Silas Longbottom

Travels to nowhere and spotting those who have since passed on. 19 years old. He/him/his. Gryffindor. Middle class. Pureblood. I am no longer afraid of the shadows, only the dark.

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shepherdchang

He needed to write another letter home. He woke with the thought, and it had followed every string of conversation he had throughout the day. At this point, Samuel knew he couldn’t dismiss the nagging sensation that he, at the very least, update Isabel on the events that had transpired. There was hope he wouldn’t have to write her for a while, but…ah, the Lord always had different thoughts.

The library was the best place for now, as his bed was a nasty temptation, especially when he didn’t dare close his eyes. Not yet. The sleeping tonics were working better – perhaps the presence of aurors assisted with that – but he needed to snatch a semblance of a sleep schedule. It would work better for him in the end.

At this point of day, he expected to be the only one, or one of few. It meant quiet, a place to organize what he wanted to write. Alas, that expectation unraveled as he jumped at a sudden outburst.

Furrowing his brows for a moment, he caught sight of the source, and gave a small smile. He pressed a finger to his lips, looking over his shoulder to see if somebody was coming to scold. As he started walking toward the other boy, he made sure to keep his voice soft as he said, “Silas, hello. How are you today?”

Silas smiled and stretched his arms and legs out, relaxing a bit, almost cat-like. Samuel could pretend to be stern all he wanted, but Silas knew he was friendly, if a bit of a stickler for the rules. Snarky as he could be, Silas would make an exception for most Hufflepuffs, and there was something about Samuel that made Silas feel guilty whenever he was too clever.

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you.” It was true, mostly, for Silas just really longed for company at this point, and maybe someone from another house to offer him a place to sleep in their common room; his mother knew where the Gryffindor tower was and was probably lurking near there.

He yawned, indulging in his exhaustion for just a moment. Lord, a place to sleep that was not a table would be nice.

“I’m good, my friend. Tired of these Aurors, but good. And you?”

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adevittdevil

She jumped a little when she heard his voice and then immediately scolded herself for it. She was Marguerite Devitt. She shouldn’t get scared by a loud noise–no matter how unexpected. She smiled and raised a hand to greet him. With a Defense Against The Dark Arts book in her hand and warmness in her mannerisms she walked to him, one hand in her coat.

“Hello, Silas. I didn’t expect anyone to be here. Hard at work?”

For once, just once, Silas had not meant to be sly or jokingly scare someone. He was simply bored, starved for human attention, because he was not the sort to disturb someone who actually was trying to get work done. At least Marguerite did not seem to take his small outburst personally; she was coming over to join him.

"More like avoiding my mother.” A forced, if friendly smile, and patting the seat for Marguerite to join him.

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It was simply easier to spend all his time in the library than even see his mother, so Silas had taken to practically living at a long table, only leaving for the odd cup of tea or when the librarian kicked him out. And for classes, of course.

But Silas was a little starved for human company. No, he was desperate for human company, for someone to talk to, even if it was just at a whisper, for someone to joke with. Books, his research, his own brilliant mind, could only keep him occupied for so long. So, when he heard someone else walk in, he spoke a bit louder than was wise.

“Hello!”

[artfulfashion]

John Boyega in Man Of The World Magazine photographed by Kurt Iswarienko

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Perchance to Dream || Open

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biliusnygard

The Ravenclaw common room was, at once, a godsend and a burden, and it was entirely conditional on the timing. It was surreal being able to study in a magnificent tower so close to the sky that he felt he could hear the old alchemists speaking to him through the air, that his research quite literally was taking flight. Really, the worst thing about it was this certain proclivity Ravenclaws seemed to have, that they preferred to study at night and in small droves, their din low enough to be indecipherable but loud enough to be disruptive. The library was worse, the silence deafening.

He’d taken to sneaking into the Gryffindor common room some nights - though he hardly considered it sneaking in if he had the password. A small, mousy girl he’d befriended during class some weeks ago had offered it to him, perhaps a token of gratitude for his company and chattering during some suppers if he found her, and he’d readily accepted it. The crackling fire was perfect background noise, and there were usually far less Gryffindors up studying this late.

