Ruled By Secrecy PV Closed

"I am malicious because I am miserable." - Mary Shelley, Frankenstein.

@Thomas Lestrange

In an ideal world, everything had purpose. Leaves gleamed their viridescent color due to chlorophyll, the sky was a morning orange due to the rising sun. This would discount nothing, though that purpose was seldom clear, never meant to be such. Life was a sublime thing when left up to interpretation, but there was a correct answer there. Stowed beneath the bitterness, stowed beneath the sorrow, buried deeply beneath any humane emotion that acted as a driver, as a reason. Reckless, shamefully so. Those weren’t reasons, they were impulses, melodies that inspired but ended typically in three minutes. That was what lead to the dead end of absurdity, decisions, actions, and everything was to be based on a fact, built on a solid foundation that didn’t shutter under the weight of burdens. Reasons, reasons, reasons, the word was so sonorous and drowned out everything else in a river of sin and misfortune. Purpose, purpose, purpose. It echoed in a hollow presence, nothing within and nothing outside.

It taunted her, which wasn’t fair. The outdoors, the consistent ritual of an abiding trail for an early run, it was meant to bring peace. Its purpose was there, and it was thoroughly effective, the freedom of the wind combing her hair and the temperature being intensely erratic. Reminders, Persephone supposed, that the universe was the only thing without reason. Arguments based on beliefs would only be tiresome, best avoided. Still, that freeing feeling didn’t come today; in fact, the back of her legs ached and that was prominent in her thoughts, needing a break to breathe as if she was some unlucky asthmatic. More prominent, driving her to continue to run, an emotion. When the high of the song ended, that drive did not, like it was on loop. Perhaps that aspect of the music had been overlooked.

Stress. Intense, malevolent stress. It didn’t cease, it didn’t ease when the night collapsed over rigid trees and begged to come as solace, it was a relentless plague. Persephone wasn’t a fan of change; the steadiness would be regarded as pleasing if it didn’t take the breath from her lungs and crush her under an anvil. All the stars that were in her eyes had dimmed, were dying away. There was a moment when they’d brightened, a fleeting one, likely the signal of a falling star as they neared demise. Whether or not he—Thomas Lestrange, restorer of life and even better, spite—had much to do with it, well that remained to be seen. It was driven by emotion, yes, but there could be facts to further it, a purpose, a seamless and indestructible disguise.

Throwing the punishing boy from a ledge (impulsive, yes, destructive, no) was one of the better events to occur in the past few months, where each day worsened with a certain vendetta against the crybaby. That was a state, a step, a person, she would never return to, never wallow in again. The misery remained, it existed and thrived within, and it would never die as long as its source breathed down her neck in a certain kind of love that didn’t look the same. Distorted, grotesque, perhaps. She assumed it was a transfer of energy, miserable energy, from object to object, person to person, that made that moment blissful, the sky glassy and gleaming when it had seemed like an abyss of ego. To recreate it would’ve been ideal, live in a frozen instant of someone else suffering, but it couldn’t be that way; there was no purpose aside from this mistaken soul. That coldness was reflected in her gaze, even more in his. There was a void somewhere, and it would be filled, she would be human in a way that was ideal, but it would have to be for a reason.

Nearing the courtyard, a lingering blissful conclusion to a run that held no independence, the girl halted abruptly, staring ahead yet not really looking. It hadn’t been fair, but why had she expected that at all? When was life ever fair, when did the universe stop and express love to those who didn’t earn it? It followed that ridiculous idea of karma; there was no such thing as it, but there was damn sure such thing as digging your own grave. A dark and heavy weariness stood upon her, tranquilly reminding the blonde that it had been here the whole time, would never leave. Sometimes it blended in with the surplus of suppressed emotion, other times it felt distinct, those were the moments it reflected deepest across her visage. A ripple in the wind, an obstruction, a change so minute that it took someone truly silent to notice it. A piece of parchment had wound up at her feet, crumbled and grief-stricken.

