An Overflow of Violet PV Flash Holmwood Closed

“I am not proud, but I am happy; and happiness blinds, I think, more than pride.” - Alexandre Dumas, The Count of Monte Cristo.

Private thread with @Flash Holmwood.
Forward-dated to Tuesday, September 8th.

The art of flight was a different type of freedom, the kind there was no need to fight for but it was always something that the lovers of its breaking bonds were willing to do. Wind capturing platinum hair, strands that reflected sunlight with gold plating as a mirror of the purity it bore, nothing remained in control but the flight. Odd for the young Persephone to find such chasmic comfort a great length from sea-level where she buried her sutured heart to a damning rest, but peculiarity never hindered the course of solace and its colors in the air. Below or above the reins known as blade of grass, it was a world away from their ever-strengthening ropes. The sky has never been the limit, the ground has.

It wasn’t often enough that an opportunity presented itself to fracture these ties where they were most frail, only on the days of the mandatory flying class and on the even scarcer ones when the rules were painted in white. Melting into the water and letting it mold and shape itself to fit those open wounds like snapping puzzle pieces, it was more accessible. It was innocent, it was a single pale finger twirling through a yielding sapphire surface to watch it take its turn and wave as a pocket whirlpool. It was in the rain, a lone figure bathing underneath whatever dripped from that skyward ocean, standing out against the grey as the sole source of breath until they too were shaded black, a shadow under grim skies until the waters closed. Moisture was trapped in the air, the air that was so hard to reach, so hard to bring to her.

Defiance lie there, singing the sonata of sirens to bring in the troublemakers that hungered for its taunting escape. One class with confining restrictions, with the professor’s eyes like darts picking apart each subtle movement for the remnants of a fault, it wasn’t enough. There was little space for experimentation, for the death sentence of backbone, as far from heroism on the spectrum of bravery it could be. Persephone needed no boundaries, or at least some that could be pushed and shredded without a piercing snap, without a detention as a pouncing lion lying in overgrown weeds. It had to be readily available, at her service, as all good things in life should be.

And it came when an unknown god listened, in the form of the glorious title: quidditch player. It was a dream far better than eerie sleep, a place to thrive within herself and laugh as the torturers briefly relent. Behind closed eyes, the scene was set in a tombstone, Persephone was a lashing storm ripping ships by their seams, an unstoppable force in the air. Chaser wasn’t ideal, and surely not second-string, but it was a start, an introduction, the swelling where a tropical storm morphs into a noxious hurricane without a borne back. A racing heart drove her, a magnetic pull to the air, and the blonde was sprinting across the grass in a blur. The wait had been long enough, lightning could never be bottled.

There was something more to that sprint than a stolen—er, borrowed—school broom clutched in her hands, something unseen perhaps, beyond the way the world seemed to falter around the Slytherin’s figure. She broke it, the entirety of what composed the universe as it moved out of her path. But that wasn’t worth a note, a budding collapse, everything was enthralled in the bland curtain call of the grounds. The hidden rest of life that saw these event unfold had gone undetected, even in a pursuit of truth and a lingering beg. It wasn’t until she reached that finishing spot, out of breath in a pitiful but careless manner, that Persy would take the time to stop and spin around, addressing whatever flies the honey compelled.