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Chi Zeleza

    (11/08/2017 at 06:13)
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Application for Hogwarts School


Name: Chi Zeleza (pronounced “Kai”)

Birthday: April 15

Hometown: Sheffield. South Yorkshire, England.

Bloodline: Halfblood

Malawian (Paternal) Halfblood
Polish (Maternal) Muggleborn

Magical Strength (pick one): Charms

Magical Weakness (pick one): Transfiguration

Year (pick two): SIXTH! (second choice seventh)


The difference between a cage and a box was the intended use. The former was meant for things: living, while the latter was for things: other. Neither were meant for flight. Swallows. Swallowing fear, disappointment, and alike, a child laid sprawled on the insults edge of her bed by the window in her flat, and sobbed quietly into her folded arms. It had been the first time she’d been captured by words. By mean spirits. They were the type with wild, half-gapped smiles. Fingers that tugged and prodded. The type that drank the tears of little girls. It was a vile potion, but once swallowed, it forged her. A tiny thing into a soaring eagle. Into a pteranodon. A star.

When she sat up and caught sight of her reflection, pitiful in this mass of curls, she giggled.

Outside of that one instance—that one near catastrophic anomaly, Chi was a diamond. Resilient. Bright. Nothing could taint her, and her tongue cut back, laced with wit and sarcasm. She prevailed in tactics, and doodled herself in the margins of her copies of Quidditch histories, soaring across the tops of paragraphs.

 In her familys’ flat, the summers passed like dishes across the dining room table of their flat. In her mind, it was always June, and her feet never touched the floor. Her mother was fussing over some new bruise on her arm. It was always after Saturday Quidditch practice with her father. He was still in his jersey—he’d been brought in from Malawi as a keeper for a private team in his youth. (He always said the “fields” here were nothing like the “fields” in Africa, because when he was a kid, they didn’t have “fields”, they had fields.) He was like the sun itself, laughing between heaping spoons of food. On the field—whichever it happened to be—however, he was like a solar flare. Like an eclipse. It was in this shadow she was born, and existed. This impossible thing.
This attention-seeping and unfailing force. 

Across the table, his eyes found her.

“Don’t drop the Quaffle when I tickle you—especially when I tickle you.” He said, pausing to take a long sip of Butterbeer. “It’s your arm. Can you drop your arm? No.”

It was a premonition. The type her uncle raved on about. Now it was a scar, the first half of a two part nightmare masked by reality. The dark blue table cloth blurred, and the crumbs became stars. Wind bit her ears, and carried off her father’s words. Her legs still didn’t reach the ground, but now it was not her height that inhibited her, but the height at which she spun over the Earth. She had been thirteen. Unlucky.

It was about two hours after her team had dismissed practice, but she still flew. Calling her down was like reclaiming the snitch itself. It had rained for most of the week, and she’d been holed up in her dormitory marveling over diagrams of broom tricks. Aerial feats and acrobatics. Antics of old matches. It was Autumn, all tainted by feuillemort and folly, but she still had only waded in the shallows of defeat. Taunts were flesh wounds, and victory, and the pro leagues, were just a few years and feet beyond her.

All she had to do was amaze them.

There was no one, although there should have been. Another one of her father’s anecdotes—your broom is not your friend. Your friend is your friend. Someone had to catch you and watch you—she soared in confidence. In the books, it seemed so simple.

Her left leg joined her right and she straddled the broom. Step one.

With both her arms, she hoisted herself up and tucked her knees until her feet were firmly planted. The broom tilted as she leaned back too far, and careened off course, but as long as she stayed near the tops of the stands there was a low risk of crashing into anything. Step two.

A breath. A swallow. A fleeting moment of some incendiary emotion.

Then, she stood. Step three.

For a moment, she was free, her balance perfect. Wind slipped through her fingers, and it was magnificent. She felt like bellowing, or singing...

…or screaming, as she was falling. Tumbling, spinning, towards the ground.

All she could grasp was wind. She had no wings, or flight, or center. Nothing.

