twisted.

your birth was a curse and your existence was a blemish on a proud and ancient family. greatness was your inheritance and you seek to CLAIM IT. you've become twisted child, haven't you? silas zabini. seventh year ravenclaw. wannabe pureblood prat. ice king. hogwarts calls

[silaszabini]

james, potter.

It’s complicated⏤the brand follows the pair of them more glaringly obviously than a fourteen-year-olds Facebook status, and it’s difficult to part from it, even in the face of trying, however understatedly, to lend a hand in fixing whatever the fuck stewed between them. The words themselves that trickled from his mouth, stapled and stitched together into a (undetectably stilted yet) smooth rhythm, were an outstretched hand, begging the question of: “will they / won’t they?” So: will he, or won’t he, when it comes to James’ own inevitable trial?

A grin, a natural fixture upon his face if there ever was one, is easy to summon, and it’s as easy as any facade to cower behind. “Try saying that in front of Professor Longbottom next time, yeah? I think he’s writing weekly reports on the whims of my mother, the poor man⏤studious should manage to free him up for a bit of time, I reckon.” Talking, rambling, speaking until every word and flowing thought was exhausted into culmination before another thread set him off once more⏤one might call it a bad habit, yes, and it’s perhaps especially true to form when his nerves catch aflame and he’s left with the bare desire to tame, to fix, in any way he can before his entire being is devoured by it. Usually, he gets tired from speaking too much, first.

A shrug is the revelation of a true answer, before it’s muddled with words, if not simply because the meaning is free, open and malleable to all interpretations and intents. “As good as any, yeah⏤” The desire to shadow anything unsavory should it be intercepted by his own traitorous heart is victorious and⏤ “It was brill, you know. Apparating all over the fucking place.” A pause, and he’s trying, he swears⏤ “Yours?”

It has the aura of being casual, of old friends catching up after a long summer away from one another, trading stories like Chocolate Frog Cards. Which, perhaps, covers the unease Silas feels in their stomach, a sort of strange creature which fluttered about in wild abandon. Walking on eggshells is an apt name for it, the fear of breaking something Silas has already shattered. It’s an emotion they aren’t use to indulging, let alone causing it change their behavior. Silas might fashion themself a chameleon, but they really were more of a snail. Hiding behind armor; it’s what got them into this mess in the first place. 

“I’ll be sure to loudly proclaim it during Herb,” Silas offered. It was a thinly veiled joke, a promise in words only. “I saw James Potter up and about at seven, how studious of him. Already getting a head start in the material. He’s also gotten up to no trouble, has been perfectly lovely⏤ something like that?” It can’t be spoken anywhere else but between the two of them, the upticked corners of Silas’ mouth and the chuckle hidden between their lips. Other people hearing, seeing this⏤ out of the question. It’s a cry, a trust me, even though Silas has given James less than zero reasons to do anything of the sort.

Answers sometimes aren’t spoken, Silas has learned that quickly here. Don’t dig deeper than they need too, don’t question it too much. Curiosity killed the cat and Silas is running out of lives. Merlin, they already did. “Apparating, aren’t you the charms genius?” It’s supposed to be lighthearted, a joke between mates, yet it comes off cold. Silas’ own jealousy has eclipsed them, Apparating is far outside of their own command of their wand. It’s made the taste in their mouth go sour. “Mine was... as good as any, as you so aptly put. I went home, of course. South France is always beautiful in the summer.”

[silaszabini]

C+

captain 

Weaknesses are like fears, to be stomped out like ivy, invasive and strangling, killing Silas from lack of breath. Yet weakness was hauntingly beautiful and they’d always been attracted to things that brought them to their knees. And Quidditch was one of those guilty pleasures, a pure, unadulterated love that Silas could never truly cover, even after smothering every other part of themself. Even before they’d joined the team, they’d show up to every match, on the edge of their seat, eyes golden and crystal clear. There was a thunder in their heart and an electricity in their veins, adrenaline that would reveal instead of conceal. 

An offer was made in Silas’ fourth year and they should of said no. 

Instead they gave in, caved under the prospect of youthful delight and the promise of living out what was once a daydream. Yet, it must be kept at arms length, they could never truly shake the crippling feelings that were revealed every time they soared across the pitch. Most players never looked in their eyes, but if they did, the illusion would shatter. 

“Huh,” was the death sentence, of two pairs of brown eyes meeting, Leria’s eyebrow quirking up in surprise. “Guess even our own Ice King has a love for something.” 

And Silas is begging, ‘Please, please don’t cut through my facade. Don’t appoint me captain, don’t give me leadership, don’t give me preference.For I have so much more to loose than everyone else.’ 

celestial 

“Our universe is vast and infinite,” Silas was told in their first year, huddled at the top of the Astronomy tower in the middle of the night, brisk winds pulling them together like the pull of gravity on the earth. Blue scarf pulled around their neck, Silas drank up every word of the professor, becoming enamored with the mystery and beauty of space, the fever of the stars. Never a religious person, Silas found something holy on the winter nights they snuck up to the tower, eyes as wide as the full moon, drinking up something always present yet always changing. 

