⋆
𝗗𝗲𝗰𝗲𝗺𝗯𝗲𝗿 𝟮𝟭, 𝟭𝟵𝟰𝟰
Beauty.
What a trite, inevitable whim.
There are garments strown on every imaginable surface of the Ravenclaw fifth year girls' dorm – low-quality cottons and wools in grey, coal and off-white.
Elizabeth had always known her place in the beholder's eye – an ugly duckling with no chance of swanning. One would think that having your own inadequacy in an unchangeable subject, barreled at you every day, would dissuade you from bothering at all – from caring. As a child, ridiculed and relentlessly bullied by children and adults alike – somewhat protected by Jacques; as a Hogwarts student, ridiculed and hounded by students she hadn't ever interacted with prior, ignored by teachers – avenged by herself.
One would think that she; Musty, Mopey Myrtle, (previously) Whiny Warren – had been reduced to utter indifference by her own appearance – as a coping mechanism if nothing else.
And she would like to pretend that yes. Yes, she did not give a single fuck about her unsightliness. She was above it.
Certain things stand out in the disarray, arranged with obvious care; a forest green expensive-looking scarf, a barrette encrusted with Tahitian pearls ("to match the raincloud above your head, Ghostie" Black boasted), a lilac-toned satin box.
But if that were true then she wouldn't feel that traitorous bit of gratitude towards the assailants that set her hair on fire, for somehow managing to render the remaining locks the healthiest they had ever been – inadvertently doing more for her appearance than any product she had ever concocted. She wouldn't've zealously grasped onto the opportunity that subsequently followed – revamping her image to suite the Art Nouveau aesthetic that her finger waves inspired; waking up even earlier to ensure that between ballet practice and interning in the Med Wing, she would also have time to do her hair and makeup accordingly.
In the end, every person wants to be able to look in the mirror – and not feel the urge to look away.
In addition to the innards of her wardrobe, books and papers have also swamped the dorm – numerous tomes and grimoires, previous residents of either the library or Borgin and Burkes. Scrolls that seemed to have neither end nor beginning, brimming with diagrams and notes in her illegible healer's scrawl, unfurled across the deep blue rug that she was wearing out with her pacing.
Though it seemed, she had only managed to give the skin she donned an estimated year of death – a flapper at her peak, a closed casket funeral. The one time she had made her discontent known to Rosier and Black, they had tried to assuage her – "the Wizarding World had different standards", they'd said, "beauty was regarded differently in a world that had Veela and Beautification Potions", they'd added.
"Imagery was only as impactful as the emotions it invoked, most magics could not fabricate those", they'd intoned.
She supposed the emotions she provoked in others must've been utterly rancid, then.
While the fabric mess was a result of Elizabeth's attempt to find apt dress robes for the Yule ball, the books and papers all centered around one goal – the outlining of a ritual for tonight. Once again, she would not be participating in the open invitation ritual that the professors were conducting for Yule – but constructing one of her own, whose sole intent was the pursuit of beauty.
She bit down on the inside of her cheek and wiped her clammy palms against her skirt, nerves trying to break through her mental shields – Elizabeth had made a vow of abstinence from beauty related rituals after one too many failures during her third year. While she wasn't a religious person and had no qualms with breaking vows that weren't binding – this one had been forged in her own blood, to prevent herself from spiraling into self-destruction.
But she was hopeful – foolish girl, don't you know hope's not for you? – that this one might work, the winter equinox was a day of great magical significance and her base principle was rather solid.
The Limbus spell that had been used on her hair was simply a powerful cleansing charm if one peeled away all of the flourishes around its purpose, and it had transmogrified her hair into something far too pure to take root in her scalp. The ritual that had led her to play mute for some two weeks until she could play off its results as those of the "medicine" – was also a cleansing ritual, simply aimed at her voice-
-bloody hell, the eyesight correcting potion she took before first year was also basically a cleansing potion.
Unlike every previous ritual, where she operated upon the base assumption that her skin was her own. Here, her basic principle was that she had been cursed, at some point, by someone. And she intended to undo that curse.
And get even.
Elizabeth's pacing halted as her eyes zeroed in on a garment bag that she had tossed over the canopy of Hornby's bed – her dormmates would've crucified her for the invasion of their space, if they were here, and not in their warm homes with their loving families; spending a wonderous winter vacation. A white-bright streak against the velvet blue sky, the bag contained old ballet costumes that her dance studio would loan out to girls for shows every year – of course, with Elizabeth being who she was, other girls didn't want to wear her old costumes after her, so the studio never asked for them back. Leaving her with an small arsenal of tule tutus and silk bodices – all plain, ever the background dancer.