Cautiously, Persephone eyed the trees, thriving and glowing almost iridescently against the breathable light of the morning. Gaze trailing down, observing any slight shift of a shrub, any flowing of grass against the northern wind, wary of each one, as though a million eyes surveyed her as she moved. The Slytherin reached down, taking it in her hand and straightening each wrinkle, making the illegible words comprehensible once more. It had been crushed in frustration, irritation, resentment, something that felt so familiar in between her fingers, almost as though it would read: why do you make these things up, princess? A shudder down her spine; those were not the words on this page. Not only were they not written by the hand of a monster, a creature of the night, but they were far more intriguing.

Thomas, it began. Is everything okay?? A sentence of worry, concern. The sender had not received a response to the previous letter, or a rather vague one. Green eyes darted back to the name scrawled across the top, then up to meet the eyes of an observant that wasn’t there. Lestrange. Perhaps, though she couldn’t be sure. Remarkable, the timing of his appearances. Back to scanning through: I was told students should’ve returned by now. No, not now. It was late in the semester, yes, an aide-mémoire that sent her blood swimming away from the veins it belonged in. Clogging and clotting and creating a certain tightness in her joints. Either the sender was disorganized, or the letter was not recent. Your uncle came to visit over the summer, it would be a shame that he traveled all this way for nothing. This was written post-summer, or at least in the chaotic midst of it—otherwise, this phrasing made no sense. Last year. With love, Mom. Mommy. Not hers, but someone’s. His name was engraved plainly at the top. She slipped the letter into her pocket.

There was no use waiting now; the information held here, disclosed here, changed things. Immensely. Persephone rushed forward, coming from the grounds to the courtyard, coming upon the exact sight expected. A pathetic showrunner, no longer the master of the world around him, if he ever were. Though the nostalgia sent her back, looking through his eyes at a crying blonde whose pieces were falling before him, it was different. He did not cry but looked so solemn that it was appalling. No, it wasn’t sadness, it was the pure lack of expression, a dead stare. Another thing she knew well but it did not ignite empathy, a sin in the book of Barret. He’d discarded that, and Persy had thrown it over a ledge.

She wouldn’t show off the letter, not flaunt the finding in his face. It would be wasteful, at least for now. The rather plain piece of parchment could be of great use in a very near, very bright future. “You’re looking rather dead inside, Lestrange. Perhaps the world will do you a favor and that will extend to the outside too.” A careful step forward, aware of the pushback and antipathy that was strained between the two, pulling at the strings, returning the favor. “Girlfriend problems?” Her voice sounded innocent, almost concerned, but a truthful mimic of the words when the tables were turned: “What, your boyfriend broke up with you over text?” Fresh in her mind, a cut that was wrapped, but actively bleeding through. That pain was familiar enough to be ignored. This wasn’t an instance of karma, that was certain; Thomas had simply dug his own grave.

Reducio

An 'aide-mémoire' is a French loanword meaning 'reminder' or 'memory-aid.'

@Thomas Lestrange

The surreal splendor of the early morning would be overlooked, gentle and trembling warmth from the sun regarded as an inconvenience rather than a virtue. Underneath its gleam and blinding glow, its uncertainty and quivering will, the universe was lively with its creatures, each singing to themselves and existing to further a descent into madness. Only in the evening, when it set beneath the horizon, painted green and every shade from red to a vibrant purple, would Persephone stare intently, appreciatively. Wondering how its beauty had gone unseen. It was comparable to the envy that intoxicated those that thrived in hindrance, missing and renewing old loves only once they were gone. Pondering over an open letter, no words to be erased and no eyes to be sewn shut. Simple phrases, concerns, all of this, greeting someone with such severe discomfort. No matter how many had been sent, they would one day cease. The sender would crumble in the heartbreak silence. It was a test, an experiment; that’s how you see how loyal a hungry dog really is. When you wake up without that guilty parchment, you begin to miss it.

