I Asked for a Beret... PV Persephone Closed

"Who wishes to fight must first count the cost." - Sun Tzu, The Art of War.

@Evelynn Decipio

Alluring sights and white beaches be damned, Cannes was no place to remember. In itself it was luxurious, overcome by the vitality of city life from cultures around, heart beating with people who would eternally cherish the memory, and this made it all the more repulsive. It was the furthest thing from a home, an attraction, a painting, a mask for reality adorned with so many embellishments that the harsh world became but a very distant memory, draped in a pale fog that cowered in comparison to the brilliance of the sand she now avoided. A film festival to start, the city’s fame reduced to a single lonesome core. A universe of artwork in all forms to appeal to those that prided themselves on radiance, forever dawdling in their golden days and destined to spend the bronze ones searching for that again. It was everything that emerged in platinum royal dreams, made of both fine crystal and clear plastic. Not a home, to be candid.

Although France was the honest primary origin of the bringer of destruction, never seeing the same city twice stole some kind of impact from the once assumed comfort. Even the Barret’s hometown, Lyon, didn’t offer solace with the natural roll of its title or the ethereal images captured after the night consumed it. She would never see that again, never bathe in the familiarity of its streets or the faces structured so similarly to her own, it was a mystic dream, just out of reach as it mockingly brushed at her fingertips. So, the girl labeled it flawed and carried on, rapidly adjusting to a life practically wasted on the run. Last year, Honfleur, this year, Cannes, the ruined flats of London in between. A fun game played without any remnant of a smile. Nothing more had been expected from a city that prided itself on being a tourist destination, a sweet bowl of honey for the flies, but even the imprisonment had its perks. It was easy to get lost, for one.

Travelling through the trap and indulging Alexandre’s great desire to fall into the balconies of anonymity, it wasn’t compelling. Not after the nights she’d already endured and the aches that plagued the young blonde from sun to moon, each moment became less tolerable as long as those colors ran vibrant. Life or death stakes didn’t seem so menacing in this time. In the sea of people and forceful yearning, it was remarkably easy to do what he deemed so impossible and relax into their masking blanket, float with the current behind four walls to guard Persephone from sight. A process that introduced a fleeing child to the many sides of fantasy, the shields from the life that knocked on the glass from the other side, everything from holes-in-the-wall to state-of-the-art lures. A method of exploration if you will, laced in ill intentions.

On this day, one that had that particular aura of dirt falling on your head as you stare at that last glimpse of sunlight, it brought Persephone to the Centre d'Art La Malmaison, an ever-adapting gallery. Too close behind trailed her father, exhausting every method of camouflage he could muster, barely far enough away so the blonde’s lungs weren’t compressed by his burden. It was as expected in a town that thrived, no loveliness exceptionally heightened by the proper stream of air in and out, merely a structure of changing stories and tales meant to teach a lesson otherwise unknown. All around, a different kind of art, whether stained upon glass to tint the light in its message, shown through the architecture built along ruins, or in life, the poetry of a nothing standing before a something.

The focus of the forsaken day: a reinterpretation that brought verve from one piece to another, leaving no ounce of purpose untouched, something to be appreciated by fleeting emerald eyes that were entranced in the less glamorous things only she could see. A hand to establish their divinity, one to bid it to those not so fortunate, gaze narrowed and cast downward to watch as the inferiors collapsed to their knees and drowned in their own self-loathing. Standing before it, defiance embodied. Whereas Persephone failed to properly realize the dimension she beheld on account of the crumbling around her, there was no excuse for the nothing that studied so intently, content in their disruption as a rival. The glass could shatter at the daggers of silver eyes, glossed over in something of confusion, perhaps well-masked condescension. Or perhaps, that was too much credit to bestow, but something ever-so-familiar glinted in the way the eyes stared, wanted, became and created.

Persephone did not believe in karma, that was a point often hit redundantly in her train of thought, a certain emphasis on the ‘do not’. It was an ideal of narcissism to imagine the universe cares so dearly about the happenings of a plain, melancholy existence enough to make it living hell or heaven, to manipulate the lives of millions to change that of one. If everyone got the karma they deserved, Cannes would be on fire given how many uppity royals called it their vacation. And if believing in it made one into the sun to their own earth, then would they not be punished? The concept was so paradoxical and daunting, she would never shut up about it. And still, the young blonde had to ask herself out of some instinct: why me?