Granted, over the last week Rosier and Black had hounded her relentlessly about spending Yule at one of their manors – like Riddle was doing at the Malfoys' – but she had refused repeatedly. It seemed wrong, languishing around in a lavish chateau somewhere in the French countryside while Jacques didn't know if he'd survive the next air raid.
She's yet to have a significant growth spurt, but regardless, the costumes would need to be altered – would she wear pointe shoes the entire night? The only other pair of shoes she owned were her uniform oxfords and those seemed inappropriate for the occasion.
Any alteration would have to wait until after the ritual though, while other students were undoubtedly spending the day rehearsing the steps of familial ceremonies thought up long before their parents were even thought about – bathing in purifying baths and generally vegetating; Elizabeth had to invent her own ceremony, and for purification purposes, all she had were the dorm showers and a vision.
A quick Tempus showed her that it was nearly lunchtime, she had already skipped breakfast and managed to get a basic outline down – and she did need some fuel for the magic that was to take place – so, signing deeply, she resigned herself to the torture.
⋆
"What the fuck?"
She had descended down the spiral staircase, with the intent to walk the very simple and straight path from the stairwell to the bookcase that hid the door. Unforunately, she had made the mistake of letting her eyes stray over to the Yule decorations-
-the house elves had put up yule trees in the dormitories last night, she'd noted the garishly decorated affair before going to sleep, and now there was matching yule log burning away at the firepit nestled in the middle of the common room – neither of these facts were the cause for her confusion, though. What she hadn't expected to see upon vacating her hermitage, were presents under the tree – sure, there were other Ravenclaws staying back at the castle. But, they had clearly already gotten to their presents, leaving a mess of wrapping paper around the conversation pit – that didn't bother her, the other presents did.
Specifically, the presents addressed to her.
𝒯𝑜 𝒢𝒽𝑜𝓈𝓉𝒾𝑒 დ
Fσɾ Wαɾɾҽɳ
𝐅𝐨𝐫 𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐬 𝐌𝐲𝐫𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐄𝐥𝐢𝐳𝐚𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐡 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐞𝐧
Two parcels and one official Hogwarts letter – was she getting expelled? – all addressed to her, the simple notion was laughable in its dissonance from her usual perception of the world around her.
She opened the letter first, if she was being expelled then she'd like to know immediately – with a harsh flick of her wand, the ruby wax seal broke and the parchment flew up to float in front of her face; a dull clang sounded out as something metallic fell out of the envelope and hit the carpet.
She ignored it in favor of reading the letter-
𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐬 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐞𝐧,
𝐈 𝐚𝐦 𝐞𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐢𝐧𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐦 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐟𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐡𝐲 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝟓𝐭𝐡 𝐲𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐑𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐥𝐚𝐰 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐟𝐞𝐜𝐭 𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐛𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐥𝐲 𝐯𝐚𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐮𝐧𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐮𝐧𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐜𝐢𝐫𝐜𝐮𝐦𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐬. 𝐄𝐧𝐜𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐧𝐯𝐞𝐥𝐨𝐩𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐟𝐞𝐜𝐭 𝐩𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐛𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐢𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐚𝐟𝐟𝐢𝐱𝐞𝐝 𝐮𝐩𝐨𝐧 𝐚 𝐯𝐢𝐬𝐢𝐛𝐥𝐞 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐫𝐨𝐛𝐞𝐬 𝐚𝐭 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐬.*
𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐢𝐧𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐦 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐟𝐞𝐜𝐭 𝐦𝐞𝐞𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐞𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐚 𝐬𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐝𝐮𝐥𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐬.
𝐈 𝐞𝐱𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐦𝐲 𝐚𝐩𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐮𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐢𝐭 𝐭𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐝𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐝𝐞, 𝐜𝐞𝐫𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐟𝐢𝐠𝐮𝐫𝐞𝐬 𝐞𝐧𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐜𝐞𝐝 𝐚 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐮𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐮𝐜𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐥 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐜𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐮𝐩𝐨𝐧 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐦𝐲 𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐢𝐜𝐞. 𝐈 𝐭𝐫𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐲 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐠𝐞𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐩𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐢𝐛𝐥𝐲, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐦𝐲 𝐣𝐮𝐝𝐠𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐢𝐧 𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐨𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐞𝐝.
