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. Solaris was the daughter of smoke & bone. Death kissed her skin so hard it didn't leave a mark, but it bled into her skin and held her bloodstream like a mother holding her baby.
Girl, thorn, serpent— she hung onto Hermione's ribs like rolled out cigarettes clutching onto her bones, the ashes are burning down to her belly and she can feel their love becoming an eldritch tale. Hemlock braids, lint–skinned, cupid's spitfire. It was wrong for Hermione to ever come across the wish to never have met Solaris, but she still did. She asked why, wished to be high, wanted her girl to lie and lie and lie: Solaris was an entropy, a guest room, a fucking patchwork. It's been twenty–eight hours without her cigarette smoke, her caffeine stained skin and Hermione still couldn't move. Her back was pressed against her floral duvet, her eyes were polluting the ceiling after she had stared at it for too long. The sides of her mouth were still stained with her lover's kiss and divinity: her hands and her epidermis was just a blanket of flesh to hide the memories of them that stirs beneath her flesh and bones. Hermione still couldn't move.
Her demise cut her skin open, she was promised it would be quick and painless—she could feel the sin infecting her gardens and plaguing her vision, she wished to heal a land that was wisping and weeping but she felt a little lighter to know that she planted a tulip in the terra firma that was littered with the screaming ghosts that didn't let themselves be seen by her— she didn't feel like it was quick and painless. She felt the knife.
"Hermione?" His voice was soft but it felt like a shrill slicing through her ears. His knocks faltered into tinnitus.
"I'm not here."
"You are,"
(was she really)
"Let me in."
"I don't want to talk, Harry."
"'Mione, I know you don't. And that's alright, just let me in and we can get ready to go."
"Go where?"
"To her burial," Harry said slowly. "You're giving her eulogy. Remember?"
"Come in."
"It's—erm—it's locked."
"Have you forgotten we're literally in Hogwarts, Harry? Use a spell."
Alohomora.
"Hey."
Hermione hummed.
"Do you want to sit?"
"No."
"Fine," Harry sighed. He moved from the edge of her bed and laid down next to her. "Do you want to talk about it?"
"I—uh," Hermione chuckled sadly. "I just miss her. It feels. . . Strange. Like a part of me died with her."
"But does it relieve you?"
"Her death? No, Harry. Of course it doesn't fucking relieve me."
"Not her death," Harry shook his head. "The fact that she spent her last days here happy. With you. Doesn't it make you feel better to know that in her last moments she felt something she never had?"
"If she were happy, she wouldn't have killed herself."
"She did it to save you."
"Save me from what? A life with her?"
"Yes," Harry said. "Perhaps that's it. She never thought she could make anyone—let alone you—happy. Maybe she thought you'd be better off. It's not your fault, it's not hers either."
"It's my fault. I could have done more and," Her eyes were heavy with pressing tears. "I could have saved her. I was so close to."
"You know you couldn't have saved her. No matter the spell, no matter the potion— you couldn't ever save her from herself."
IT WAS A QUIET CEREMONY.
Yet Hermione felt like her flesh was burning in olympus, like her soul had been struck the same way Achilles' heel had. She had been afraid to find Solaris with bloody hands in her open casket, her palms stained with her cherry aortas. Solaris had dissected her like opening Pandora's box, and she swore she could feel her heart beating against Solaris' stifling fingertips. She could still feel her lover's hellion scratching at her arms through the polyester, it embraces her almost the same way Solaris had and this is when she realised that she'd know her in aliveness, purgatory and death.
She was still on a scavenger hunt for her heart, perhaps it was in the sky somewhere, in the midst of catch with Solaris and other seraphs.
Her tongue started to taste like sea salt, it kept the wounds from her words open and she couldn't speak. She could feel herself rotting, the acid burns her linings and she can feel the silk skinning itself off of her bones. She was waking up in a world without her. There was no more sugar rush, but the decaying cavities stayed when she didn't. Her chest felt tight, strung out like all her limbs' elasticity broke in the midst of her demise. It felt like her insides were being bleached, like the colour of love was draining out of her like water to a drought. She would drink the colour of Solaris' voice just to regain the pigments back, but Solaris could no longer speak and the words were tucked silently behind her tongue. They were both rotting and everyone was fine, like it was a pentecost gathering in a green field full of candy. Like her death was a relief. Something worth celebrating.
"Hey," Isabella smiled at Hermione. Her blue eyes held every shade of turquoise, her voice was like a honeysuckle and she still sat so pristine, like the ballerina she is. Hermione's eyebrows pressed themselves into a questioning curve. Isabella was like a swarm of butterflies. It looked like she almost wanted to dance in front of her sister's corpse. "How are you feeling?"
"Much worse than you are."
"It was expected of her. It didn't come to us as a shock when we heard." Isabella's smile faltered at her gaze.
"You're not even the least bit upset that your sister is dead?"
"Why, of course, I am. She was still my sister," Isabella frowned. "But it wasn't a surprise, that's all. She had been doing that for years now," Isabella lowered her voice. "And if I must let you into a little secret- I'm a bit relieved. It could have been worse."
"Could have been worse'?"
"Yes," Isabella nodded. "She had tried to drown herself and tied bricks to her ankles before. I just feel sorry that you had to see something you weren't used to."
"And I'm just sorry that she had to have a sister like you. You're cruel. How could you say anything like that about anyone; let alone your own sister?"
"Darling, it's not cruel to be knowing. I'm sure you're lashing out because for once," Isabella pursed her lips, it almost looked like she was trying to trap a smile from her mouth. "You didn't know something we all did."
"Now, Hermione Granger will be giving her eulogy to our dearly beloved, Solaris Blanche."
"Better get up there, Granger."
Hermione glared at her, Harry took her arm gently and tugged her softly. "You can do this, right? It's okay if you can't."
"I'll do it."
Harry let go of her arm and gave her the papers she wrote the speech on. She thanked him silently and he nodded.
Hermione took steps forward towards the casket. She never looked, but she stood in front of it before clearing her throat and looking at the papers resting between her two fingers. She looked up before folding the papers which made people furrow their eyebrows and murmur amongst themselves. She cleared her throat once more.
"Solaris was a dimming sun. The kind that got covered by clouds when it was setting," Hermione smiled the saddest grin. "Always on the cusp of being invisible, but it remained to have meaning and true beauty. She once asked me 'never have I ever loved you', and now, my response would be: never would I ever stop." Hermione's eyes were heavy with unshed tears, the water was burning itself on her lash line and she could feel the colour vining around her irises.
"I told her that I would love her beyond time's warp," Hermione exhaled. "And isn't time a funny thing, if not the funniest? I've known Solaris for seventeen days but I'll love her for the rest of my life."
Flora looked at her and nodded. Smiling.
"Last night, I dreamt of her in an apocalypse and she was happy to not be surviving. She was carrying all of her things from my bedside drawer and she told me to light a candle, make a wish and say goodbye. I woke up and I didn't move for hours. I felt paralysed. Then I wondered, how would you kill a ghost? Or kill their memories because I feel," Hermione stopped. "I feel haunted. And what's worse is how I don't hate it."
"Solaris," She walked towards the open casket. "You were my favourite. I hope you sleep well."
She reached for the pockets of Solaris' cardigan, she pulled out a keychain with the moon and all its phases and eclipses flickering in it.
"You could never have been bright," Hermione whispered over her. "But didn't you know how much I loved the dark?"