Disclaimer: You know the drill. Don't own, don't sue, don't ask, don't tell.
Note to readers: There's plot. Honestly. ...But besides that, this is for my lovely ship (though it is more like a toilet nestled in a floating tire), U.S.S. U-Bend, or more commonly known as Harry/Myrtle. :-P We've got to have some fun with this stuff. Don't worry, it's not an actual ship of this fic, just a little fun with the ball (which was a big mistake having in this fic in the first place, I admit it wholeheartedly, but I'm trying to work with what I've started, here). I was agonizing one day on whom Harry should go to the ball with, and my dear mother suggested, "How about Myrtle?" It's been one of my favorite ships ever since. ...And we must vent the teenage hormones, you know.
Chapter 16: Filial Obligation
"Evil when we are in its power is not felt as evil but as a necessity, or even a duty."
- Simone Weil (1909 - 1943), Gravity and Grace, 1947
Gryffindor Tower was awakened Christmas morning by the sound of a scream.
"Oh my god, Parvati! My skin's gotten all spotty!"
Presents were, for the most part, ignored as the inhabitants of the Gryffindor fifth-year girls' dorm worked to calm Lavender, who was having a fit of hysterics before a mirror. The day of the Yule Ball, and Lavender had been inflicted by a random bout of blemish-inducing teenage hormones. Parvati managed to keep her head as her best friend neared tears. "It's all right, Lav, it's only one spot, and the ball's hours and hours away. Madam Pomfrey's sure to have some bubotuber pus that'll clear it right up. Surely with the beautifying powers of magic we have today, we can overcome one spot. Hermione, would you pop down to the Hospital Wing?"
"I can't," said Hermione. "Sorry, Lavender, but I've got to get ready for the ball as much as you two."
This promptly distracted Parvati. "Ooh, Hermione, who are you going with—?" she began, but was interrupted by Lavender, "What about my spottiness?!"
"I'll go and get the bubotuber pus for you, Lavender!" Rouge offered (loudly, so she could be heard over the ruckus), taking herself away from looking through the presents at the foot of her bed. There was a package from her mother with a letter attached. She took the letter and headed out of the dormitory as Parvati still attempted to wheedle information from Hermione. For once, the bushy-haired bookworm was reluctant to give a fact.
Chère ma chérie, the letter began, and Rouge read on as she descended those spiral stairs. 'Dear my darling'. Reading the letter over and over, she found herself shocked by the letter. But what about it? It's... casualness, maybe? Her mother wrote of flowers at home, how some of the new breeds were coming along. Wrote of how she hoped the seeds Rouge had asked for had come in time. Were they to be Christmas presents? For someone special?
The letter was no different than any of the letters Rouge's mother had sent her while at Beauxbatons. The letter said nothing of Rouge being in England at all, of Hogwarts... or even of her father. But, as Rouge supposed, what could her mother possibly say about all that had happened...?
...But, at the end of the letter, there was a sudden and unexplained apology. And throughout the letter, she'd said how much, over and over "je t'aime."
'I love you.'
"Oy! Harry! Wake up!"
Harry was awakened unceremoniously by a pillow being flung at him, with the only explanation from his pillow-wielding best friend being, "Presents!"
There indeed were presents. Baked goods and a sweater from Mrs. Weasley. Sweets from Ron. A book from Hermione (she'd given a book to Ron as well, and he frowned at it—"Honestly... books were never meant to be given as presents..."). There were some furry mittens from Hagrid; Harry decided he didn't want to know what they were made of. There was even a roll of Sellotape from the Dursleys.
"Pro'lly for your glasses," Ron observed wisely around a mouthful of cake, already digging into his Christmas treats.
"Guess they haven't noticed that I haven't had any tape on my glasses for years, now," commented Harry. "They're held together by magic nowadays."
"Much more reliable," said Ron.
There was a comforting consistency to it all. But as he took a bite of a biscuit from Mrs. Weasley, he noticed something nestled prettily in the blankets at the end of his bed—he'd thrown his Christmas sweater on top of it as he unwrapped his presents and hadn't seen it. But after having put the sweater on, knowing that it'd be cold today, there it was.
"Hey, what's this...?"
It was a rosebud, but certainly not like any he'd seen before. It was black but... a beautiful shade of black, dark, but rich and velvety. The base of the bud was yellow, as if bright flames were creeping up beneath the flower, or the sun was setting over the bud's horizon, making way for black night. And on the very tips of the bud's unopened petals was the faintest touch of deep, deep crimson. It was a beautiful flower, but... just... strange.
