⋆𝐃𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠⋆ - 𝐓.𝐌.𝐑

𝟎𝟐𝟑 - 𝐖𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐲 𝐘𝐮𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐢𝐝𝐞!

⋆

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.