It was here Bilius felt somewhat secure perusing through his anatomy books - there were innocent enough to explain to the average passerby should they question his interest (rather than his true motives, trying to dream up new, more grotesque hybrids based on the limitations of human anatomy), and he had them open on his left side with some Potions work to his right. He was deep into his studies when a voice cut through the air, and he forced himself not to startle too terribly.

“Oh! Hello,” he said, offering the other a genial smile. “No, I suppose not, though it’s not something I mind - I regularly get five to six hours of sleep, and I much prefer the shadows the moon may cast to that of the sun.” He set his quill down on the desk. “Are you going out? Careful that the professors don’t catch you. I came in just before curfew to avoid the professors.”

Silas did not recognize the voice, not as Gryffindor at least. Hogwarts was small enough that he knew everyone by name, but large enough that the individual voices outside of his house all ran together in his mind, discordant as the many tongues that tangled in back alleys in Prague, Moscow, London. But in the common rooms, certain sounds were familiar; they had to be as familiar as a crackling fire or Harriet’s loud laugh or how Honoria chewed her nails down to the quick. Foreign voices were just that, foreign, and Silas did not like them.

He drew his wand, out of habit more than anything. Supposedly, there was nothing to fear at Hogwarts. Supposedly. Silas was not one drawn to silly superstitions, even though they fascinated, but he was more than aware of the rumors that drifted down the halls, and exactly how true they were.

But no, it was no monster, no gruesome ghost seated before the fire, but Billius, that Ravenclaw, the Muggleborn who Silas’s mother was unusually fond of. Silas wasn’t unfriendly to Bilius, but he certainly did not know the other boy especially well, beyond first names and an occasionanal shared class when they had been younger. But it was, well, odd, to see a Ravenclaw so at home in the Gryffindor common room. Ravenclaws were clever, far too clever by half, if anyone asked Silas, so it was all together possible that Billius had just cracked the password and could come and go as he pleased. That was rude, even for a Muggleborn, and Silas somehow doubted that one would just invite themselves into another house’s common room, unless they had good reason.

“What are you doing here?” He was in no mood to be polite, not so late at night, not when he had been practically caught sneaking out. “And what are you reading?” Silas stepped forward, wand still out, trying to get a better look at the books, but it was still too dark, and all he could see was a shadowy drawing of… something.

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A moodboard for Silas Avery Longbottom

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rolestrange

Roberta danced as she walked, which is to say she didn’t so much as dance as float as though she were lost to a childish daydream, the tips of her petite feet hardly brushing the stone floor. Having a partner to her dancing however, disagreed with her, as she would much rather waltz on her own or with the castle ghosts than allow a clumsy pair of hands to clasp at her skin, or feel the hot stinking breath glance of a courting comrade looking for a suitable young wife he could move to his own desire and lead round the dance floor.

A song change gave her the escape opportunity she had been looking for, and a lifetime of having attended balls like this one allowed her the necessary knowledge needed to successfully elude all who tried to catch her attention, leaving empty hands snatching at the lace cascading from her, nothing but spider webs.

How she had ended up taking respite in Silas shadow she didn’t quite know, but the boy did seem to have a talent for avoiding prying eyes, and he was a good deal taller than her and hid her quite easily. Roberta had assumed her presence hadn’t been noted by him, but when he spoke up she saw that she was quite glad to be wrong on that account.

“I’d care for more — if you’d be so generous.”

Greedy hands were held out for the flask, and grey eyes darted around the ballroom, cold and cautious.

“I must say you’ve quite the gall, Silas. It would be almost impressive if your whisky was up to par with your nerve.”

There was something about Roberta that always made Silas a touch uneasy. Perhaps it was how she moved through the world like a ghost, more like his father than any living person he knew, or how she always seemed to be lost in her own world, as if she herself could cross over some sort of invisible boundary marker. Even at this ball, she drifted through the crowd like a wraith, and it made Silas’s neck hairs stand on edge, far more than he’d like to admit. Call him traditional in this sense at least, but Silas liked to know if the person he was talking to was alive or dead.