Or not. Probably not. Persephone knew that she wouldn’t, if trapped in the melancholy boy’s position. Thinking back, though, she was in his position, and he in hers. Differing in aspects, from the tone of the letter that remained imprisoned in her pockets, but so similar in essence. Anyone who could read the loving words from Alexandre would torture themselves wondering why such love was forsaken, an asset denied to so many others. Lack of gratitude, a spoiled brat that simply preferred self-sufficiency. Wrong they would be, reasons rested behind each enigma of the puzzle box, and there was little justification of doubting Lestrange, here. Same question, reworded to get the right answer: what are you running from? A hand-crafted façade of dearest mom? Oh, how Persephone could trade in a mere moment if the truth were so simple. But it wasn’t; so much of the story wasn’t disclosed in the lonely letter, only living on the nutrition of his misery. That legend was within him, and nowhere else, except maybe his soulful counterpart. Pity whoever that may be, for some broken things are unmendable. He was one of them, but a certain kind.

Such hypocrisy was bittersweet, both sweet and sour in a greatly distasteful way. Persephone sprinted away from the vines of adoration, even within the flowing limbs of a family tree, as though they intended to strangle her. Regardless, the light shined upon the basic facts of the situation didn’t manipulate how it was perceived. Twist it, turn it, wrap it into itself and let it shrivel in its demise, but she still ran. What was horrifying about comfort? Solace not derived from this, watching Lestrange antagonize himself to write a damn letter back? There was no comedy, no relief, but bare relatability that brought the smallest ounce of ease. Because his eyes of crystallized water remained fixed somewhere else, he wouldn’t notice her slight smile, feeding on his apparent gloom. The overwhelming satisfaction of victory wouldn’t grow old.

Her arrival, unsettling as it may be, awoke him from that trance. Whether that was a moral thing or not remained undecided, as waking a sleepwalker was commonly regarded as dangerous, fear moving through their body like an inexorable electric wave. That, or let them wander into traffic where their body meets their mind in mush. The sword was double-edged and dripping in blood. Thomas’s movement was swift, stirring in a blur of reconstruction, each step a single image shifted through a flipbook. Page crumbled and disregarded, knuckle suspiciously close to his eye, but no sign of real life. An animated corpse, slits down his jaw to easily open and close his mouth with a pull. Even when he spoke, gaze locked on something far more interesting across the blackness, Persy wasn’t convinced of the constant beating in whatever heart he possessed.

His comment washed the shame delicately back onto Persephone, a mirror and the white beam of the sun, burning her flesh and singeing it like a bee sting. With that shame, the smallest trace of pity for a person who wasn’t her. Those tears had rinsed away the girl who once was, now leaving someone primarily exhausted with the endeavors of everyday life. The blonde shook her head slightly, almost disappointed in such a basic reply. Perhaps it wasn’t a matter of clever thought however, rather dependent on the impact. The way she bled discomposure verified his point, though he wouldn’t see it with his back turned to the villain of his dreams. A mistake made twice. You can do better. “Oh, notes, yeah that make sense for you. Is that what you just put in your pocket then, your notes?”

Even when Thomas spoke with a single ounce of wit, he still felt so easy to beat. Putting him in his place, that was all it was, but he would be dragged out yet again for the thrill of the chase, of completion. Persy’s tone remained condescending, teasing, so cruel and light-hearted like a melody of murder. Attempt two, wrapped in velveteen pomposity and mysteries, didn’t quite meet the Slytherin at its entrance. His exact implication of the slice wasn’t obvious, even with those frozen eyes flickering to the Forbidden Forest. For a brief moment, their eyes met before his trailed away, her own glancing up, wishing for rain to fall and drench the two. In situations like this, there was a golden rule of all humanity: if it sounds like an insult, it probably is one. The silver rule pursued closely: don’t let a good insult slide by unchallenged.

