z has never been one to show love and care in obvious ways - and to be fair to him, he never had it modeled to him. with his mum, it’s a bit different: they know each other, completely and entirely. he can drape his arm over her shoulders without her flinching; she can run her hands through his hair, damp from the shower, messing with it like he’s still only eight years old, without his whole body freezing and entering attack mode. with everyone else, though, it’s a little different. it’s more about what he doesn’t do than what he does; if he’s not standing to attention, fists clenched or mind on his wand and an escape route, you’re in his good graces. if he relaxes, allows himself to show even the slightest hint of emotion, he likes you.
affection, from z, is something like sticking his neck out for someone. defending them even when they’re wrong. accepting a gift and cherishing it, even when it may be stupid, or something he doesn’t actually like. it’s him smiling, letting his guard down. it’s him going out of his way to touch someone in a way that isn’t a threat; a silent message of yeah, i feel safe. and it doesn’t happen often.
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z has had two wands in his life: his first was one he now knows was too weak for what he’s become. it was a family heirloom, an old cousin of his mother’s had died young, and the wand had made its way down to him as the last member of their part of the diggory line. it was ash; it didn’t take to him well. and the first time he’d used it to perform sectumsempra, it had cracked in his hands. he’d gone to diagon alley for a replacement a few weeks later: this time, the wand was yew, with dragon heartstring, a mere nine inches, and unyielding.
it took a long time for z to realise that dear means a lot more than just concern for one’s own life. at first, he was always afraid. and then he realised he didn’t mind so much, about his own safety. he thought he’d destroyed fear. it wasn’t really until he had a new family - a better one, where he really was safe, that he realised that fear could be for others, too. and then, they joined the death eaters, and fear became one of z’s ruling emotions.
style and self expression are something z understands without really understanding it. he dresses in a way he sees as natural, simple, and uncaring. old denim that’s beginning to tear; rumpled white button-ups that are old enough to be thin and yellow. he owns a few nicer, brighter shirts. but they are too much advertisement of the self. he’d rather dress in a baggy white shirt, or in layers of just-too-big black tees and hoodies, no matter how much others might try and convince him otherwise.
on hard days he’ll pull on an old sweater of his mother’s: one that she bought herself, from a secondhand store, in the winters where his father would draw away and only really appear when the rage got too much. a lot of the sweaters have holes in their elbows and armpits: z neither knows how to repair them even with magic, but nor does he care to. he’s an amalgam of experience: his own, and his mother’s.
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❝He wears a mask, and his face grows to fit it.❞ ARAMIS KNIGHT? No, that’s actually EZRA “Z” DIGGORY. A SEVENTH YEAR student, this RAVENCLAW student is sided with THE DEATH EATERS. HE identifies as MALE and is a HALFBLOOD who is known to be COLD, WITHDRAWN, and VENGEFUL but also LOYAL, EFFICIENT, and METICULOUS.
TW FOR ABUSE & SELF-HARM THROUGHOUT
nb; ezra’s pakistani/indian heritage comes from his mother’s side of the family. she was a pureblood who married into the diggory family - cedric would have been his uncle, or something, he doesn’t really know. he has at least one pureblood stepsibling, with whom he shares no blood relation, but who is part of the reason z got involved with the death eaters (they VERY much pushed each other into it without realising it - which, btw, BRING ME CONNECTIONS). he goes by his mother’s maiden name; she doesn’t know about his alignment.
imagine a boy gone wrong. not in his birth, no, but in his upbringing. his mother he loves, still, unconditionally and unquestioningly. a shining star, a beauty, perfect and unmarred.
his father, however… his father was a religious man, a catholic, devout to the point of fanaticism. looking back, ezra has no clue how his mother fell in love with the man. has no idea how the man came to marry a witch. but these are questions he doesn’t ask. ezra was brought up catholic, but more than that he was expected to be perfect, pliant, and subservient. there was punishment when he didn’t comply, and sometimes punishment when he did. he learned early on how to make himself apparent so his mother was not. this is where he taught himself to hate muggles.
he found solace in church. he found comfort in confession, in belief in a higher power. he prayed to god every night for release.
he was ten, waiting eagerly for his escape to hogwarts when his father died. he didn’t ask how it happened, though he never believed in the myth of an accident. the idea of vengeance made him happy. he was sorted into ravenclaw - a fact which puzzles most people, when they meet him. he comes off stupid and uncaring. in fact, he’s a terrible student, but shockingly adept at offensive magics. to his own horror, he quickly found out that he is also talented in the dark arts. (secretly, too, he’s something of a poet. he burns many of his writings, though, as they are about his guilt, his self-hatred.)
his mother remarried when he was twelve, while he was at school, to the father of a kid he knew from hogwarts and had met once or twice over the summer. still, his muggle father haunted him. he fell in with the death eaters far too easily; his step-siblings and himself egging each other on. he truly thought nothing would come of it. he laughed his way in. then his siblings were in deep, he was in deep. it would be too dangerous to get out.
he dropped his birth name early on. he will not respond to ezra. it was his father’s name, too.
he started being asked to hurt people. he was good at it, and he still is. he figures he’s an intimidating person, for he doesn’t reveal much about himself. but his guilt, ever-present, plagued him. he still wears a cross necklace over his chest, and it burns every time he remembers he has joined the side of hate. for every person he hurts, ever scheme he plots, he magicks a cut into his skin, deep enough to scar. they join the welts his father gave him. his back is littered with marks.
he writes in old books, on the back of pages with potion recipes and tweaks. blood poetry. it’s good, he knows this, but it is born of horrendousness. he doesn’t want anyone to see it. he writes, then he burns the pages while the ink is still wet.
but he doesn’t leave, because he knows he’d do terrible things for his siblings. not for a cause. not for himself. for them. and to leave would be to endanger them. he would kill for them, maim for them. he terrifies himself, but there is no changing it. that is the true evil, he thinks, inside of himself.
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