All the same, he put on a cheerful face when she floated toward him, already reaching for his flask before she even said hello. Manners, it seemed, did not necessarily come with blood purity or class, despite what the Senate may try to have the wixen world believe.

“Nice to see you too, Roberta.” Silas opened the flask, took a quick swig, but did not offer it to her. How long, he wondered, would it take for her to snap and snatch it from him? 

If Roberta thought she would get more than a taste of Muggle whiskey, she was a fool. Changing wizarding coin to shillings and farthings was nightmare enough, and sometimes, Silas felt like he only left the castle under his mother’s watchful eye; no, if Roberta drank it all, there would be no more until his next forray into the Muggle world, alone.

Another quick sip, and then he handed the flask to her. “It’s Muggle whiskey, so I doubt it would suit your fancy.”

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ravenousbathilda

Bathilda had taken to walk around the room, eating very little of the food presented to them as there was such an abundance of it she felt full just from looking at it. Her dress felt like a second skin and she was glad to have saved up money for that particular purchase although unlike the other girls she couldn’t dance without being in almost excruciating pain. She had already emptied the flask of firewhiskey she’d brought with her and her sense were pleasantly dulled. She was not one to enjoy drinking so much but all this display of opulence made her feel uncomfortable. She didn’t belong there.

As she came to a stop, back landing against a stone column she heard someone call to her from her left and turned to be met with a familiar face. She couldn’t recall his name but she had seen the young man before, she was sure of it. She frowned at him, a giggle escaping her lips as she wiggled her own flask in front of him. “Great minds think alike.” She responded and it was rather clear she wasn’t fully sober.

Silas was quietly relieved that Bathilda had stumbled upon him and not some haughty Pureblood. Well, he was a Pureblood, but not the haughty sort, and Silas always did feel a bit more comfortable with people like Bathilda, people who knew secret routes in cities and where to stop for a crusty slice of bread and hearty bit of cheese. At least, Silas assumed Bathilda knew those things and was that sort of lower class witch; he actually did not know her all too well, since she wasn’t nearly interesting enough to be of any help to him.

“I didn’t know you had it in you.” Silas was being honest. Bathilda was a Ravenclaw, and Ravenclaws were supposed to be smart, smart enough to not sneak alcohol into a school ball, smart enough to be a little more subtle about it. But he liked it all the same. “What’s your poison?”

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ursula-flint

Circulating the room to find acceptable people to talk to was proving to be more of a difficult task than Ursula had originally imagined. While it was easy to pick many people out by their garment, there were a few women she knew to be lower class who did not look as such, and already she had stumbled upon three of her least favorite purebloods in search of Isla to have a nice conversation with, or even Elladora to rile up slightly.

What she did not expect was to be stopped on her path of walking by a man who was offering her a sip of something from a flask. Taken aback, Ursula raised an eyebrow at him, mildly horrified and surprised at his audacity. “Hardly,” she answered back shortly, eyes flicking to the flask which smelled vaguely of some alcohol she did not recognize. Like Firewhiskey but not at all. It did not have the same cinnamon smell to it.

Silas smiled at the witch. He could not recognize her, not with the mask obscuring her face, but she seemed, well, nervous. He didn’t blame her. This whole masked ball thing was nerve-wracking. Yes, he’d had his fair share of balls through the years, knew how to make nice, but it was almost worse when the people you were forced to dance with were your peers, not some old stogies who you would probably never see again. That was part of the reason why he’d smuggled in his flask; if Silas was going to dance and socialize with his fellow students, he would rather be drunk.

It was Ursula. Silas knew that voice, that detached manner pretending to be shocked. Secretly, he sort of liked Ursula, not that he’d ever share that embarrassing tidbit with anyone. Still, he had a reputation to uphold, and if he did not tell a biting joke, make Ursula laugh, it was just another nail in his mold’s coffin.

“I always thought you were fond of small pleasures, Ursula.”

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so uh since this is the new account for silas, im going to be replying to my old posts on this if that works for everyone?