⋆
𝗗𝗲𝗰𝗲𝗺𝗯𝗲𝗿 𝟮𝟰, 𝟭𝟵𝟰𝟰
She's limping down the corridor, more sore than the wife of the roughest giant, when a familiar flash of ephemeral silver darts past her eyes. Excitement and relief surge through her enlengthened veins – a sense of pride overcoming her as well; if the added few inches are anything to go by, then the ritual worked.
"My Lady, look!"
The haunted ghost halts in her flight for a second, wearily observing the luridly alluring stranger who had just mimicked her little raven's voice.
"Who are you?"
The Grey Lady's eyes betray no spark of recognition, and she flees before Elizabeth can muster up a response.
⋆
𝗗𝗲𝗰𝗲𝗺𝗯𝗲𝗿 𝟯𝟬, 𝟭𝟵𝟰𝟰
She's naked, as she often is these days. An urge had awakened in her, to repeatedly and meticulously examine her new body – as one would a particularly interesting case in the morgue.
"Lumos."
A spark manifests at the end of her knotted wand, her palm digs painfully into the skull-shaped whorl at the base of the handle as she battles humiliation, trying to force more magic into the simple spell and failing spectacularly. The light flickers once, twice; a futile battle that rages for several more seconds before going out with a whimper – as all things inevitably do.
"Fuck!"
A round of applause, everyone! Please! Put your hands together and rejoice in gleeful, raucous laughter-
-for Myrtle Elizabeth Warren had managed to – once again – deplete her own magical core.
The expletive echoes mockingly throughout the Prefects' bathroom, bouncing from one marble tile to the next and reverberating back a more hollow, less human version of itself. Skipping across the stained-glass panes until it is perverted enough to remind her of her old voice – folding in until it ricochets maliciously against her ears, a derisive imprint of her frustration.
And yet, even this pitiful excuse of a lightshow was bounds and leagues above what Elizabeth could do in the days immediately following the ritual – well, immediately following the day-and-a-half coma after the ritual but the principle stands. Upon waking up in the 'Come and Go' room, which had still retained evidence of her ritual, her core had been veritably empty.
Elizabeth will have you know that surviving Hogwarts while magic-less was terrifying, by the way. The castle was rather inaccessible with no power to call your own and wield away, and she found herself commending Apollyon Pringle, the squib who functioned as Hogwarts's caretaker for having managed to live this long. Never pretending to be one of god's strongest soldiers, she took to brewing countless Exstimulo potions and downing them like water, all in order to supplement her own inadequacy.
When she'd awoke, though, it was to a castle once more bustling with students, having missed welcoming her Slytherin comrades back from their vacations – which in turn had made them quite cross with her. Elizabeth had also inadvertently skipped the welcoming feast, during which three more muggleborns – that could've been her – had been pronounced casualties of the air raids in England and ceremoniously mourned.
This time, Riddle wasn't here to weave a compelling fable, one that might explain away the drastic change to her appearance – and Elizabeth was never one for fairytales herself – so she had settled for her personal brand of obscene blitheness whenever someone questioned her.
"Oh, I was surprised myself! Thought puberty might skip me over... Did you know that hair could grow down there?"
Never mind that puberty couldn't change your entire facial structure.
Dumbledore had been so flustered by her question that he immediately abdicated his attempt to corner her into an impromtu interrogation – the wanker had tried to accuse her of using Polyjuice, which was 'highly illegal, my dear'.
Nevertheless, playing stupid was about as convincing as saying that she had made a wish upon a star to be pretty. So, despite the deaths, the nearing ball, the two bloodied wars going on simultaneously – though granted, the muggle Nazis were close to being defeated, but she digressed – all anyone could talk about, was her.
Myrtle Warren and her new face. Myrtle Warren and her new body. Myrtle Warren and her new voice – which wasn't all that new, yet was still new enough to be a topic of conversation.
How about Elizabeth and her new prefect status? Huh? Elizabeth and her new (temporary, hopefully) incapacity for magic? Elizabeth and her new Leave Me The Fuck Alone?
Granted, she wasn't about to tell anyone of the magic part, but the point stood; there were infinite topics more interesting than her new appearance-
-which, call her Tantalus but even her new form wasn't quite the belle of the upcoming ball-
-which, she now rather doubted she had a date for, even though she had studiously refused to acknowledge that she even had one prior, never mind acknowledging his identity-
-because after expressing a barrage of rebukes for the lack of welcome committee, they had finally looked at her, and she tried to explain what happened – she really did. Being more honest than Elizabeth had ever bothered to be with someone, because at some point she had begun fucking caring about these overbearing, coercive, non-judgmental vipers.