They’d met before, twice, but the circumstances were importantly different. Once, it was best named a twist on a tragedy often romanticized by adolescents. Valentine’s Day, a freshly brewed cup of tea, a rather plain grey outfit yet the ginger still stood out intensely. A few agonized screams, the usual that one expects on these treasured days. The second, a molder of perfect apprehension, a classic choking scenario with the notable twist of genuine danger and a few precisely hit nerves. Since that, charming radio silence, as though the peasant had crawled into a tunnel of dread to wait for the release of death, to avoid suffering under Persephone and the wrath she bred. But they both stood here, a visage of near horror overcoming the blonde, in a destination of independence and great riots.

Ever so slightly, she glanced back, wary of her father’s presence and if it were to grow near. It was a risk of drawing attention, pulling eyes and ears so harshly that it graced its way back to Lyon, but to ease by was not an option; her blood had already begun to boil in its compressing veins and the resentment needed an outlet. How convenient the ginger’s timing was. “As-tu commencé—” Between Alexandre’s persistence and being here, French had been her exclusive language. Shifting back after having melted into its old habits would prove difficult, as she would visibly consider her words. “Started following me then? Bold of you, you don’t have a good record in our encounters.”

Reducio

"As-tu commencé—" [French] can be translated to "Have you started—"

It's strange, really, when removed from the source just how quickly memories can fade, and the sting of a painful encounter can subside. Not forgotten. Not entirely. Any rumination upon it would surely have the details rising back to the surface as quickly as a balloon submerged in water. But without constant exposure, they retreat to the background of the mind, compartmentalized in preference of happier, more reassuring thoughts in order that the vessel may continue to live and thrive uninhibited by the tethers of distress.

Such had unquestionably been the case for Evelynn. After disembarking from the Hogwarts Express and leaving the next morning an ever-diminishing silhouette of the Leaky Cauldron to her rear, she had ventured home with her mother. By car. Then had been the return of her mobile device, and her computer. Her piano and tablet. Even her switch. They'd even resumed the occasional table-top adventure on weekends when her mother had more than an hour to spare in the evening. With the fantastical returning to a place of true fantasy, and with her taking up distance learning with muggle subjects, it was almost as though Hogwarts had been little more than a vivid dream; or perhaps an exceptionally well-made virtual game. It wasn't long before Evelynn had returned to her pre-Hogwarts routine, anything remotely related to the Wizarding world stashed away in a trunk that had been hidden under an over-sized comforter in the corner of her bedroom in the loft.

That said, it wasn't as though she were entirely removed from her double life. Although few, there had been a handful of connections that she had maintained. Some, like Woodward, had made the strange transition of crossing lines. A friend made in a magical world emerging only to swap phone numbers and maintain connection in an entirely mundane manner through text and snapchat. Others, such as Holmwood, she had maintained correspondence through letter. Which would have likewise been just as mundane had they not been delivered and received by owl. While some of these conversations continued to touch on the events that had transpired throughout the school, it felt more and more like an exercise. Like an immersive between-session offshoot to one of her mother's elaborate campaigns.

It was mid-August now, barely a fortnight from the time that school would be starting up, but it still felt surreal. The letter Evelynn had received at the turn of the month had felt just as fabricated as the one she'd received almost exactly a year prior. The sigil stamped onto the seal just as curious as the first time she had seen it. Once again, she'd had half a mind to raid her mother's crafting supplies to see if she could find the stamp that had set the intricate design into the wax. In theory, she should have been looking forward, making plans for her return to Scotland and preparing for the coming term. Instead, she was in Cannes, touring about with her mother, taking herself even further from the unlikely reality and into the waking fantasy of vacationing. School… Hogwarts… Magic… Surrounded by Expressionist paintings of under-representation and the fight for equality, those were the very last things from her mind.

Quite the shock it was, then, when someone spoke up nearby. Even on its own, it would have been out of place. The little gallery had been quiet as the grave. The few that ventured in from the sunny exterior to brave semi-close contact with other living beings in confinement had maintained the typical air of museum-goers. Contemplation left little room for vocalization. Unless it was to confer with a companion and share insights and suppositions, one needn't say anything at all. The few who did kept their conversations to hushed whispers, easily ignored, their voices quickly joining the white-noise rank of fans on high that worked to combat any summer heat that snuck its way unwanted into the building.