“Need your eyes checked? Or is that just the blurry vision?” Bluffing. She rolled her eyes with this, barely acknowledging him, as though fighting an internal battle rather than this one. Without thinking, the blonde’s left and dominant hand ran over her hair, very fleetingly pondering his remark. It wasn’t relevant; no jab at her appearance could be taken seriously from someone who resembled a tiki totem. Hyperbolically, of course, but irritation wouldn’t permit her to even think anything that could be interpreted as remotely kind, let alone generous in that way. There was always the possibility of someone hearing.

Credit where credit was due, Thomas seemed to have comprehended the complexity of her own jab at him. A mockery of one of his own, tables turned upon themselves and rolled inside out, a smirk pulled at his lips. Acting along was a viable option, but it was likely more beneficial to clear the air of that theory. Without further questioning, may she add, because today was about playing mind games with him. It couldn’t be reversed anymore. Subtly, she slipped her hand back into her pocket, fingers grazing both the abandoned letter and the small box it accompanied. What better time than now?

“I’m not so experienced, but that does sound like something the broken-hearted do. Seems like you're ahead of the curb though.” The boy showed no trace of tears, no fractured sobs, or remnants of a river along his cheek, but it wasn’t the intention to be truthful, just impactful. That game he played, adapted to suit two. His sorrow wouldn’t melt away in the heat, but maybe tears would turn to steam and she could be the one laughing once again.

@Thomas Lestrange

There was something distinct about how he carried himself, so recklessly as if no damage could be done. All that could hurt his metallic skin had committed their crime and left with the sweet sorrow of departure, leaving him to dawdle in the marks that were made, luxuriate in their depth and darkness with a visage of stone. A statue with an icy heart implanted within, reflecting in frozen eyes, the prize if each layer was scratched away with the finest diamond. Dig for hours, then do it more until you find the victim buried beneath earthly soil, a child, something brought to life by words written in soul and not in ink. The soaring sun reflected on the metal, radiating to Persephone and then everywhere else, blinding. But a human had to wear that armor, model for the statue, and it all melted and cracked with the right motivation. A reason to give up the enemy within they had all grown to loathe.

Thomas would take no wounds with her words unless they were to prod at the work of another, of a beloved, of a mother. Surgical, clean, and most of all, burning. It couldn’t be replicated by inexperienced hands that trembled at the thought of a role reversal as though it was a truthful change. Persephone had found the love that was left behind rolled underneath the furniture, whirlpooling in a bottle until it was smashed and discarded. There was none left now, it seethed until it was steam far away. Part of her, the part not plotting his natural death nor the part swimming in her own sea of despondency, wondered where he’d found his. Perhaps in the letter her fingers grazed now, scattered in the tree-line under the bruised sky, or maybe he simply hadn’t found it yet. Better, perhaps there was none to be found.

Make no mistake, no empathy fluttered behind these thoughts, no dash of understanding or flicker of compassion, nothing but a bare stare that exhibited only limitless exhaustion. A sleep that lingered, stretching for miles across deserts of forsaken dreams, yet the girl remained awake, lively even with each moment she could exert in retribution. Valleys under her eyes, dead and gone, but the heart would beat again with every spiteful phrase, true or untrue but leaving an impact, an eternal impression of existence. A reminder that she was here, that someone had known. If that was the goal, then playing dirty was the game. Relatability didn’t supersede this inherited adoration for vengeance, the thread of vehemence that tied her to proper life, one opposite of him, fighting a needless battle. Even if it didn’t change things, radiate necessity, it did enliven fantasied harmony. To believe in something eventually brought it to life.

When his voice graced the air between them again, disrupting the peace of sunrise and breaking the tension of turned tables, it was expectedly belittling. Happily, which was most puzzling, eyebrows arched but attitude empty. How blithe the boy was, almost toward himself, nearly rivaled her own capability. There were a million adjectives that could sing his melody flawlessly, and all would be correct, and therefore wrong. A word Persy didn’t know, a description she couldn’t grasp, just out of reach no matter how many circles you turned. Call it heads, call it tails, but miss the third option. The Slytherin girl couldn’t suppress a turning frown at his act, benignly impressed with so much artificial expression that it rose above them both. They would drown here in waters they created, contribution couldn’t be denied and hidden from the plain sight it stood in.

