An Innocent Request PV: Dale Kurt Abandoned

"Is evil something you are? Or is it something you do?" - Bret Easton Ellis, American Psycho.

This thread takes place directly outside the Potions room.
Private thread with @Dale Kurt.
Forward Dated To: Tuesday, September 8th.

Degrading. Absolutely degrading. It was a conspicuous walk of shame, the way Persephone’s head bowed to the floor in submission as she trudged through the dungeons, half-expecting a thunderous voice and a deplorable, merciful execution. What she wouldn’t do for the sake of destruction, it was a repulsively short list, willing to spurn such savory pain and endure the torture feed upon the sorrow she bore. A cycle of cavernous ego, letting it crumble from a heavenly tower then rise further than before, losing some to gain some. The best plans, they were the ones performed at your own expense, written of risk and a fractured base of dignity. A voice, sweet and tender, replying almost automatically in the young girl’s head, you are doing something beautiful.

And she was, all ignominy aside. It was poetic. To rip the sun from its home above the horizon and let the world consume itself in the darkness left behind, oblivious. To contain its light, manipulate it, change the world around you as but one mere person. Work the tide with a twist of the moon. To take on something great, far above yourself, to look beauty in the eye and tread backwards into the ugly. For the aristocrat, the world had been painted bright, shimmery like twenty-four carat gold. At a prodding pace, it would rust and tarnish, proving yet again that a sparkle did not symbolize bulletproof wealth. Persy would not be the only oxygen-serving tyrant, though. It seemed that far within, under all the reflecting, shallow waves, they knew of that undeserving hollow in their chest.

If the Slytherin girl was nothing else though, she was methodical; that was her marching anthem. Several months had come and gone like seconds to minutes, time spent absorbed in the happenings of her own life rather than those of the majority brought to its knees. Almost as though she’d forgotten happiness, left it to rot, as it was well-known what it took to stitch a smile, and that was the art of organized pandemonium. Chaos. Anarchy, but nothing that directly endangered her. No, the rules and rituals were only for her. And they would make the beauty stay.

Even with her stare warily downcast, avoiding the empty faces with nothing but removable, peering eyes, Persephone could sense when the heavy door to Potions was within a few feet. Instinct, perhaps, that pain of a tempting smile, like click training. This corridor had been walked a thousand times as a home of sorts. That deep frown remained pressed firmly into the crevices of her flesh, as it was part of her and all she would ever be. Every passing instant, the hall seemed to shrink with layers upon layers of drying paint. Only when the door opened, a whimper of protest sounding throughout the hollow corridor, did her visage drastically change.

Chin tilting up and a certain heat reaching the surface on the nape of her neck, an apprehensive glare followed each student as they poured out, unfamiliar children of the following year. Apprehension didn’t completely suppress the natural malice that glinted there, as the numbness never did. No one could expect a candle to drown the sun. Hands once at semi-ease were now theatrically across her stomach, thumbs twiddling in precise circles. The young girl was a potion of carefully fused worry and spite, an oxymoron with a regretfully beating heart and shifting weight.

When the one boy that struck a chord came by, almost nonchalant, the director called action. Persephone recognized him not by interaction, but by a scene of romance constructed in great detail, practically screaming its worth until every ear for miles shriveled up. It was an exposed weakness, a shred of skin flickering through thick armor. An opportunity that could not come and go like so many others did. When he walked by, Persy turned after him, gently tapping his shoulder.

“Could you help me with something?”