And even the birds have stopped singing...
For when all the world's malice is endured by these handfuls of teenagers, the hush of sorrow settles in.
Carly Wren Davies is her parents' boxing bag and the very reason they need one in the first place...
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ALTHOUGH numerous magicked ventilators hover through the rooms of the Zabini residence, expelling cool air, Carly fans her cheeks violently. The scorching air forces droplets of sweat to cook into her t-shirt; iced water is her constant companion.
For Blaise, the single fan at the nape of his neck appears to be sufficient, his dry skin a provocation to Carly's sticky body.
The boy reclines in a kitchen chair, his gaze flitting through a muggle recipe book. Focus splayed over the listed ingredients as though nothing more fascinating has ever been put down on paper. A finger shifts to push his glasses further up the bridge of his nose, faint sweat impossible to be wholly avoided.
For a minute, Carly scrutinizes her friend from where she stands in the door frame. It is not peculiar for Blaise to lose himself among fictional universes and paper characters, but since a book filled with only recipes does not include either, she wonders if more interests are lurking beneath the layers of Blaise which have yet to be unearthed.
At last, she slouches inside, toward the cupboard, and Blaise hoists his eyes for a fraction of a second, the corners of his mouth following before restoring his attention to salmon and rice. Carly goes to grab a glass, noting the boy's glasses in the process. "How come you never wear them at school?"
Blaise squirms in his seat in reaction. One of his hands clutches slightly stiffer around the book's hard cover, whereas the other drums a tune onto the empty chopping board in front of him. "I don't like the way they look on me," he rasps, onyx eyes needled to the image of deliciously arranged stuffed peppers.
Carly tilts her head. "You look sophisticated," she states, turning to fill her glass with tap water.
"Aren't I?" asks Blaise humorously, a smirk creeping onto his lips as he gently shuts the book and places it next to the chopping board.
"You are," Carly affirms, "But the glasses make you look the part." She drops three ice cubes into her drink.
Blaise bends back in his seat, arms folded across his chest. He mutely reconfirms Carly's presence with furrowed eyebrows. "Is that truly you?" he asks. "Carly Davies, judging a book by its cover?"
"It truly is me," she tuts.
"So," the boy swings his right foot onto his left knee, licking his lips as if debating some potentially significant hypothesis, "it's a plausible thing to do?"
"It isn't," the girl takes a sip of her water, ankles crossed as her spine leans against the kitchen sideboard, "And we shouldn't. But that does not prevent us from doing so. It appears to be an innate trait that is difficult to eradicate from humanity."
"So, what's your philosophy?"
"My philosophy," Carly chortles, "Is to live a smidge more freely and slightly less seriously."
