Notes: Written for the 12 Days of Christmas Style challenge. House: Ravenclaw.
Warning: self-harm.
"What a lovely young lady you are, Miss Patil," her professor exclaims in warm-hearted, if slightly squeaky, appreciation, and Padma has to bite her lip to keep from bursting into tears. Her eyes still shine with the threat of them, and she ducks her head, hoping that Professor Flitwick will take this as demureness, and not what it really is. She knows Weasley is waiting for her, but the last thing on her mind is the Yule Ball.
"Padma? Are you all right?" Mandy hisses behind her and she nods, almost frantically, swallowing hard.
"I just-I'll be right back," she stammers, blundering out of the press of students, her dress robes swishing around her ankles. Thankfully, the girls' lavatory is in the next corridor and she manages to stumble through the door with only a slight wince.
"I can't do this," she whispers to her reflection, suddenly hating it, hating every bit of it. She flicks her wand at it, angrily, and feels a vicious sense of satisfaction as the mirror shatters into a million pieces, clattering into the sink below. The noise is louder than she expects, and she hastily mutters "Reparo" at it, eyeing the door anxiously until she's satisfied the party-goers haven't noticed anything.
She doesn't know what's wrong with her, but everything is. She doesn't feel like a girl, but she doesn't feel like a boy, either. What kind of freak must that make her? Padma ducks into the last stall in the row, her favourite, the one with marks scuffed into the tiles from how often she's perched on the seat, her robes up around her middle as her hand grasps her wand. Until blood flowers in the water below, and she can feel at least marginally content once more.
She's tried to tell Parvati, but Parvati doesn't understand. How can she? Parvati is the favoured one. The girly girl one. With expertly applied makeup, too much jewelry, and the fanciest robes. Who can gossip with Lavender until she's blue in the face. Who treasures compliments like "lovely" and "beautiful" and doesn't feel like hexing the person who's said them.
Then there's Padma, outcast as usual. It's too much-as usual-and she hikes her dress robes up and pulls her knickers down, letting them hang loosely off one foot. No one's getting in them tonight anyway, so it's not like anyone will know. No one can know. They would call her even more of a freak. She knows Morag suspects, but Morag doesn't say anything, because Morag understands being outcast, too.
"Lacero," Padma whispers, watching the line of red spread across her pubic mound. It stings so badly, her eyes water, and yet she continues, doing it two more times until her groin is afire with pain and the water in the toilet bowl swirls red. Several handfuls of toilet paper later, and she is ready, rearranging her robes and putting on her best party smile, ignoring the cuts throbbing between her legs and the shadows that lurk in her eyes.
It's time for the ball, and she will put her best foot forward, and act the properly brought-up witch, and no one will ever know how much that kills her inside.