But they had stared at her stonily and scarcely listened, and were yet to seek her out again.
Who are you?
So, Elizabeth took that to mean that her incorrigible ability to repulse people had finally caught up with them, and tried to ignore the all-encompassing physical ache that sat between her ribs.
It was somewhat fascinating how strongly emotions appeared to affect her now, now that the chronic pain of her existence had become nearly a fraction of itself – still there though, mind you – she'd apparently freed up space in her pain tolerance to deal with a plethora of human sufferings that had once been alien to her.
How delightful.
This shedding of her former skin seemingly pulled away a veil from her senses, one that dulled her life to a very narrow path that only registered extreme deviations and thus reacted with visceral extremity to each one.
Fun fact she had registered thanks to her newly found lucidity? Whatever her ritual did – was not enough.
Elizabeth could still feel this certain kind of vice around her; shackling, stifling, smothering her. It reminded her of the sheer rayon stockings that were part of the uniform in St. Joan's – well, before the government privatized the rayon factories for the war effort – a thin, restrictive layer that sat heavy on her skin and yet appeared invisible.
Over the low bubbling sound coming from the enormous tub – one that reeked of lavender, because that is what the semi-sentient bathroom deemed fit for her – Elizabeth didn't hear the grinding of ancient stone as the statue of Boris the Bewildered swung open to allow another prefect to enter.
"Circe! I'm sorr- Warren?"
Elizabeth, that was sat on the ledge of the tub, immediately dropped in the water to protect her modesty at the sound of Rosier's voice. Quickly turning around to wearily scrutinize the girl that she had genuinely allowed herself to consider a friend, a confidant. Rosier's blond ringlets hung loose, and she was carrying a bath caddy filled with products that likely cost a fortune – at first, she had envied her. This girl that had the beauty of a snowflake, gentle and untouchable.
"Heiress Rosier."
The normally aloof ice queen of Slytherin grimaced, seemingly pained at the verbal distance. "That is well deserved," she paused, a question clearly weighing on her tongue, "since when are you a prefect?"
"Since Yule, I would've told you if you had bothered to speak to me. Any of you", she sneered. It was a petty and mean barb but Elizabeth had been hurt by their abandonment. For the past week, she'd become a recluse – the people (and ghost) she had cared for had dropped her; and the ones she couldn't care less about, wouldn't let her be. All because of that bloody ritual.
"I-we needed time to process, Warren. You- well, you look like an entirely new person, beautiful certainly" – lie, she looked like the corpse of a beautiful person – "but a virtual stranger, not the girl we came to know."
"Outwardly perhaps, but I'm still me," she tried not to sound desperate – when do you change enough for it to be considered a murder? Are you guilty? Are you? – using her wet hands to sleek her hair back and out of her face. "And, time to process? How much time, hm?"
The blonde started at her sudden hostility, "it gave us a shock-"
-"did you not think it might've shocked me as well? That I could've used someone to talk to?"
In lieu of answering, Rosier started undressing to get in the tub and she turned around to give her privacy. Thoughts roiled turbulently in her head as she glared down the painted mermaid in the stained-glass window that watched their argument amusedly, gigling behind a hand.
Bitch.
"I cannot speak for the rest, but I am sorry Warren," a hand gently touched her shoulder and she forced herself not to flinch before turning back to face the girl, absently noting that the scent in the air changed – the numerous gilded faucets now churning out a bouquet of lavender and tuberose.
She was taller than Rosier now, huh.
"Your skin...", Rosier trailed off, appearing perplexed.
"Uh, yes. It was a consequence of the ritual." Thin ivory stretch marks – so many of them – now lined her skin, traversing limbs and new curves – exemplifying proof of growth as the rings in the base of a tree would.
Going from 5"1 to 5"7 would do that.
"I also drained my core," Elizabeth admitted, feeling vulnerable now after the argument – an agitated, exposed nerve, "um, it was another consequence."
Rosier leaned back on the ledge, blond brows furrowed together, "but during lessons, you used your magic without any problems." The gentle lighting of the candle chandelier overhead lulled their conversation into a mere exchange of whispers, "I brewed powering potions, by the gallon", she supplied impishly.
"Those are addictive," the blonde pointed out in reproach, "Warren, that was genuinely dangerous. We could've helped you find a different solution; Thomas would've found something within an hour, surely."
Why would he-
Elizabeth ignored the odd comment and smiled mirthfully, internally giddy at the lack of pain from the action – how luxurious such simple joys had felt in comparison to their lack in the last 16 years. "Oh, and you would've acknowledged my existence, Rosier? You wouldn't've needed time to process my call for help?"
