The Wild Side

11. The Winter Ball Part One: Bathrooms are Holy places.

7.02pm

It is a matter of opinion, I think, to be able to enjoy something where dancing is compulsory and dresses are the socially correct attire, preferably worn with high heels. How can someone expect dancing and high heels? These two abnormalities aren’t factors that add up. I mean who can dance in high heels?

“High Heels are stupid.” I told the empty bathroom, as I tried in vain to pull on a pair of black heeled boots onto my feet.

They didn’t fit, the stupid boots. They are about a size to small and pinch my toes when I walk. They were also made of a weird leather-but-not-quite-leather material and only reached my ankles, which left about nine inches of skin visible to the human eye. I felt supremely uncomfortable. I mean boots. Boots that were not Doc Martins, which would be the preferred choice of shoe.  But apparently, according to Sequin and Audrey, ‘Doc Martins are not the correct attire for the Winter Ball, you uncultured swine.’

I unzipped the cold metal at the side of each boot and stretched my blistered toes, which were already turning a faint pink colour. I sat down on the closed toilet seat that creaked slightly under my weight. Out of all of Hogwarts the only people free bathroom was the creepy one on the seventh floor. Which was just brilliant.

It didn’t help that there was a rumour going around that if you so much as peed in one of the toilets a slightly perverted ghost would emerge from the toilet bowl and bite you bottom off. I was of the opinion that these toilets held horrific germs which was the real and practical reason why these toilets remained in disuse.

Bar me, who was desperately trying to prepare for the Winter Ball away from the screaming girls and horny boys.

Cursing, I pulled on a pair of pre-ripped stockings (I could have just ripped them myself but Maxi said that was too uncouth) and slipped on the black dress that Sequin had brought me. Then the devil shoes came on. I ran a hand through my hair in a futile attempt to style it. I was nearly pulling the handle on the stale to open it when I heard a voice.

“Damn social conventions, damn gay stereotypes and damn Blaize Zambini!”

I turned an ear to the door, recognizing the smooth and arrogant voice. I heard a squeak and then the running of water, accompanied with more mutters and cursing.  I knew that voice. Damn it, where have I heard it?

Cautiously, I squeaked the door open, desperately hoping that the familiarity of the voice wasn’t from some rouge Slytherin that I had offended and now, as a result, they wanted to bash my face in. With a small line of visibility, I could see the back of someone’s head. Normally, I could not have discovered the identity of someone via the back of someone’s head, but this was no ordinary back of head.

There was shining black waves that reached a pair of broad shoulders, hair that had been meticulously groomed and gelled into perfection. That was the hair of Harlequin Black. But why was he in here, the supposedly haunted bathroom?

“And what gay stereotypes would you be referring to, Mr Black?” I called to him as I opened the rickety stall’s door all the way.

Harlequin turned around, a white dress shirt slightly damp at the shoulders from the water dripping from his hair. The fact that he was wearing something other than a Hogwarts uniform or a baggy tee wasn’t the thing that made my stomach turn, it was the fact that Harlequin’s eyes, that were normally a mischievous blue, were dull and defeated and not at all like Harlequin Black.

“Nice leather.” He said without its usual teasing quirk. It was in monotone and missing the arrogant smirk that usually came hand in hand with conversing with Harlequin Black.