𝐒𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐥𝐲,
𝓖𝓪𝓵𝓪𝓽𝓮𝓪 𝓜𝓮𝓻𝓻𝔂𝓽𝓱𝓸𝓾𝓰𝓱𝓽
*𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐢𝐧 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐛𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐬𝐚𝐧𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐳𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐢𝐭𝐬 𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐭 𝐮𝐬𝐞, 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞.
What the fuck. What the fuck. What the fuck.
Elizabeth bent down gently to retrieve the object – the fucking prefect pin – and raised it up to the light to scrutinize it; silver body with blue enamel, nothing innovative. All the while, mind boggling.
Hesitantly, as though at any moment professor Merrythought might come in and take it back, she affixed it to her robes – right above her heart. Her eyes flitted over to the other parcels, mind whirling with trepidation as she tried to imagine what other troubles are currently being withheld from her – she felt decidedly like Pandora at the moment, though far less self-assured.
Parcel one is from Rosier and Black – as expected by the note – the wrapping paper is duck egg in color and luxurious to the touch, there's a silky white ribbon that unravels easily enough to reveal a puddle of sheer, shimmery silver fabric.
Fucking Acromantula silk – you know? The shite that costs more than all her donatable organs combined, per yard.
And it is spun and woven into a Poiret cocoon coat, liquid embroidery featuring celestial themes such as stars and comets streaking across the garment, glinting sterling. There are heavy metal tassels hanging off the sleeves and an opulent, gem encrusted broach clasping it shut – she does not want to know the cost of the large blue stone at its center, but is aware it will haunt her dreams.
Parcel two is somehow worse – it is from the boys but their names are all written in the same handwriting and Riddle's name is underlined, and oh, is that the sound of her heart giving up?
It is much smaller than the first, black wrapping paper giving way to a beige, satin lined jewelry box – oh fuck no. Elizabeth forcibly resigns herself to finally open the lid, and her corneas are nearly vaporized by the glimmering diamonds resting upon the soft velvet cushion. A thin diamond collar – supposedly less impressive, for lack of some grandiose center stone, but in actuality far more intimidating. Because Tom fucking Riddle picked it out for her.
Is she having a stroke? Is this what a stroke is like?
They debated the existence of alternative universes in Arithmancy, from as scientific a view point as magic would allow – but this went far beyond some hypothetical speculation.
In what world would someone more likely to kill her, gift her diamonds?
Whatever shred of bollocks she had mustered in order to attend lunch in the Great Hall; had simply dissipated and been replaced by the deafening thud of her heart reverberating throughout her hollow bones, and an overwhelming sense of bewilderment. Nevertheless, she knows she must eat before the ritual; so she closes the jewelry box as though that could banish away all the problems that opening it had manifested – silly Pandora, that won't help – and forces herself to utilize her newly dulcet voice to call for a house elf – not in the mood to venture out to the kitchens.
Within minutes she is back in her dorm – prettily wrapped complications secured and out of sight but not mind – sitting stiffly on her (too soft) bed with a floating tray in front of her. Her facial muscles hurt from smiling at the lovely house elf that had so eagerly complied with her request, and her tongue is like a lead weight in her mouth; utterly opposed to consuming anything that wouldn't put her out of her misery. There's mug of green tea with a small jar of honey, and the cloche reveals a salivating French onion soup that she had once tried at Malfoy's behest and rather enjoyed – there is also a separate dish containing a red currant tart, a treat.
There are worse last meals, she thinks.
⋆
Running into any professor in the corridors is daunting on a good day. Running into Dumbledore while transporting several contraband items into a secret room on Yule can, apparently, induce skin-bleaching mortification – and she is paper fucking white – but she surprisingly holds her own, and fends the odd interaction off with uncharacteristic poise.
The headache afterwards is suspicious but she attributes it to the nerves that seem to pluck harsher at her heartstrings with every nearing step to the 'Come and Go' room. Elizabeth does find it peculiar that a teacher that had scarcely acknowledged her existence until the haircut incident – which he then tried to sweep under the rug – is so terribly interested in her whereabouts and plans for such a "magically charged night, hm. Where are you off to, my dear?"
None of your bloody business. "My dorm, sir."
"It is such an unfortunate thing that you were poisoned," another hum leaves him, "I commend you for not seeking revenge." His eyes twinkle greedily, here, "what was it that your medicine was made of again?"
90 proof alcohol. "Oh, I wouldn't know, sir. Madame Goodacre was the one who had brewed it."