People were easy to fool, they took much of Silas at face value, let them become the mask they wore until it seemed permanently affixed to their bones. Yet, in the face of endless deep blue and warm purple, it seemed to melt away like puddles around their feet. 

“I am afraid,” Silas once said aloud, under the cover of darkness, in perfect solitude. “That I’ve always been someone else. That I’ve been pretending for so long, that no matter how deep I dig, I will only find fragments of others.” 

‘Am I somebody or am I nobody,’ was a question that not even the sky could resolve. 

côte d'ivoire

It used to flow over Silas’ tongue like sweet honey, fresh passion fruit and salty air; their home country was something to take pride in. It was their youth, a sickly sweet one, filled with childish naivety and an inevitable arrogance. It was their family, warm arms and gentle smiles, glowing eyes and amused laughter. It was blaring car horns and the rumble of trucks echoed with the rumble of running feet. It was four-on-four Quidditch, hovering right above sand hot enough to be steaming. It’s the smell of simmering meat, which envelops the body and soul as well as the home. 

Yet, more and more it became he anchor that held Silas in shackles, to a past they could never escape, a version of themself that they’d become disgusted with. A person who hung on to words like their mothers hand, a person with awe and excitement and that overflowed with trust. Silas had gone from smiles to smirks and they had no wish to return. 

“I’m from France,” they’d answer instead, “Outside of Manosque. It’s in the South, between Nice and Marseille,” with ‘But I grew up in Ivory Coast’ left only for the wind. 

“I buried my heart there.”

[silaszabini]

WHO: @laurelacosta WHERE: classroom 3c WHEN: mid-morning

There was an almost maddening sense of boredom than ran through Silas’ veins, a thrum that physically manifested itself in persistent eye rolls and shoulder shrugs. Of course it wasn’t logical, Silas was buried under enough work to send them to an early grave, yet the hollowness still persisted. It had only been a few days, was their rational originally, so of course they’d felt stifled. That was until they brushed shoulders with Laurel entering their morning Defense class, a subject that despite Silas piss-poor wandmanship and inability to caste a Patronus charm they were still able to pull O’s in. They greeted the Slytherin with a smile, though in all the years Silas had attended Hogwarts, they’d never sent a genuine one. It hadn’t changed that morning. 

Lecture was filled with scribbling of quills and ballpoint pens (which despite superior quality, Silas could simply not bring themself to use), typical of the theory-heavy intros to most N.E.W.T.S. Though once Professor Damsell called a break for partner work and student demonstration, that was when it could become interesting. Locking eyes with Laurel, Silas strode towards her, back straight and eyes ice cold. “Let’s say we work together,” they said once they were within reach, leaning against the adjacent desk. “I’ll play nice.”

The truth is Silas would never be caught dead playing nice and Laurel knew it. It was like playing with fire, something dangerous and destructive yet enrapturing all the same. At one point Silas was more likely to avoid her that seek out her company, the way she tore piece after piece of their construction should have been a reason to ditch, not to cling. Yet, here they were. Seeking one another out. “It’s been dull since I got back. Nothing interesting’s happened yet. Though, considering you’re you, maybe it’s not the same.” 

[rpfunstuff]

Send me a letter with a +

My muse will talk about three of their favorite things that begin with that letter.

[silaszabini]

WHO: @dvntcs WHERE: library WHEN: mid-afternoon, after class

They said seventh year is a marathon, a constant push and pull between the drive to succeed and the biological imperative to sleep. There was little solace from this, not even at the beginning of the term, despite the jovial spirit of most other students to be back at Hogwarts. While Silas might sneer at that sort of optimism in all their cynical glory, there was still a small part of him which was genuinely excited to learn, a small part of Ravenclaw which had latched on and grabbed a hold. Which is why despite a single day of lecture, Silas was already set up for the long haul in the library, Potions texts with various notes and addenda spread across the table. 

It could be surprising to some to find Silas with another, that despite their pride and need for academic superiority, they’d so willingly share information. Though, Silas had realized long ago that Potions was a subject best for multiple brains, improvements could be seen by some eyes and not others. Yet, the sight of Dante McLaggen and Silas Zabini cordially sharing notes might be even more of a shock to some. 

Despite all the very real and very petty rivalries Silas had with others, the one with Dante was only Quidditch leather deep. 

“Quidditch tryouts go well, Captain McLaggen?” Silas teased at one point, pulling up from scribbling part of an essay. While Silas wasn’t surprised his so-called rival was offered the position of captain, especially since Evans was graduating, they still had this image of the anal-retentive captain which the Ravenclaw team always seemed to get. “The Slytherins always seem to get an interesting crop of players.” 

[silaszabini]

james, potter.

WHO: open. WHERE: random hallway on the way to the great hall. WHEN: sometime during breakfast hours.