Ron came over to look. "Hey, I got a flower, too." He'd gotten two, actually, and held them up for inspection. One deep red, one dark pink, and tied around the red one was a laurel leaf. Each boy studied their floral gift before exchanging glances with each other. Confused, curious glances.
"Did you get a note with yours?" Ron asked. "A name? Anything? I didn't."
"No, me neither," said Harry.
Ron looked closely at his pink rose, holding it up to the light as if he expected to see a name revealed in the illumination and shine through. But he didn't, so he had some more cake.
Down in the dungeons that knew no seasons, where it was always dark, damp, and cold, it was also Christmas. Slytherins, too, were waking up to find presents at the foot of their beds, nestled in bottle green sheets.
Draco Malfoy liked Christmas. He was a materialistic person because he could afford to be, and Christmas was a holiday of commercialism, capitalism, and materialism—his favorite 'ism's. Who would ever think this was a religious holiday founded on the birth of the messiah of Christianity? Not Draco Malfoy, and he liked Christmas.
He'd received a good load of things this year. A great lot of nice things from doting family members, from his mum especially, and from school friends who thought that they could impress him.
Imagine his surprise at finding, among the pretty packages, a couple of flowers. Honestly, flowers. Well, one he could tell was a flower—this great yellow round-ish thing with all the petals—but the other one was a little more peculiar.
He could tell it was a flower of some sort, but not like a daisy, a tulip, a rose, or anything like that. It was just a fleshy... green... sheath, that's the best word he could think of, and a thin, longish... pale yellow stalk-like thing protruding out of it. Stalk? Was that even the word?
But it was sort of pretty, in an odd, exotic sort of way. He liked it, feeling as if it were something that only he could appreciate in it unusualness. But what Draco couldn't understand was why anyone would give flowers—especially one like this—as a Christmas present and without even a note...
He stuck the odd, green-and-yellow flower in a bedside drawer, but kept the many-petal, yellow one out. He knew that Pansy's dress robes were gold-trimmed. He'd give the flower to her.
Rouge didn't get the diluted bubotuber pus from Madam Pomfrey—she didn't trust that nurse at all—but instead got it straight from Professor Sprout. It was probably just because of their work in Herbology, but the professor reminded Rouge of her mother. Rouge found herself visiting Professor Sprout occasionally, after the day's classes, out in the greenhouses. She'd offer to help with standard maintenance – repotting things, watering things, and pruning things. She'd even once helped placate some Bowtruckles with offerings of wood lice while Professor Sprout collected samples from the trees that the Bowtruckles inhabited. They even captured one by luring one of the tiny tree-guardians into an empty pot that they covered with an empty dragon dung compost bag. Professor Sprout gave the Bowtruckle to Hagrid to use for a class. But that while a while ago, before the snow. Professor Sprout appreciated the help, Rouge was sure, as well as the enthusiasm of a student. Rouge appreciated the company.
"You will come back soon, won't you?" the earthy, aplomb witch asked Rouge as she headed out of the sultry greenhouse and back out into the snow with her prize of diluted bubotuber pus. "You know how hard it is to take care of some of these specimens so deep in winter alone."
Rouge promised that she would.
Lavender had calmed down for the most part by the time that Rouge had returned to the dormitory. Parvati thanked Rouge profusely for going to get the bubotuber pus, then hurried back over to the shine before the mirror that Lavender was performing her holy, martyr-like suffering. Parvati had to assist her friend before she took the whole martyr thing too seriously.
Rouge curled back in bed to open her Christmas presents. Her mother had sent her some gardening supplies, including some new seeds and detailed reports on the new breeds. She put the supplies away. But also in the package was a large box of expensive chocolate truffles. Ah, chocolate—a guilty pleasure. She ate one, just one—she had to pace herself—and offered each of the other girls a chocolate as well, and wished them a happy Christmas.
It wasn't until the others had left for the Christmas Feast at midday—Rouge opting not to go—that she dug out Wormtail's gift from where she hid it in her trunk. She eagerly tore off the meager wrapping to uncover... a knife. Or was it a dagger? She didn't know the difference. The blade itself was... four... maybe five inches long, she estimated, with a hilt covered in ornate silver carvings. She clasped the handle firmly; she could keep a good grip on it. It looked vaguely antique, but Rouge still ended up nicking her finger quite badly when she'd decided to test the sharpness of the blade.
