⋆𝐃𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠⋆ - 𝐓.𝐌.𝐑

𝟎𝟑𝟎 - 𝐆𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐬 𝐂𝐚𝐬𝐤𝐞𝐭𝐬

⋆

𝗝𝗮𝗻𝘂𝗮𝗿𝘆 𝟮𝟬, 𝟭𝟵𝟰𝟱

It's always her fucking hair, isn't it?

Elizabeth truly just wishes to unwind; she carries out her regular morning routine – waking up early for ballet training and then proceeding with a post-workout shower. Her choice of Giselle leaves her muscles thrumming with a pleasant burn that is so foreign to her – rather than the all-encompassing fatigue that would usually follow – and she even finds herself humming the melody from 'Dance of The Willis' as she reaches the dorm showers, toting her bath caddy.

She would prefer to be heading down to the Prefects' bath, however she is sweaty and bleary-eyed and simply wants solitude – an oxymoron in communal baths.

Elizabeth gently washes herself whilst lamenting the aristocratic hell that she'd been condemned to; suddenly, she's the Slytherins' lady and that requires effort. More effort than she had already been willing to expand with the numerous directions she's stretching herself in.

The smell of sweet, heavy molasses from her shower products – all creations of Elizabethan elixirs, of course – permeates the steamy air of the showers as she towels off in her preferred stall.

She's surprised at how good her products are, now that they actually somewhat work on her.

The stall aforementioned is the last one in the row of the white-tile, brass fixtured bathroom, as it is adjacent to the wall of the castle and the leaded window embedded in said wall, so she has a view of the grounds while showering.

Once done, her towel is swiftly transfigured back into a worn cotton robe so she could redress and exit. Walking up to the sink, her thumb and pointer finger come up to rub at her radix as a low sound of pure grogginess leaves her.

It is by sheer luck that she catches sight of herself in the mirror before exiting the showers.

Pink.

Her hair, her lovely locks. Again.

Pastel pink tickles at her jaw, it twists riotously around her mirrored face like if Medusa was Aphrodite's priestess instead, it is in the trickle of water running down the walls of her stall – sourcing at the showerhead and traveling down to the drain on the floor.

It is her own creation.

Margot Droope (color specified : pink)

Do they think her Samson, she wonders, that she might be bent by the torment to her hair?

Is Tom, Delilah, then? Because that is not a romance that ends well.

Elizabeth shakes her head clear of the though, the pink menace dogging her movements in mockery. Laughably, though Droope is surely unaware of the fact, every good potioneer creates an antidote to their work.

And she's the best Hogwarts' black market has to offer.

Retreating back into her mind, Elizabeth occludes momentarily, possessed grip on the sink going slack. It is a matter of A. bottling the remainder of the hysterics – to be added at a later occasion to the ocean of psychic damage that makes up her defenses; and B. rifling through the mental recollection of her potions until she finds the particular reversal spell.

It is a spell, rather than an antidote in potion form, because when the label claims no liquid can remove her hair dyes – it is fucking meant.

Fingers draw the movement in the air, and she taps into her sixth sense to follow along as the spell is cast – the chartreuse thread that cuts through Hogwarts' general ambient magic, assures her that she is correct.