This voice, however, as relentless as its speaker, failed to assimilate. By its very nature, it seemed to cast aside any notion that it should conform to the expectations of peasants, raising itself like the conceptualized paintings to make itself heard. Something it achieved with little effort. Even its use of a foreign language failed to mask the significance of its words. Like a stallion bent on freedom, the voice crashed through whatever meager barrier Evelynn had erected against her distant traumas. In a flash, it wasn't a gallery in the middle of the Cannes in which she was standing, but the darkened hall of a dungeon corridor. She'd been comfortably cool before. Now, she almost yearned for the embrace of the sun to chase away the chill that had descended over her, causing muscles to freeze and hairs to stand on end. For a moment, she forgot how to breathe.

Evidently, no amount of distance or time would erase these unforgettable tones. It was Persephone Barret. Here. In Cannes. Of all the people that she could encounter on a vacation stay, it had to be her. Either God was testing Evelynn, or the Devil playing a cruel jape. Regardless of which, appreciation would be short in supply.

To her credit, the flood of fear gave was to reason just as quickly. Although a furtive glance was cast in the direction of the exit — just in case — no thought was taken to actually flee. Why should she? While the two were hardly on good terms, and Evelynn was very surely out-matched in any physical sense, she didn't — or at least shouldn't — have anything to fear from the girl. Not here. Not in public surrounded by strangers. Magic wasn't allowed, so even muggles could intervene if needed. Plus, it wasn't like she hadn't found some sort of snag in her tormentor's chaotic attire. She held to the hope that if she put pulled, it might unravel. With a steadying breath to ease her nerves, Evelynn adopted a smile of pleasantry and turned on the spot. A second jolt of fear shot down her spine at the sight of Persephone, but it was much more manageable than the first, betraying only a pull of dissatisfaction from the corner of her mouth.

"Yes," Evelynn replied, moving her hands to clasp behind her back. "Of all the people I might have chosen to track down, on my vacations, it's you." Her tone dripped with sarcasm. "I thought it might make for an interesting twist. Make the visit truly memorable. Quite unexpected, really. I never expected you to venture far from your burrow. But I suppose snakes do enjoy the sun."

Why did it have to be Barret, though… Of all the people, she was likely among the last that Evelynn would like to see outside of school. It wasn't lost on Evelynn that she could be at a particular disadvantage here. Perhaps not now in this immediate moment, but who knows how long the girl had been there already. Or if she'd spotted her elsewhere in the city. The fact that she was muggle-raised wasn't something that Evelynn regularly advertised. Or let be known at all, really. Perhaps if this was a sole encounter, just the two of them, it might not be so terrible. Perhaps. But Evelynn knew that her mother was likely only a short time away from returning, and the idea of the two meeting was not one that she relished. There were things that were better left unspoken…

Which led Evelynn to wonder about the reverse. For only seconds at a time, Evelynn would flick her gaze away from Barret, gauging whether the girl was here alone, or if there were others with her waiting in the wings.

"Pourquoi es-tu ici?"^[1] She wondered, words laced with as much caution as hostility and honourifics withheld. Being a national language from her home country, the shift from English to French was made easily; but hers was not a Parisian accent. "Qu'est-ce que to veux?"^[2]

[font=century gothic]INTERACTING WITH: @Persephone Barret[/font]

@Evelynn Decipio

It wasn’t only Cannes that was a false heaven, something Persephone was so deeply tired of. Though the place personified the idea, a captured moment in time that disguised toxicity with rays of indestructible light, it extended so far beyond that, it dipped beneath the horizon as those lights went down and fell out of sight with a note of tenderness. It existed in the air that strangled itself between the predator and the prey, between the blonde and the ginger, and it stalled in their interactions that weren’t elucidated by violence. An identical sin bound the two girls together, in chains that did not let the heat go when covered by shade, a sin that made them alive, made their hearts beat out of spite, so what did the pain matter? Why waste time with feigned politeness when they could fight for the hate, to see who could loathe more, who could loathe best?