There was a note tied to the handle with a bit of string. The handwriting was a bit unaesthetic, but Rouge could tell he'd put effort into making it neat. Dear Rouge, it read. I thought this would help you. Happy Christmas. From, Wormtail.
She tucked the note and the knife away in her trunk, after admiring the silver blade for a few moments—silver... just like Wormtail's hand... Giving great thanks for having such friends, Rouge wrapped up her bleeding finger in an old handkerchief and waited for it to stop bleeding.
The next few hours in that dorm, when the other girls had returned that afternoon, mainly consisted of the pain rituals that only girls knew, and did solely for the sake of beauty. It was part of that most basic instinct that a female had, that made girls so much more vicious—especially to each other—in ways that boys would never know. They had males to impress tonight, males to impress and win.
Rouge did not join them, though she found herself watching them occasionally, as if their preparations for the ball were a spectator sport. But by evening, and as the ball loomed nearer with every bell-toll, Rouge retreated down to the common room, tired of watching her dorm-mates fuss with their dress robes and their hair and their make-up...
Of the people coming down, dressed for the ball, of course the boys were the first, standing around nervously and awkwardly. Ron was among them. She caught his eye, waved him over, and offered him a chocolate truffle, which he took, smiling and looking a little less nervous. She could tell he'd put at least some effort into looking tidy. He'd washed his face, combed his hair, and was wearing some midnight blue dress robes that looked really quite nice on him.
"You look good," she told him appreciatively.
"They were my brother's," said Ron, as if it were some form of self-deprecation, as if the dress robes not originally being his would make him unattractive, or make her take the compliment back.
But she wouldn't. "Doesn't mean that you don't look good."
The one-half fractions of couples waited around for their dates, for their other halves. Ron sat with Rouge for a while, and he briefly entertained the thought of asking Ron who his dance partner was, but decided that it wasn't important, and left the question unasked.
"Pity about your detention and all," said Ron, though Rouge wasn't sure if he really meant it.
"Ah, well, it is Snape. What do you expect? It's his idea of holiday cheer, I suppose."
He gave her a small smile for that. "Happy Christmas, Red."
"Oh, yes, a Happy Christmas indeed, Roux."
About here, Harry'd come down from the boys' dormitories, and, with a brief goodbye, Ron abandoned Rouge for his emerald-green-clad best mate. Harry was truly tense, Ron could sense it with just a glance. They hadn't even talked about the ball since Cho's head. Ron didn't even know what Harry's dance partner situation was.
"...You know, Harry... I bet Hermione would dance with you... to open the ball, y'know... she'd do it, if you just asked her..." Ron offered feebly.
"But you asked her, didn't you?" Harry argued mildly, and Ron couldn't reply to that - his ears were too busy pinking. "Don't worry, Ron, I've got a date."
But Ron had a reply to that. "You got a date? Who?"
Harry just smiled. A sad, silly sort of smile, but it was a smile all the same.
By this point, all this ball was supposed to be to this school was a morale boost. That's all. An attempt to make everything a little nicer, a little prettier. The whole castle was made-up to be prettier... and lights, lights everywhere, glowing from within the suits of armor that were collared with wreaths, spilling out of the spaces and crevices. And even from the Entrance Hall, when they'd opened the doors at eight o'clock, Harry could see the twelve Christmas trees in the Great Hall, lights gleaming golden from the ornaments and the stars. There was a glitter even to the snow.
Couples meeting, joining hands; there was radiance to that, too.
But a ghost was waiting for Harry in the Entrance Hall. Hermione was there in her periwinkle, Ron in midnight blue, but it was translucent silver that waited for him. Silver as the frost dusted on the walls, icicles on the banisters, glistening in the candlelight, touched on the tips of every garland of ivy and holly.
And when they opened the dance, Harry led, and Myrtle glided across the floor with him
Rouge did not go down to the dungeons that night. Severus was down there, everyone thought that Rouge was down there, and if anyone asked Severus, Rouge was down there. That's what made the alibi work.
Rouge waited a long time, though not in the common room where first, second, and third years could say that they saw her waiting until that moment. She waited out in deserted corridors. She'd even stashed her cloak and gloves behind a suit of armor in a darkened alcove beforehand. Leaving the common room in her cloak and gloves might catch someone's attention; someone might remember it.
