Seventeen

𝖎. an idle valentine

      
Hermione believed that suicide was a form of murder— premeditated murder. It's a slow progress: the first time you see a blade, you fantasise about it slicing deep into your skin and let the blood trickle out like a worm crawling in its soil. You need motive, an opportunity, an easy, calculated out. If there's a window, would you rather look out and inhale the air it brings in or let your body fall free and become one with the wind? Hermione would have chosen the former, while Solaris would picked the latter. Motive is a paramount, a stable rope, an anchor that saves you from sinking. Down, down, down. And Hermione had been right, like she had about a lot of things.

         Solaris had a wavering, weak motive. If she were dead, she wouldn't have to live up to Isabella. She wouldn't have to be unacceptable or feel like the second, third— anything but first— option. She was a rehearsal of tragedy, a debate for death and an assisted suicide. She  was clever, she liked to plan her demise step-by-step, the same way Isabella planned her dances.

          The list of deaths Solaris wanted for herself got longer each day.

          Solaris was an artist hidden in a bag of bones and a veil of flesh, a madman, a metaphor for constant waves of melancholy with boiling poison over her flesh and a curving flame that framed her shadow. The feline traced  of her face, the slenderness that fell beneath the carving of her cheekbones, and if you weren't blinded enough by her beauty— you'd spot each stain of tears that left its silhouette against her cheeks. She stood still, unconscious of her power, and uncertainty engulfed anyone who's ever crossed her path. Her skin was tainted as a sheen ivory, glossed and a perfect pale. She was dressed in a blue gown, her hair was a mess and her eyes had a sullen reflection that made Hermione couldn't help but stare at.

        She was a twofold nature of a nymphal stance. Her hair was a dark auburn, her cheeks as tainted as licked, red candy while Hermione was a bushy-haired, hazel eyed with a dreamy, tender shadow that followed her. The girl in the painting had an eerie reflection, a blurry pigment of adolescent iridescence, and Hermione stares closer—

       "How much is this, sir?"

       ''Seventeen pounds. You've got quite a good deal on you, don't you?''

       ''Seventeen for this beauty?''

       ''Seventeen, indeed.''

       ''Did you have a reference photo you followed while painting this?''

        ''Not sure, kid. A friend gave it to me, said I can keep whatever it's cost.''

        ''Why didn't you bid it higher?'

         ''Would you like me to do that?''

          ''No.''

          The man smiled. He was short, scruff, he had a thick irish accent, a greying beard and a comforting smile. He had a white beret atop of his head and was sat on a short stool just outside on the street of Hogsmeade.

         ''Where are you putting this beauty up, anyhow?"

         "I've been finding a piece to hang on my wall for quite awhile now. Think I've finally found it."

        "Are you taking it, then?"

        "Would you bid it any lower?"

         "No. As you've said, you wouldn't want me to change the price."

         "Technically, I said I wouldn't want you to make it higher. But I'll take her."

          "You sure? No second thoughts, then?"

          "Nope. She's a beaut, isn't she?"

          ''She truly is. But I'll let you in on being careful."

           "Why is that?"

           "My friend was pretty adamant about it, about giving it away. Said it was a menace."

           "Your friend doesn't understand such a complex art form then, does he?"

           "Fair enough."

           Hermione gave Edwick the seventeen pounds, taking the painting and waving him a happy goodbye.

           She enjoys the painting and its poetic ruins. While going up the staircase to her dormitory, Ginny had asked what the painting symbolised and for once, Hermione didn't have the answer to a question. So she thought, and thought and let the theories linger in her mind while she hung the painting over the clean space on her wall.

          "So pretty, yet so sad. Why is that?"Hermione murmured quietly at the painting. Her eyes were anything but lively, her mouth was a paling cherry-blossom colour. The gentle silhouette of sadness still stained Solaris, even through the canvas. Her gaze was a stab of rain daggers, a hidden staircase into dawn and Hermione falters when she sees Solaris' mouth move: help. She furrowed her eyebrows, thinking she was going mad— this wasn't a moving painting. It was simple, almost muggle made. She can nearly smell the canvas. The girl looked of crushed tulips and peach sweat, it was thrilling, almost.

Almost.

One, two, three times: help.

Hermione waved her hand over the portrait, her eyebrows furrowing in a deep confusion—

"Am I going mad?"

Help.

Maddening, sick. She rubbed her eyes. Her mouth moved again: help, help, help.

And like before, this was the first time Hermione didn't know what to do. This was the one thing she couldn't solve.