"Druella," the usually composed heiress looked somewhat anguished at her rebuke, "please, I wish to remedy this tear between us. Call me Drue, even."
Names had power in the Wizarding World – had to in a world that had the Fae. This was her apology, her peace offering in the name of the group; a show of good will – giving Elizabeth symbolic power over her.
And power corrupts.
"Alright, Drue, now answer the question," Elizabeth waded through the foam to slightly tower over the girl, aiming for intimidation and hopefully not falling too short. "Would you have helped me, now that I wasn't pitiful enough to be your little charity case?"
Would you? Please?
"You were never a charity case, Warren." Druella emphasized every vowel and consonant with her posh lilt, declaration in her tone and steel in her eyes, "and we would've." She clutched Elizabeth's hand under the water, a prayer in her touch, "and if you are still willing to have us, we will."
She silently appraised the blonde for a few seconds, weighing her options – Druella, being the aristocrat she was raised to be, did not fidget and steadily returned her gaze.
Finally, she sighed and smiled softly – aware that she was opening herself up to be hurt, and yet, not feeling like being a coward for once;
"Call me Elizabeth."
⋆
𝗗𝗲𝗰𝗲𝗺𝗯𝗲𝗿 𝟯𝟭, 𝟭𝟵𝟰𝟰
The Slytherin girls' dorms allow 2-student bedrooms, and she finds herself rather jealous of that fact.
"You're supposed to make them look like siblings, not cousins!"
Elizabeth exhales deeply, this was the third time she had redid her eyeliner and apparently, it was still not up to Black- Walburga's standards.
"Ah yes, because that makes a great difference as far as you're concerned."
The grey-eyed girl who's currently fighting her for mirror real estate – whilst critiquing her use of it – jabs an elbow in her ribs and Elizabeth narrowly avoids stabbing herself in the eye with the liner on accident. Purely on instinct, she could've hexed the girl – fortunately for her, magic is not something Elizabeth can spend freely at moment. Walburga takes the choice of retaliation away from her, though, as the cunt whirls to where the Rosier heiress is painstakingly piling up her styled ringlets, to air her grievances.
"Oh Drue! She's being so mean to me," Walburga pouts.
"She's also being entirely truthful poppet," the blonde hums, barely paying them any mind but going along with the jest.
The myth of incest in the Black family is a famous one in the society pages – and thus, in wizarding society itself. Nearly all are aware of its falsity, what with Orion dating Druella's brother and Walburga courting a wizard in the mainland.
However, Wix of the Light coalition on the Wizengamot – and their gossiping spouses – simply don't seem to care; so long as they've perceived blackmail on their opponents to feed to their supporters when elections come around.
Altogether, the myth's ability to rile up the Blacks makes for a delightfully easy laugh.
Walburga sulks for a few seconds before bolting out of her seat, her pannier bouncing comically up and down as she charges at Drue – nearly knocking the willowy girl over whilst trying to hug her.
"Oh, Ghostie we haven't told you!" – none of them were going to address why that was – "the most ridiculous thing happened during our ballroom lesson!" She gasps, jerking Druella's shoulders back and forth as the girl tries to wrestle out of her grip.
"Leave me be you lunatic, you'll dye me white."
"You're already snow white, you'll live."
"You won't."
Elizabeth leans back against the mirror - tragic Silver Starlet makeup now laid on her skin. The cold glass surface burns the exposed expanse of her back as she watches the banal bickering of the two with a small smirk on her plum painted lips, abjectly fascinated.
"-and Sluggy spells the gramophone on and turns to us-"
-"professor Slughorn has terrible taste in music, mind you."
A movement in the window causes her eyes to stray, a face – no, several faces, not human – look back at her through the murky waters of the Black Lake.
Jesus fuck, imagine seeing that at night.
Previous jealousy forgotten, Elizabeth now surmises that the small dorms are a decent trade off for the lack of sunshine under the lake, and the lack of privacy due to the peeping Grindylow who are currently playing audience to Walburga and Druella's theatrical recount
"He makes this asinine speech about lady snakes and lord snakes – Ghostie are you even listening?"
She hums distractedly, "sure."
The girls had snuck her in the Slytherin common room to get ready for the ball, unseen due to the general humdrum that had clouded the house – the other cold blooded residents all franticly pampering themselves and too busy to notice a stranger.
A green velvet pillow is lopped at her head and she lets out an indignant yelp, breaking eye contact with a mermaid in the window and thus losing the staring contest – surprisingly, Drue is the one to throw it.
"Wally is just getting to the best part, you'd do well to listen," the blonde chides.
