The Seed is Planted PV: Persephone Barret closed

"There is nothing more deceptive than an obvious fact." - Arthur Conan Doyle, The Boscombe Valley Mystery.

@Eyre Reeves

On certain mornings nearly no different from the others, Persephone would groggily wake up submersed in the illusion that time was not a factor. Two things were wrong here. One, the fact that her arms outstretched with an ever-tired yawn after a restless sleep. She wasn’t to succumb to whatever aches came with fatigue, and on those intense mornings, it seemed she had. Two, time was always a factor. Her ends days, however close or far they may be, were, without a trace of doubt, edging nearer. Whether they were years, months, or mere moments away, no one could deny they would slowly creep up behind the young blonde. So each second spent bathing in the lights was a second wasted. Whatever plans were looming in the shadows of her mind as a shapeless silhouette, freezing ice yet to take form, they had to adapt and fit the gaps that remained.

A particular gap, the sheer existence of Ana Beckett. That brunette, with eyes molded of honey and glass, would take this grudge personally with that narcissism that dressed her, but it was against what she represented. A pillar of life, of elegance, grace, a black cat wandering in but the light of a glimmering moon. Of fire, it seems, an arsonist in training. Such flaws often overlooked with a bat of long eyelashes, conventional beauty that didn’t seethe beneath her skin. Persy meant to admire this, grant a nod of respect perhaps, but this power was handled so irresponsibly. It wasn’t earned, it was given. It was abused, royal violets and golds deepening into the hues of a forming bruise, a bare yellow and achy purple. The Slytherin meant to teach a lesson, not just to her but those like her. To bash those pillars with a sledgehammer until the entire coliseum crumbled.

But there was no sledgehammer quite strong enough, or there was, and such frail pale arms weakened by the summer’s wrath couldn’t wield it. What there was, was stealth, fighting fire with a spray bottle. When there was no more to burn, the fire would extinguish itself. Dale, for example. A sub-target, a pawn in a plan bigger than him, which was all an elaborate pawn for a game bigger than them all. It was too bad that no one could step back and see the Starry Night within the Mona Lisa. Persephone shook her head to herself with this thought, platinum hair struggling in its double braids, the first physical motion since she’d entered the greenhouse and stood before the boy she’d expected. Sub-target number two.

She was sure he’d spoken, his lips moved with the ballet of vain words and there was some foreign vibration in the air that implied sound, but the girl had ultimately zoned out. The boy stood, brushing himself off as he spoke, dark hair falling over his forehead to contrast his flesh. Reconnaissance whispered that he was often found here, dawdling, and doing what the broken do best, a mystery to someone as put-together as Persephone. But staring in his eyes now, there was twinkle she could note, like sunlight and the way it reflected upon a fractured mirror. The silence settled between them until her prey whimpered once more, asking for nothing but a name. A title to put to a face. The blonde knew not the accuracy of her reply, not beyond grounds purely legal.

“Persephone.” A smirk played upon those lips and she repossessed herself in that instant. “There is little excuse for you not to know it. See, I’ve got a bit of a...” Green eyes squinted shut when a mocking laugh escaped her throat, “…reputation.”