But, the universe and its balance be damned, Thomas was maddening. It wasn’t that he knew what to say, because Persephone suspected that his meticulous barbs were little more than whatever came to mind, but rather just that; he didn’t know what to say, and still managed to say it. “You’re following your notes quite well, I congratulate the good execution.” The sour mien that had gradually fallen over her disappeared much faster than it came, diminishing itself abruptly and leaving nothing in its place. Although, expression didn’t matter when you could hear the innocence in her voice, merely taunting. Playing the game, as he asked. “But I don’t know who you took those on. Doesn’t sound anything like me.” And there it was, the believing in something until it felt real, until it was real.

Though, Persephone was everything but blissful, and deep down, his words had torn at something. Brought about futile self-doubt, questioning, wondering if their perception was as valid as her own, a girl composed of arrogance. It only took a moment for these doubts to fade into the background, merge with the colorless world seamlessly, and her face would never show it. But, it had happened. That was fact. Murderous though, he seemed to be one to talk.

That perception, as biased and restricted as it was, could only be furthered when Thomas jumped from his stone seat with a rapidity that could frighten someone not so frozen on the rink. Opposed to instinctively backing away, an ingrained habit that had been promptly exhibited times before, a needful thing, Persy could only stare. Little time was spared to move, to leave, to punch him in the stomach as soon as he was within range, since in a blink, there he stood. Looking down at her, like vermin. As dearly as she wished to credit it to some psychological analysis of exceeding superiority, it was more likely because the boy had to be at least six inches taller than her.

After a brief moment, her neck would probably ache from glancing up that much, of course less intensely than when encountering that part-giant. And he got bitten, so truthfully, Thomas was due to tread carefully. Not to mention the absolute discomfort from being in a vulnerable proximity. It was worth meeting his iced eyes though, cold as his heart and soul, telling him he was powerless. Intimidation was another force Persy would not bow to, only because if she did, that was invaluable ammo. There were many facades to wear when in his presence, and not one granted the gift of weakness. Instead, she’d goad him. A true talent, to push people past their limits. His needed to be found. She quirked an eyebrow and masked unease with her most cruelly playful voice. “Oh, do I? Sorry, I didn’t realize.”

Not today. Fine, then when? Whenever the blonde’s guard sank to its knees and invited attackers with open arms? That day wasn’t to come, as that guard, that wall, that protectant, was all she had. The core of life, iron and overheated. Not only between her and Thomas, taking his thoughtful steps backward, but between her and everyone. Enemies, allies, acquaintances, family. Each one would deal with the wall, the one that would never break, never end, that would stretch for miles until it was ready to snap. Of course, it wouldn’t, though. To wait for that was to wait for death. Except perhaps, the rat that had found a way beneath.

“The extent of your vocabulary is noted.” Persephone whispered, almost to herself with no real complaint. It was a mere insult, with no depth but infinite shallow water crashing over rocks delicately, as not to shatter. She had little room to comment, but would take whatever opportunity made itself so conspicuous. The bronze rule. “I disagree, though. I think….” Cautious to hold the items firmly, keep them with her. “I think I have something that you might want.” Though he was away, locked in a cage of merciless thought, the girl still eyed him as she took a wary step forward, maintaining a good distance between them. It would stay that way, for now. Slowly, she pulled her left hand from the pocket it stowed away in, bringing with it both the dear sweet letter and a small, locked box.

@Thomas Lestrange

It didn’t matter which mask he bore, who he imitated or reflected on the silvery surface of that immortal armor, Persephone fully expected Thomas to be consumed back into his old habits by the following daybreak. He wasn’t really there, leaning against the stone wall and holding his universe together, content with the way the waves lapsed and the sun ascended, dyeing the sky all the shades of breakability. A trick of the light, a delusion of an unreliable glare, an array of deception. Night would fall and suppress him under its pool, and when the blonde’s eyes next opened, there would be nothing but an empty space, fluttering parchment, a new relic in the sea. Upon that next cursed encounter, those words wouldn’t come with a choke, that curiosity wouldn’t float through the bricks that drowned it, there would be nothing but that hunger for spite and rationality. And it wasn’t Persephone’s she spoke of.