"I'll be sure to ask her, then." Can this man finish a sentence without some odious speech disfluency? "I noticed that you didn't sign up for the faculty-led ritual, if you are planning one of your own then I must dissuade you from doing so," he looks down at her over his beard, "some students simply aren't capable of wielding that much magic just yet."
Oh, you half-blind, half-wit fuck. "I'll be sure to keep that in mind. Good night, sir."
That simply being in the vicinity of a particular person could make her want to wretch and then disembowel herself, is proof that Divine Creation does not exist – how could one blithering professor invoke such an ominous feel from the deep trenches of her heart and yet be made in the same image that she was?
Mercifully, Elizabeth suffers no other interruption during her trip to seventh floor corridor – even so, after the run-in she shifts her course to one that leads through portrait laden halls until the Ravenclaw dorms and then utterly barren back hallways from there to her destination. Now that she's nearly certain someone had her cursed, sentenced to her current existence like an angel would be to earth – paranoia is the least she's allowed to feel, and the barest of minimums she needs to employ.
I need a ritual room fit for an In Corpore Sano ritual.
I need a ritual room fit for an In Corpore Sano ritual.
I need a ritual room fit for an In Corpore Sano ritual.
A healthy mind in a healthy body – simple, thought provoking, it is an apt name for the most powerful cleansing ritual that she could get her skeletal, sickly hands upon.
The room before her is a chasm, a void – like the inside of a mausoleum constructed from char-toned marble, about which nothing is clinical unless your chosen form of healthcare is killing yourself and calling for a necromancer to revive you whenever you catch a cold. There's a hexagon already etched into the floor, embossed and shining pearlescent – and she knows the rest of the runes are her job, dozens of sequences to be written out in a mixture of her own blood and other medicinal herbs.
Can't wait!
And it cannot wait, literally, timing is of the essence here. So Elizabeth gets down to work, and it is an arduous process, bordering on Sisyphean in nature – simply lighting all of the necessary candles takes time due to her primal aversion to fire, never mind brewing the reprehensible sludge of a concoction that she's apparently expected to consume.
The smell of burning sage slowly begins saturate the room, along with an infuriating ringing sound that is too melodic to write off as Tinnitus but is certainly not her own doing – as someone foreign to the world of magic, you are sincerely incapable of comprehending the part that nature itself takes up until it is shoved in your face. Imagine trying to explain this ghostly melody as "oh, Hogwarts joined in", without sounding certifiably unsound to your own ears.
But it is true, by the time she is sat upon her haunches in the middle of the hexagon, all preparations done and with only her own part left to play – the room is alive. Magic is palpable and opaque in the air before her eyes, it is a current running alongside the blood in her veins and the Choir Eternal wailing in her ears; it is gaseous polychromatic strings writhing in tandem around her, threading in and out of the incense smoke, and it is the walls of the room thudding like the valves of the heart chamber.
A living, breathing organism – of which she is a part now.
And to be a part, of such a collective – is the most euphoric experience one could imagine; there isn't the chronic pain of her physical form, there aren't the turbulent thoughts that waltz venomously along her occlumency shields. If the religion that was malevolently shoved down her throat since childhood, that rebuked her at every turn and whose servants spat in her face – could ever bring her such enlightenment, she'd get on her knees and repent.
But it never could.
She swallows the putrid sludge and tastes nothing, evokes the spelled words and hears nought – at peace, the way she should've always felt in her body, it is merely unfortunate that this peace is only found in an astral plane, where her body is not. The black room is now white – everything is, really – and she could be screaming and wouldn't even know it, so transcendent as she were; it is somewhat funny that in chasing after a body that humanity would accept, she lost her own.
That is funny.
She wants to laugh but can't feel her vocal cords, which is wrong, because she healed them – so they should be here with her. They are pure already, aren't they?
She does feel it when every inch of her skin starts burning.
And the vast emptiness that follows.
⋆
A/n. I'm alive! I do sincerely apologize for the haitus, I might've decided to compete in a national essay competition and managed to pass the first stage - so my time had been swallowed up by writing for the second one, oops.
The ritual's name is indeed a refrence to Serbia's song from last year's eurovision, a true masterpiece in my opinion :)
btw, I have a crippling fear of becoming the stereotypical wattpad writer with their Mary-Sue characters that never lose - so do tell me if I'm giving Myrtle too many wins.