No, she left Gryffindor Tower at a quarter after eight—a time she'd prearranged with Severus. If asked, they both would answer that Rouge arrived at Severus's office at eight-thirty. Why so late? To say she'd stopped and peered into the Great Hall. Why? To watch people dance. The decorations were also quite a sight to see, too.
She'd arranged with Severus that the story was that he'd kept her in detention until just before midnight—so she wouldn't have to deal with the crowds heading back to their common rooms from the ball. She would have to be back in Gryffindor Tower shortly after midnight. That gave her some time.
It was all prearranged.
Rouge had stalked the girl—the first name on the list—these past few days, and found out that she was going to the ball. Found out who the girl's date was, too – an on-and-off boyfriend, rumor had it. She stalked him for a while, as well.
He'd been bragging to his friends. He was going to pull her away from the ball, get her alone. Tonight just might be the night, he'd said. Wink, wink. Nudge, nudge. Say no more. The friends had 'ooh'ed appreciatively. "Where 're y'gonna take 'er?" one had asked, and the boy told him.
Rouge overheard it all.
Rouge had left Gryffindor Tower at a quarter after eight, normally dressed, normally mannered. Normal. Perfectly normal. She found her darkened alcove, her suit of armor, and put on her cloak and gloves. She pulled her hood all the day down—black from head to toe. The knife was in her pocket.
If she kept to the darker parts of the corridors, stayed in the shadows, all in black the way she was, she'd never be noticed, she'd never be seen.
...Papa would be so happy with her...
She waited a long time outside the couple's meeting place, hiding in the dark. She waited a long time, but she was safe because it was all planned out. And it wasn't even her plan.
Even as Pasch led her up the stairs, only answering with that grin of his when she giddily cried out, "Paschie-ee! Where are we go-iiinnnggg...?!" Lucy DiSiracusa had no idea what he was up to. ...Well, no, she did have some idea... She'd been suspicious when he led her away from the ball, just when the dancing had really gotten going... But he wouldn't try that again; he couldn't possibly... Since third year, she'd told him 'no'. For three years, she'd told him 'no', she didn't want to, she wasn't ready. They were sixth-years now. Surely he'd take her seriously.
He'd led her up to another floor, to the door of what she knew was an empty classroom, what everyone knew was an empty classroom. "Paschie-ee," Lucy lilted again, flushed and giddy with excitement, "what are you up to...?" But Pasch only grinned at her, and led her inside.
Lucy was a pretty girl; no one could deny it. She had a sweet face, a quiet, mild, and always gentle air about her, and waves of golden blonde hair that tumbled down her shoulders. There was even something beautiful about the way her perfect, pink lips formed a little 'o' of surprise when Pasch led her inside the empty classroom.
The room was full of candles. On every flat surface, hanging from the ceiling, even a few floating in midair, there were candles, all burning, softly glowing, each flame with it little halo of light... It was beautiful...
"Oh, Paschie, did you do this?" Lucy asked, breathless with awe, but he didn't answer her. From beside her, he was moving aside her hair, leaning in close to her, kissing her neck.
"Paschie..." she whined in feeble protest, but he seemed only egged on by it, kissing her on the lips now to silence her, leading her farther into the middle of the room, he'd shut the door—...something really wasn't right about this.
"Paschie, no," Lucy tried again, trying to push Paschie away, but he wouldn't budge, though nor would she in her refusal to give in to this, even as he murmured a playful, "C'mon" and—oh, God, he was trying to touch her...
"No, Paschasius!" she yelled out, desperately, and he finally pulled away from her, but he was not forgiving.
"What is with you, Lucy?!" he yelled back at her, mean, ferocious, he spat the words out at her, disgusted. "You never want to do anything. What's your problem, anyway?"
The adrenaline that'd rushed coldly through her made her shiver, now. She could feel tears welling in the corners of her eyes, and she reached out to him. "I'm sorry, Paschasius... I just—"
But he recoiled from her, turning away from her, scoffing. "Don't touch me. ...Really, what's the point? It doesn't go anywhere..."
Pasch was leaving the classroom. Lucy was crying. "Paschie... Paschasius..." But he didn't stop. He was gone, left her alone, crying and crying until she couldn't see through the tears.
She didn't even hear it when the door opened again, didn't even know that anyone else was in the room until a gloved hand was pressed to her pretty, pink mouth. But even as she panicked, she couldn't see. She felt something cold pressed to her throat, something sharp, pressing in, it was cutting her. She couldn't scream. She couldn't see her attacker, couldn't see anything. Couldn't see—