Staring out at the world and its coldness, frosty-blue eyes only occasionally flickering back to the looming threat, the boy didn’t disappear with a blinking glare from contrasting emeralds. Whoever he was today, low on oxygen in that victimized grave, that was who Persephone intended to deal with. Perhaps from façade to façade his memories failed, lost in the old films composed of grey until the wear and tear spiked them. It would be a new meeting with a fresh battle, the only remnant of their time together being boiling blood that freed his eyes and soul, once encased in ice. It was that which began the search for loathing, something found no matter where he looked, in violet rays of sunshine, hell boys, even allies of war. Those he liked, wielding their blazing scythe from under a midnight-colored cloak, they were to breed paranoia with every right to do so. To take it a step further, Persy’s head tilting in a hushed interrogation, his contradictions were so immense, maybe love and hate didn’t have such a fine line.

As acidic as the hypocrisy was, Thomas had a rather clear infatuation for the theatrics in abhorrence or the opposite, as both were carved in the exaggeration of his movements. No remorse was apparent in that tone, there was no such thing as a change of heart; the young Slytherin would even go as far to say that amusement fell over him before waning faster than it thrived. A single beat between them and he’d become apathetic again, a slight scratch in his disguise, humanity crawling through for the air it was so unfairly deprived. Persephone blinked one time. It was gone. She wouldn’t question its existence now, but knew it would come later on, when it was only her and the ceiling.

“Only because you ask so politely.” A direct response to his request for the crybaby to withhold her tears, oh how difficult that would be. Feeding into his ego, the idea that an antagonistic child could mold oceans with nothing but a few cruel words against the equivalent of a brick wall. Adding to his theatrics in the manner of their game, of which Persephone was surely winning given the way he practically moved with the will of the water, she pretended to wipe a tear. It was understandable, to the platinum-blonde girl’s great dismay, how the conclusion of ‘crybaby’ came to be. A single letter, words strung together by the thread of that one abandoned sweater, bringing a god to their knees; and how insincere it was, when that one color in her eyes viewed her the same way.

Funny, the way she loathed hypocrisy as its biggest contributor. Oh, how paradoxical it is to be what you see is wrong with the world, and do it with that passive mien and stitched lips.

It was worth that sweet second of victory, that rush of meeting eyes and astonished parted lips, all possibly interpreted wrong. But that wrong interpretation was worth it, the endurance of these last few moments, the torture in the Owlery and dreaded ball, it came to a stage-lights-out, curtain-closed, beautiful conclusion. Thomas wouldn’t let that loiter, that sense of a sublime ending to scarce months of exhilarating hatred. Dragging it on with his words, his taunts, embroidering her to the grass she stood on. All the same, the game wasn’t over until it was really over.

His question, laced with the drug of genuine interest, disrupted her newfound ease. It didn’t matter to him how efficiently she resolved herself and all that formed her, including those letters back and forth, that receive, don’t read, discard ritual which had hardened itself into law after that god-forsaken afternoon. But the answer was yes; Persephone had written him back with ink of exclusive blood, the very same ink used for the loving letter still clutched in her left hand. That which awoke souls and disturbed slumbers that were never soothing, hardly restful. Regardless, it was her turn to part her lips, stare into his eyes in nothing but confusion. There was a tint of black, fear’s humble color. She regretted it.

“Yeah, I did.” What does it matter? The dark-haired witness knew nothing of who this him was, nothing of what made him resemble that part of the ocean undiscovered, the part in which no one dares to tread. Placing both items in her right hand, she retrieved a silver key from her left pocket, using it to unlock the box while keeping it firmly shut. His letter found its way back to her pocket in place of the key; Thomas acknowledged it no further than his initial gaping. The ammo would stay with her. “Take it,” the girl said, suddenly tossing the small box to him with no prior warning. He’d get it if he deemed it worth the effort.

