⋆𝐃𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠⋆ - 𝐓.𝐌.𝐑

𝟎𝟏𝟕 - 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐕𝐞𝐢𝐥 𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐬

⋆

𝗢𝗰𝘁𝗼𝗯𝗲𝗿 𝟯𝟭, 𝟭𝟵𝟰𝟰

Quiet. Peaceful, blissful, haunting silence.

She was lying in her bed, the curtains of it yet drawn despite the dormitory - and most of the castle - being entirely uninhabited in the moment. Her eyes roved over the dark oak canopy top, tracing the corners from which blue velvet cascaded like waterfalls until she caught a flash of flimsy silver.

These were runes, dozens of them. Painstakingly carved into the wood during sleepless nights; silencing spells, locking charms, retaliatory hexes - the entire medley, immortalized with a material imprint. The grooves have since filled up with cobwebs and dust, making them shine pearlescent when the light from the leaded window behind her headboard fingered them.

Straining her ears, the loudest sound she could pick up was the wind whistling outside - it made her frown.

Silence unnerved her. Elizabeth made an art out of keeping herself constantly overstimulated, racking up hobbies and ventures in an attempt to make her biography longer than a shopping receipt and keep her brain on a seperate plane from her ill-fitting body.

She knew her life thread was a frayed and rapidly unraveling piece of twine, could almost hear the hollowed echo of cutting shears and ancient laughter with every stuttering pulse of her heart - goading the pathetic, overworked muscle as it did its best.

The fates were cruelly just mistresses.

And she found a detached sense of joy in aiding them. On most days.

She breathed deeply, benevolently letting oxygen into her blood, before sitting up in bed and pushing off her covers. Her vision blackened for a few seconds and she felt faint, stars twinkled before her eyes until her brain managed to catch up and allow her to actully see.

But today wasn't like most days, Samhain ensured that the frigid air was saturated with enough underworldly energy that her premature elegies paled in comparison. For once, Elizabeth decided to forgo running towards an early grave in favor of walking at a leisurely pace - she's headed there either way.

Might as well add a swing to her hips.

⋆

She allowed herself to indulge in a slow morning, relishing in the fact that she was rid of her harpy roommates until overmorrow. She made the journey to the dorm's showers in just her cotton slip, swinging back and forth the toiletry basket and twirling on her tiptoes to the clinking of the various tincture bottles inside.

After a lengthy shower, she stood before one of the vanities in the roman-style bathroom, tightly gripping the sides of the sink to keep herself from prodding at her face as she scrutinized it. Elizabeth felt like Frankenstein's monster at times - her appearance seemed to be a puzzle of ill-fitting pieces, forcefully stitched together.

A nose that wasn't quite right in size, eyes set too widely apart, mismatched lips - not to mention the prominent discoloration of her skin. The splotchy patches could've been pretty - perhaps even haute couture - on anyone else; like Lawrence Shacklebot, who had vitiligo and was already modeling for various Wix designers before he even started Hogwarts.

But rigor mortis green didn't make for a nice undertone.

Pacing around her barren dorm in a state of partial undress, stocking clad feet padded the plush blue carpet as she hummed to herself while tightly Dutch braiding her hair.

A particularly shrill hum left her throat and pierced the subdued atmosphere, causing her to wince, tugging at her hair on accident which pulled out quite a few locks. Breathing out slowly, she stared up at the vaulted ceiling and asked deities she didn't believe in to give her strength.