Nostalgia is unwelcome, a quiet beat that soon unravels into a pounding ache, swimming through his veins and against his marrow, but it’s difficult to go without it as he embarks on his final year within the company of the castle and all its quirks, despite wanting to tame the burn and welcome cool relief. His mum practically latches onto his frame as tightly as a niffler to its gold, and doesn’t that just invite a question? You’d think this year of all she’d find it in her to give him some more breathing room in those final moments before he’s off, or at least go focus on Lily or something, but practically to the edge of the train was he followed. He loves her, he does, it’s just ⏤ why can’t it be unceremonious, for once, deflating at least a smidgen of pressure from what this year ultimately means for his future? Fucking Christ and Godric both.

The bone-creeping nostalgia is still a mighty force the morning next, drumming though him as he wakes up to the roof of his crimson four-poster, thinking this is the last first day of classes I’ll ever have, and how annoyingly depressing is that line of thought? He continues on with shit like that and he’ll be submitting himself to Madam Abbott’s care within the end of the (last-first, a voice chimes) week.

He goes through the motions, dressing from the trunk that, as for the past seven years, greeted him at the foot of his bed as he returned from dinner last night, and then fighting to be the first in the bathroom (a surprise, that one, considering he usually sleeps in as long as possible, but the others were just too slow this time, much to his gloating), and finally making his way to the Great Hall, breakfast and ceaseless morning chatting awaiting.

Yet, as his feet slap the stone of the ancient floor beneath him, a familiar silhouette catches his eye, and it’s all too easy to jog over and splat a grin onto the muscles of his face. “Mornin’, stranger.”

To enter Hogwarts is to put on a mask, though, Silas has gotten used to the persona that clings to them regardless of number or the names of the people surrounding them. It would be more apt to call them personaes, it seems if every person gets a different version of themself, whatever will impress, whatever will freeze others in their tracks. There’s no escape from it in the hallowed castle halls, for students lurk around every corner and finding true solitude is rare. It seems as if the truest Silas can be is on a broom in the pitch and even then they’re scrutinized.

They made their way towards the Great Hall, mostly to eat breakfast as fast as humanly possible in order to hide in the Library until their first class began, a typical routine if Silas wasn’t going for a run or had a morning meeting. Instead, the Ravenclaw is greeted by a James Potter, uncharacteristically out and about at the early hour.  Perhaps if they were simple third years, Silas would poke fun at his early rising, or ask a brisk ‘Is it?’ in a teasing, yet ultimately friendly manner. But James is messy and Silas has already dropped him once, dark glares and angry words more recent memories than naive laughter. 

“Good morning as well,” Silas replies, jilted and stiff, unlike how they wanted it to sound. It’s as if they’d never carried on a conversation before. “Out and about this early for our first day of classes? How⏤ studious.” It was strange to think that in a few months, they’d no longer be in classes, along with the rest of the seventh years. “I assume your summer went well?”

[silaszabini]

leander, argyris.

Who; open Where; great hall When; late breakfast time

Leander picked at the remnants of his breakfast — all that was left on the plate was a torn up pancake and a few bites of sausage — pushing them around with his fork as he pored over his class schedule. It was getting a bit late for the meal, as evidenced by the tables not being quite as packed as they had been an hour previous and the mingling of the houses as friends from different houses decided to move and sit together regardless of affiliation.

Charms is first, Leander thought, a smile spreading across his face at seeing that on his schedule. Charms was his favourite subject, and having the NEWT-level class certainly helped with when the Fiddling Flitwicks met up and tinkered with the spells.

“Hey,” Leander said, stabbing a piece of his cold pancakes but not looking up from his schedule, “What do you have first? Anything interesting?” He popped the sweet piece of food into his mouth. “Think we have anything together?”

Silas wouldn’t be caught dead in the Great Hall during peak meal hours, the loud and often boisterous student population often caused Silas’ mood to drop to peak lows. They preferred the early hours of the morning, a cup of coffee and a thick book to deter anyone from making small talk. Yet, here they were, sitting past breakfasts peak hours, with little more than scraps of toast left on their plate. Re-reading through an advanced potions book in preparation, Silas had hoped others might leave them alone. 

Leave it to Leander to ruin that plan. 

Looking up from their light reading towards their housemate, Silas sent him a look of annoyance. “Make a deduction about the probability of two people in the same house sharing a class,” they offered, about as dismissive as they usually were towards Leander. “I’ll give you a hint, it’s fairly high.” With that, they snapped their book shut, since it wasn’t likely Silas could weasel their way out of this conversation. “We’ll share Charms, I assume. Highly unexpected that Mr. Charms Extraordinaire would drop it.” Unfortunately for Silas, dropping Charms seemed nearly impossible. Despite barely pulling an A, it seemed like both their head of house and Professor Montacute were hell bent on keeping them in it. 

“Any other stokes of brilliance this morning, Leander? Going to ask if we’ll share meals this year?”

[silaszabini]

zabini, silas. timetable. seventh year. 

core classes & electives → potions, defense against the dark arts, herbology, transfiguration, charms, astronomy, ancient runes. 

extracurriculars  → quidditch, ravenclaw beater. 

[onlykeithpowers]

📷Elias Tahan