For a moment, he was lost in something else. A memory, perhaps, gaze locked on something in the distance she couldn’t quite pinpoint, even with a quick glance behind her. Risky, but well-timed. She was silent throughout his recollection, listening as the world moved on without them, clouds collapsing over the sun to subdue its light, unsettled water moving as the wind pushed it. When the birds were entranced by this unrest, that was when his focus regained, color to his skin. With aiming eyes, the boy picked up a sense of insistence he hadn’t carried before, as though his power wasn’t to be questioned. But as soon as his inquiry hit Persephone in its full intentions, an answer had to be written from scratch, mouth slightly agape once more.

In a fleeting second, she’d stopped dwelling in the tense air he created. “That would take the mystery out of things, wouldn’t it?” A genuine concern, one she had voiced before to only a single other soul, her matching one.

@Thomas Lestrange

For the first time, it became clear that the ascending, shadow-casting sun wasn’t the only light reflecting upon his silver armor, as the beams bounced off her matching suit. There was no rush of adrenaline, fearing this inescapable truth was a waste of precious time; Thomas was not the only one with something to hide and protect, with a sense of mortality to defend. Among the flow of villainy, there was a steady, scarlet drip of blood. Thrashing amongst the void where a soul was to mount itself beat a young heart like all the rest. But they already knew this of one another, no, they’d known for stretching months that felt like years. Yet they hid it, soldiers denying the war, wilting blooms denying the harsh winter, pretenders, dried up by the spotlight they’d soaked. And nothing changed every time their eyes caught tangled with each other, there was no shimmer of realization in those downcast glances, afraid to face the monsters the other personified.

Thomas was introduced to his dear friend, Persephone’s mortality, long before it was his time to know them. In fact, perhaps he’d even met that darkness at the very same moment as her. To dive deeper into the sea, where the sun’s light begins to fade and the only brightness comes from you, perhaps the Slytherin boy had brought said mortality into the Owlery with him. Carried it from the morning to the afternoon, waiting to exert it, maybe the blonde was little more than another victim, and he was not the witness, instead the crime. The criminal, their identity was unchallenged, but oh the crime, it could easily be another person rather than a powerless piece of parchment. Perhaps that day would’ve blended with the rest as a paintbrush’s careful shade to the skin if not for his existence in the wrong place, at the wrong time.

Or right. It depended on the definition, the perspective. At the same time, it didn’t matter, for their past could no longer be changed. All it could do was shape what their relationship was to become and look like, the cheaper the materials, the uglier the final product. With time, Persy became acquainted with his mortality through a series of events, unfortunate for him but blazes of opportunity for her. She could only suppose that was more unnecessary proof of the effect of perspective. Namely, now. The irony was delightful, but the power was not hers again, just distributed more evenly. Thomas knew things about Persephone that she quite nearly didn’t know about herself. That didn’t change that his weaknesses were exposed, at least one, clutched in her left hand with knuckles whitening, stricken to be left impotent yet again.

Where was his head? What was he a fool for, what did he let linger fully aware of the paralyzing effect it would have, like drowning in poisoned memorabilia? Persephone had to deduce, to act as a detective through the stained glass window of his own life, because there were no certainties. He did the same for her, with more confidence, a cocky tilt to his chin that boiled the rejected blood. But she was meticulous, considerate, because she had to be right, she could not afford any mistakes unlike him, who had likely become familiar with the hints of their presence. Living within one for thirteen years doubtlessly made progress along the front of accepting mistakes.

Mom. Even just the idle word had struck a chord in the girl, an innocent shell wrapped around such a guilty, sinister presence. That river ran clear, and no coherent thoughts could be formed yet, the fervent ink had not settled into her skin to leave its print. When it did, when the words didn’t act as a mere labyrinth of messy syllables, only then could Persephone call for judgement. Patience was a virtue and a vice all the same, and rarely was that as true as now. He didn’t miss a single beat between his jabs, but by result, they didn’t strike so hard. Until the times they did, those moments hated with such an intensity that the planets wavered at their pull.