When she awoke, she had lost her right arm. It was there, but broken like a heart. Like glass. Like some unrecoverable thing. Potions. Poisons. Wrong-handed scribbles and frustrated notes. It was a sudden cage. No, a box, as without Quidditch she was nothing. It defined her. For the first few months, she couldn’t bear the games, but then she went again. Again. Again. From the calmness of the outside, she studied the art of it—the faults in the movement of the other players. The passes that might have gone better.

After the initial shock, punctuated by her older brother lumbering up the stairs to bring her some medicine, her father finally assured her that she could not, and would not, lose her arm. It would come back to her. It would grow strong again, and time itself would pass.

After five months, (one for each finger, her mother chimed), her fingers moved again. It took another seven to grasp a quill. Every day, she took to softer sports and stretches. Muggle punches. Simple throwing practice. The motions came back, but the pain remained. The fear of failing. Falling. The gut-wrenching horror of it.

Yet she was a dragon, and no cage would hold her. She’d make it to the leagues yet.



House Request: Ravenclaw (see personality)

Personality: Although headstrong and sarcastic around her friends, Chi’s stubbornness comes from a petrifying fear of failure. Her love of Quidditch is obsessive and almost encyclopedic at times, and she often talks down to anyone who can’t remember the players and inane details of matches. She keeps a log of games she’s been to, as well as a private diary of her own accomplishments and failures when she flies.

Aside from Quidditch, Chi excels in anything involving logic or tactics, especially Wizard’s Chess, puzzles, and sports. She tends to have a one-track mind, and only focuses well on one thing, but tends to be obsessive on the subject of her attention.

Most of her thoughts are linear. Imaginative pursuits confuse her, and she always shies away from open-ended problems and subjects like Transfiguration. While not on the field, it’s clear she’d rather be doing something else.

In her relationships, she’s the epitome of tough love, and has a sharp tongue. Brutal in her honesty, she prefers facts over excuses. Despite this, she thrives in a community and on a team, especially after being bullied in her youth for her race.


Sunlight was precious, especially as it waned after the solstice. It hid from sons and daughters, and Machiavelli. It would abandon the world entirely to night—this time in which up was down, and left was right, and all was dark. Chi had rose with the light, and sprung from her bed. In front of her dormitory she’d stretched to the sky, and, like Hermes, practically flew across moving staircases to breakfast. If she had grown, she didn’t know it. Everyone masqueraded like adults, but they were teens. They still possessed this youth—this hope. This innate potential to rise above.

At breakfast, she barely seated herself before ripping a tome from her bag and scrawling answers to the previous night’s Potions homework. Jam from one of her pieces of toast nearly dripped onto one of the pages, and she wiped at it absently. Recently, her course load had increased massively, and after spending so much time on History of Magic she had nearly forgotten she’d even registered for potions. It wasn’t like potions mattered—all she did was drink them, not make them herself.

Satisfied, she took off again after chatting to her housemates. Her first classes would start soon, so she had to get to the pitch in a hurry. Nearly running, her robes in her arms rather than around her shoulders properly, she made her away across the grounds.

There was something odd though—red flowers?

Typically, a god or apocalypse itself couldn’t stop her in her pursuit of practice, but she glanced over at the sea of crimson petals out of curiosity. Hey eyebrows came together, incredulous. Who was this idiot ripping up a flower bed?
His expression seemed hideous.

“Just wondering…”  she chimed back, as her arms crossed. “If you dropped your dignity or something?”

It was too late for her to realize the jam that missed her homework had sought refuge in her curls.


Please list any characters you have on the site (current and previous): Ars Cadwallader, et al

How did you find us?: Funny story. I went to starbucks one day in Nightvale and ordered a PSL and this url was on it? Strange world, right?

Blame cyb for my re-appearance
« Last Edit: 11/08/2017 at 07:22 by Chi Zeleza »

* Anneka Ivanova

    (15/08/2017 at 01:21)
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Miss Zeleza,

We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

Term begins 01 September 2017. Currently, students have gathered at Camp Loki. Your admission is joint for both the school and Camp Loki, and we encourage you to spend your summer there. Should you choose, you may also visit our Elsewhere board via the Floo Network to visit or purchase school supplies. We look forward to seeing you at the Castle.


and if I'm flying solo, at least I'm flying free
to those who ground me, take a message back from me
tell them how I am defying gravity