Walburga hums excitedly, flouncing around the room in her 18th century stays and pannier as she battles with her hair – aiming for Marie Antoinette and currently succeeding at Bloody Mary. Druella and her are similarly also dressed in just their undergarments – Victorian crinoline and whalebone corset for Drue and 1920's corset for Elizabeth.
"So, Sluggy-" –"professor Slughorn-"-"Sluggy. Finishes his chauvinistic speech and then he turns to the boys." They all now have their makeup on and their hair styled, each girl's befitting the era that she chose – Walburga does not suit the white face powder and mole.
But maybe Elizabeth only thinks that because they forced her to pluck her brows pencil thin, 'for the look'.
"And he goes; 'Tom my boy! Would you mind helping me demonstrate?'", Walburga is nearly cackling, stumbling over her words as her Rococo hairstyle threatens to come apart from all the movement. "Thomas clearly wanted to kill him, but he acquiesced and Slughorn looked ready to bust."
"Oh, Ghostie you had to be there! he put his hands on Thomas' waist and tries to start dancing the waltz-"
-"but Thomas for all his ego cannot allow that, obviously, so he forces Slughorn to let him lead and puts his hands around Slughorn's waist."
Walburga meets her eyes through the mirror, a leering smirk on her face. "I don't think Sluggy minded that too terribly." Druella hums in agreement, pausing the process of tying on her sapphire-toned taffeta hoopskirt, "I think he came twice in the 5 minutes that they danced together."
"Would've been more than 5 if Thomas had let him continue, it looked like he had to pry himself away."
They had noticed that Elizabeth was once again distracted, pinching the silk slip that Walburga had loaned to her while scrutinizing herself in the mirror. The girls came up on either side of her, Drue knocking away her hand as she went to touch the adorned finger waves that the blonde had so meticulously styled for her – decorated with numerous star-shaped pins that glitter celestially from her dark hair.
She looked nice, she supposed.
"You look splendid, Elizabeth, truly," Druella intoned. "Like a goddess of dea- fuck! Drue!", Walburga was massaging her ear that had gotten pinched – Elizabeth had in fact somewhat appreciated the sentiment and made to inform them when the girl had opened her mouth again.
Goddess is an upgrade from harbinger, certainly.
"Darling Thomas wouldn't be able to keep his hands off you," Walburga teased while Drue had nodded her head sagely, both of them meeting her eyes expectantly through the mirror.
"I loathe you both, did you know that?"
"You adore us."
"Sure don't." She turns away from the human wall that they had made, the slip dress swishing around her ankles and feeling more precious than any fabric that had ever touched her skin before. "Please tell me you aren't going to wear those all night, your feet will bleed," Druella chides. "Waltz is not enough to make them bleed", Elizabeth scoffs, "besides, I'm not wearing your shoes, there's a limit – and feet fungus exists."
"In the Muggle world, maybe," Walburga huffs, wrestling herself into a fuchsia-colored satin robe à la française – having waved off their help.
"I'm wearing the bloody shoes, there's no discussion here," Elizabeth plops herself down on the plush veridian bedding of Druella's bed to lace up her pointe shoes – grateful that out of all things to change in the ritual, her foot size wasn't one.
Walburga and Druella exchange looks at her stubbornness, mumbling about Riddle – a conversation whose connotations she'd rather ignore for as long as this world allows her to.
She laces up the lace-trimmed bodice of Druella's ballgown and Walburga helps her shrug on the delicate Poiret coat – that is apparently not lingerie but outerwear – before they all take turns ensuring that the other is a indeed a vision capable of ensnaring some poor sod to give away all of his family's coffers.
"You forgot something Ghostie," Walburga tuts and Elizabeth feels herself take physical damage.
"Sure didn't."
Please don't. Please don't. Please don't.
"You think my cousin-" –"or my brother-" –"quiet, I'm monologuing – you think my cousin hadn't told me about your gift from Thomas?"
Fuck.
"What gift?"
Druella rolls her eyes and retrieves her wand – within a fraction of a second, there's a familiar beige satin jewelry box in her hands. "This one," she looks down at the box, contemplative, "I'll tell these imbeciles to ward it against summoning spells, can't believe they haven't thought to do so themselves."
The blonde hands the box to Walburga, stalking off to grumble about idiot boys while putting on her heels – the Dame Black looks worried for her friend's sanity for a moment, before turning back to her, giddy.
"I don't need it," Elizabeth's backing away and Walburga is matching her steps two-to-one , "he'd survive if I go without it." Walburga wiggles the proverbial diamond studded noose in her face like one would a dog's leash, smiling. "But we won't, so," she shoves the collar in her face-
-"on it goes."
⋆
A/n.
Next chapter : the ball!