⋆𝐃𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠⋆ - 𝐓.𝐌.𝐑

𝟎𝟎𝟑 - 𝐀𝐧 𝐎𝐝𝐞

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Gingerly, she took out the napkin-wrapped tart, unwrapping it and setting it down on a decorative plate that seemed to fit its size perfectly. She then registered the dagger that always appeared whenever she used the room for rituals, a pretty thing she longed to be able to take out of the room without it vanishing in her grip. She picked it up and started the arduous task of etching each candle with the befitting name, going slow to make sure the etching was clean as it was deemed respectful of the dead.

Enid Rigby.

Flashes of a smiley Hufflepuff with bouncy curls, always surrounded by friends.

Benjamin Miller.

Stocky Gryffindor, wanted to become a chaser and was a fan of the HolyHead Harpies – always defending them against sexist fucks.

Jacque-

Her hand nearly stuttered, flashes of afternoons under Madame Goodacre's watchful eye, a green tie and an assessing glint.

-lin Balfour.

Glinda Brocklehurst.

Another Slytherin, she liked divination and had some of The Sight – not enough, though – she liked reading tea leaves.

Mathias Calloway.

Arthur MacDougal.

Intertwined – soulmates? – two Gryffindors who would die for each other, children.

Agatha Harkness.

A formidable witch already, flashes of purple, a Ravenclaw who liked Defense. Perhaps a future sorceress, another child – nonetheless.

She finished the engraving process, trying to ignore the way she shouldn't have known some of those factoids. There were little candle holders before her, having appeared while she was entranced. The candles alighted the second she placed them in their holders and she sat back on her haunches to take in the heavy feeling of magic in the room – like Hogwarts itself was grieving alongside her.

Her heart particularly ached for the two soulmates, gone before they could realise their bond – would it have been platonic? Romantic? They'll never know now – soul magic was an unfathomably complicated branch. Simply thinking of it made her mind itch.

Pulling out and unshrinking the burlap sack she had retrieved from her room, Elizabeth took off her shoes and started the process of pulling on her pointe shoes. She continued by removing and folding her outer layers until she was confident she would be able to dance comfortably. What followed was nearly an hour of stretches to get her stiff body to cooperate – she had to occlude in order to be able to push past the pain in her ligaments but she got there.

A flourish of her wand towards the gramophone in the corner flooded the room with the heavenly sounds of Tchaikovsky's Swan Lake Suite, which swept her up almost instantaneously – it felt familiar the first time she'd heard it, which made her fall in love with it.

She was an orphan, they tended to grasp at anything that resonated with them.

 Her innate connection to that particular ballet was only rivaled by her innate tendency towards death – the tale of The Raven and The Swan was perhaps cautionary for a reason, warning of Irreconcilable natures, but she chose to ignore that.

The intense emotions that the ballet brought forth were channeled towards mourning the fallen, building continuously higher and higher. She didn't notice the signs of rapture, the mirrors clattering against their setting in an invisible maelstrom, the gramophone shorting out and skipping entire segments of the symphony.

There was only the pulse in her ears, the sound of her pointe shoes thumping against wood. Her cumbersome body was screaming out its protest but occlumency shields narrowed her world down to a needle point which allowed her to exert further control over her muscles. She forced her movements to be dainty, elegant and effortless – regardless of everything else around her and within her.

It didn't last forever though – every memorial comes to an end at some point. Besides, they had been in the earth for weeks already, they didn't need a herald – only an observer, a role that she filled out like it was a duty doled to her.

So, like a roiling wave crushing against the rocky shore, the candles went out and Elizabeth found herself on kneeling once more. She was only just spared from a shower of glass shards – the mirrors must have been shattered at some point – and her throat ached from screeching with rage not solely her own.

A Tempus had shown her that nearly four hours had passed since she first entered.

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Elizabeth was in the library, catching up on the "Potioneer's Parlay" editions that came up during the summer – she didn't have the money for a membership nor the bollocks required to have something owl ordered to St. Joan's – while hiding out in the Goblin Wars segment of the History of Magic section. No one visited that part of the library, not even Madame Inkwell – the mild mannered librarian herself – which was likely due to Binns' spectacularly thorough job of making the subject unendurable for generations of alumni.

She swore to overcome her distaste for exorcisms, just for him.

It was a bit after lunch, which she consumed almost animalistically to make up for the energy expanded on the practice/ritual. Sun pilfered through a window that was far away enough from her position to serve as mood lighting rather than blind her. Everything together had made for a calm, disarming environment and she had foolishly lowered her guard – it proved to be an error of judgement on her part.

She had gotten hung up on a recipe for a skin-barrier repairing poultice in the journal's annoyingly limited cosmetic column – no wonder, considering the fact most of the wizarding world was conventionally attractive for some inexplicable reason. She didn't notice Mulciber – an exception to that rule – until he was looming over her with his audible breaths in her ear and his stench in her nostrils.

 Weren't purebloods supposed to take good care of themselves? 

"You've somehow managed to upset my Lord, lass" – Riddle, she assumed – "I'm sure he'd appreciate if I taught you a lesson, hm?". Her mind betrayed her for a second as she blearily tried to place who she'd managed to offend so terribly by the second day of school.

He was at breakfast with Riddle, he had noticed. And acted.

"So, you came here on your own?", it was as innocent as her squeaky voice could go – but it seemed to work. "My Lord will reward my initiative, girl, you should worry about yourself", he gritted out, nearly spitting in her face at the implied slight against his honor.

"Maybe I should-", her eyes were wide as she grinned with malice, -"but certainly not because of you". Elizabeth kept eye contact with him, which is what determined his destiny in the end. She watched gleefully as his expression transformed from outraged to squeamish and his skin gained a pallor rivaling her own.

It seemed the Warren Virus had struck Hogwarts early this year. 

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A/n. Myrtle's such a girlboss I love her, anywhore tomorrow there will be no chapter because it's my birthday but have this one <3