No matter the tone she enforced with such authority, there was a feeling in the back of the Slytherin’s throat that his interest in her private ordeals hadn’t completely fallen when his head angled. In a brief flash of silence between them, there was a pressure in the air and in Thomas’ gaze, her pale hand running along the top of her head to flatten where bumps had risen in the convenient style. Whether he too had decided to use his brain for once or was sprinting with an inner captious monologue, she wasn’t sure. But their eyes met for a split second, and her subtle rattle could be seen among the green, though not able to be misinterpreted as intimidation. Shoulders back, chin parallel to the grass beneath them, no trace of fear. Just a gentle glimmer, drop it. “Perhaps you should try it sometime.” Once again, seizure of an opportunity, for it was rather far from the obvious truth.

As much as it would’ve alleviated that cerulean sorrow to blame him for the course of the day, to claim the boy tortured her with his breath and withheld peace from her early morning, it wasn’t true. Persephone was, of course, no liar. The run, meant to soothe, had instead been a haven for mold to grow within her confined thoughts. In all honesty, their interaction could’ve been what she needed, as in the focus, the challenge. Not the back and forth she’d been gifted, though, not their games and constant toying. Thomas was suspicious it seemed, rightfully so, of the box that had crawled into his hands, but it was no riddle, it was no joke, she did not kid. Not anymore.

“Is this what you carry around for your tears?”

He was getting rather desperate with these crybaby remarks, as though he’d finally realized it was the only flaw that would ever look him, or anyone else, in the eye. Persy couldn’t extract their first encounter from where the dark-haired boy treasured it in his memories, but if you can’t beat them, join them. “No. It’s not big enough.” A smile played upon the crybaby’s lips, the immense humor she found in this was conspicuous. “Could suit yours though, would you like to keep the box?”

One puzzle after another, Persephone kept her glare attentively glued upon him as he solved each issue he was faced with. At some point during the scene, her jaw had clenched, several tense moments passing before the girl realized she was biting her tongue. Shortcuts, dancing around the curves she had so heedfully implemented along the path, for which he held no intrigue. A cheater, that was the kindest way to put it, but the first-year’s feet were stuck to the patch she stood on, staring while a fire ignited far beneath her green eyes. When the chain became exposed, her stomach turned a somersault, but there was a long way to go. When the locket, delicate and too vital for his hands, swayed through the air and went with his will, it was difficult to swallow the violet hum.

And when he threw it, a part of Persy was thankful, the part she knew would be. The other part let an audible gasp escape her throat, finally coming up for air, but with a twist that the air was toxic and now, the water and the poison intertwined. She, too, had not noticed the photo come loose in its secure place. From that, she would not have come back.

Have some composure, where is your posture? “That’s funny, I didn’t expect you to find her antiques either.” Her voice was quiet, as the remark was more for herself. The implications would likely swing by him without so much as a gentle brush. Persephone knew neither of her grandmothers; one had bitten the dust years prior, and the other shielded herself from the horrors of the world in a palace back in Lyon. Neither, of course, would want anything to do with the devil’s spawn.

“I don’t play games.” That once humorous grin fell into a straight line of indifference, but there was once again a plain discomfort at his close proximity. Persephone stood as though her back was to a wall, stiff as a body long submerged in murky water. “Calling it a game makes it sound like it isn’t real, and this is real. As real as it gets.” When the wind picked up ever so slightly, her grip on the letter, on her weapon, tightened. With his frosty eyes, frozen to the core, swept over the scene, Persy figured things were clicking in his head. Steam rolled from his ears. “No, no, no. You’ve got potential, you can figure things out without someone giving you all the answers, can’t you?”

The smile reappeared with an urgency unmatched. “Would you like a hint?”

“Please write me when you can.”