Feelings weren’t what defined her memories any longer. There wasn’t bittersweet nostalgia or sentimentality when Persephone reflected on her life before this very moment, her flesh and the bones it stuck to might as well have been but a rental. A quick-paced heartbeat or an unrelenting tension moving from her shoulders to the tips of her corpse-like fingers didn’t seal itself away, never locked in a treasury attached to the flickering images of encounters with the bareness of hatred and infatuation. It was facts. Lines of dialogue printed like a script, stage actions and the facial expressions she pretended to fake to blend in with the majority. Faced now with those familiar striking eyes, far too alike the storms crashing over sharp rocks that Persy glared into every other day of this life, she recalled only the facts.

Few times did Evelynn and Persephone not linger in their false heaven. It was no place with melodic harps or a blanket of mystic fog, but it was a place prettier than the fiery hell it was born to be. A place without brutality. Her mind fell back on the cold February evening dedicated to the mysterious and fictitious enigma of love, an idea always inches away from the grasp of its pursuers because it was but a term to blindly worship. On this god-forsaken day, Persy exposed reality, carasouled into its grave and swung from the gallows with a wave and grin of pure malice. When that scarlet heat boiled tea and it spilled over its edges, the false heaven’s white curtain dropped to their very feet. After a bitter retreat, the fabric crawled its way back to the top, ropes weaker than before, crumbling once and only once more with the restriction of air.

These were the facts, icy and uncomplicated by the intertwining vines of overlapping emotions, the grey areas where sadness melted into fury. The Slytherin girl could look within herself and watch these events unfold time and time again with a sinister smile tugging at her pursed lips, though she couldn’t absorb the pride that once drove her, couldn’t dawdle in the smokey residue of the anger she hadn’t used. The matches had been extinguished and discarded, and there would be a new one pulled with the fresh scent of aspen every time those words were heard again. It was the downside of cutting emotions from the souvenirs, having to relive and reexperience. Not being able to go back and let that be the same girl.

And it was exactly this that she experienced when Evelynn spoke with a challenging, sarcastic tone dripping like honey from a hive. The lioness’ lips and voice were out of sync, only half-reaching Persephone’s reddening ears that could comprehend little more than a repetitive ‘not love you’ , a sound that came from within the depths and abyss of her mind and those damned reminiscences rather than from that lioness’ throat. There was a sudden and sharp pain before Persy knew she was biting her lip, choking down the water from the shattering dam. Evelynn prodded without sight, yet found her bullseye. Even in a place that felt so far from home, so distant from cobblestone streets and motherly love, she had an advantage. Feeling did not matter, because regardless, this was home.

Evelynn clutched her hands behind her back as she spoke, standing in such a way to perhaps dwell in a lie of superiority. Persephone, shifting her weight to her left, did not need such a surface glimmer to know her worth. Though the snake’s largely French accent was thicker than it would be during the school-cursed months, it may not be noted by someone becoming accustomed to its music along the elegant streets. “They say ignorance is bliss, but let me enlighten you. You’ve sauntered into my burrow now, and you don’t get to question my authority in it.” Cannes, of course, was not the snake’s true and bloody den, but it would serve for a half-true bluff. France was the world she knew, and the world she was molded for.

Transitioning to French was not a play Persy had expected, let alone one she predicted to go smoothly as though it was as effortless as floating on top of the sea and surrendering to its waves, a feather in a beautiful world. There had to be a valid reason this transition was so elementary to the red-headed rival, though not one too easily deduced given her accent was hardly native. With an inner motive to match the game, conquer and remind Evelynn that she was not alone on that high horse, Persy smirked with an airy chuckle.

“C'est ma tanière. Pourquoi risquez-vous votre vie ici?” The words gracefully danced about her tongue, an even match, and it would be clear the language was not foreign to her lips. She looked back to the entrance, breaking wicked eye-contact for only a moment to assess the dangers outside of their corner of the universe. For now, it was safe.

She could punch her. She could carve those hollow, loveless grey eyes out and feed them to the scavenging birds, all the while thanking some deaf god that they weren’t her’s. But instead, she’d swallow her tongue a million times over, knowing that the false heaven’s curtain wasn’t quite ready to dive.

Reducio

French ; “This is my den. Why are you risking your life here?"