooded anger; restrained in two words.

Elizabeth tries to grin, a manic chuckle bubbling in her throat as she gestures vaguely with her arms in a ta-da! motion – a flaccid, pathetic attempt in laughing it all off. Plastering morbid humor over the truth of the matter, the undeniable facticity.

Her biggest mistake was trying to live at all.

Her laugh spills from her lips like fermented sewage and none is lining up to buy it, the fetid sound hangs in the air for a few seconds – not even the soft notes of breathing from the magical room's occupants bothering to dispel it. Internally she wonders if they stopped breathing at all and would soon join her on the other side.

But be it remiss of the world to allow her any sense of reprieve from the absolute fest of fuckery that was looming over her head.

Thomas snarls, eyes flaring red, the sound not human in nature. Low and feral in a way that makes the shadows in the gallery gasp and cease their rambling about her half-life; serpentine and lurid.

"You are dying." He seethes, fisting a hand in his hair and tugging angrily. "Of course you are, because how dare I think I know you for all of you – that you are finally fully mine." More hissing escapes his gritted teeth in a way she would presume is unintentional, the syllables whipping about as though falling from a forked tongue. 

His blood-washed eyes both staple her to the spot and seem to see right through her in his apoplectic fit, narrowed and ensconced by furrowed brows and scathing cheek bones. "You have inadvertent connections to the most powerful people in this country – why do you not use them! I can fix you!" Thomas is nearly begging her, stare finally burning into her own and warming her bones.

What is she, a broken doll?

Her frenzy is replaced by a far more calculative expression.

"-blimey you lot are rowdy today! I've known Nifflers less intent than you! Now, as I were, Parseltongue is characterized by sibilant notes as you might've guessed. Adding onto that, most Indo-European grimoires we've uncovered detail a complex linguistic system despite what one might assume – what with having only one consonant. There is also the matter of a different palate found in dissected Parselmouth skeletons..."

She recalls a terribly odd day in second year Magizoology – back when she was yet unaware of how deeply entrenched and rampant certain prejudices were in Wix society, of how controversial a sizable portion of the population had found professor Kettleburn's objective teachings on Parseltongue.

Thomas.

Kettleburn vanished for months afterwards, which was – as she later learned – due to being put on probation for the duration of the Educational Board's interrogation into his private life, spearheaded by a very liberal deputy headmaster.