⋆𝐃𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠⋆ - 𝐓.𝐌.𝐑

𝟎𝟒𝟏 - 𝐉𝐮𝐝𝐚𝐬 𝐈𝐬𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐨𝐭

⋆

𝗠𝗮𝗿𝗰𝗵 𝟭𝟴, 𝟭𝟵𝟰𝟱

Hogwarts geared up to defend itself like a dying man choosing the flower arrangements for his funeral.

Cyclamen, geranium, pink larkspur, monkshood, narcissus and sweet pea.

With the same boastful pomposity which underlined their efforts insofar, Elizabeth surmises the time and liturgy would've been better spent if the faculty had led a ceremonious march throughout the castle – banging their drums and tooting their horns as they climbed up the ancient stone stairs that had braved a millennium's worth of threats. Dippet would spearhead the festivities, though he would only precede Dumbledore as does donkey entering the village before its rider.

The felicitous carnival would reach the terrace of the belltower, and accompanied by tolls and cheers, they would unfurl a massive white banner tied to the banisters – spun from Acromantula silk and hemmed with gold tassels – easily seen from the far distance.

Hogwarts would fall to the sound of applause.

Perhaps she's overexaggerating a little.

But still.

The first prefect meeting she attends after being demoted to some Neanderthalic hunter-gatherer by Madame Goodacre; with some trepidation that Thomas unabashedly soothes by taunting her relentlessly all the way to the chosen classroom, is overtaken by the head boy who proudly announces the founding of-

-And she isn't making it up, because if her mind is capable of such horrors, then truly, no place is safe-

-Dumbledore's army. A sanctioned student-ran militia to hunt down all of the big bad spiders.

And as law upholding students, they were all invited to join! Cheers.

She disguised a smirk behind pearl-varnished nails as Thomas scoffed in Twycross' face when the Hufflepuff expectantly asked them to pledge themselves to the cause, pretty lips curling as he called him an imbecile. They weren't an exception to the rule, either. Prefects of all grades and houses - for differing reasons, of course, some of cowardice and some of disagreement - made their departure known swiftly after the declaration. To Elizabeth, there was a warm feeling about recalling the situation, how her beloved's hand firmly splayed at the small of her back as they lead out the opposition.

They've yet to be asked to return their prefect pins, but afterwards in the darkened stone corridor, Thomas privately quipped that it would be only a matter of time before Dumbledore's influence translated into a reprise of the Witch Hunts.

Thinking of that moment now, Elizabeth scrunches her eyes shut until it hurts, rolls up to pointe on her toes and strains her muscles further with every move. The music crescendoing in tandem with her inner turmoil, every ligament forced taut as her body is torn asunder to the sound of long dead orchestras while her mind flees.

Dark clouds on the horizon, the sea retreating from the shore, a teacup on the precarious edge of a rickety table – Elizabeth's private jokes about being a herald, an omen of death; a terrible harbinger of sorts to any person that's ever had the displeasure of happening across her – they all settle bitterly on her tongue, an ill-spoken, unintentional prophecy.

Likely, Apollo himself is laughing at her from his golden blazing chariot.

Unbidden, the music mellows, a tremulous edge stroking the uneasy notes. Beaten down to abide by the symphony, her body ceases its twirling, coming to a trepid standstill – arms out and tensely fluttering like a hummingbird's ever ready wings, pointe shoes beating out a staccato rhythm on the manifested mahogany flooring of the magical room.