The Quiet Ambition

The first thing I noticed was the silence.

It was early—too early for most people, but just right for me. The astronomy tower felt like the only place in the whole castle where the world didn't press in on me. Most people filled the space with noise, with desires, with expectations. But here, it was just me, the stars, and the stillness.

I think that's why I like it. When everything else is still, you can hear yourself, feel yourself, in a way that no other time lets you.

I pull my instrument from its case and let my fingers gently caress the strings. The melody is soft, simple. Nothing too complicated. It's all about the feeling, the way the notes drift into the morning air, just like the thoughts in my mind. The wind whispers around the tower, almost like it's listening, too. I think that's what I like about music—how it can capture something you don't even know you're feeling.

I wasn't supposed to be in Slytherin. Not really. I know that. I didn't want anything. Nothing to prove. Nothing to chase. Not like the others. I remember sitting there in the Great Hall, the Sorting Hat on my head, feeling the weight of its gaze, its thoughts tangled in my own.

"Ambition," it had said. "Drive. Desire."

But I didn't have any of that. No deep, burning hunger. No fierce will to conquer. I didn't want fame. I didn't care about glory or wealth or power.

So, when it finally shouted "Slytherin!" it almost felt like a mistake. A mistake, or maybe a misinterpretation. What was it seeing? What was it feeling in me?

But then I realized something. It wasn't that I didn't want anything; it was that I didn't need anything. The absence of wanting—that's the other side of ambition, isn't it? The one that nobody talks about. If you don't care about the outcome, then you're free. Free to watch everything without becoming tangled up in it. Free to just... be.

I think that's why I don't mind being alone. I don't mind being in the shadows, in the quiet. There's peace in the stillness, in not chasing anything, in not needing anything. It's like being the observer, not the participant. It's easier this way, and it's easier to understand the people around you when you're not so focused on what you're missing.

I watch them all. I watch the others, and I think I understand them better than they understand themselves. Solace, with his golden eyes and wild charm, always pushing boundaries, chasing things he can't seem to hold. Ellie, with her bubbly optimism and her curiosity that can't be satisfied, like a flame that burns hotter the more it's fed. Finnian, always loyal but never fully trusting, hiding a heart of gold beneath his dry wit. Cedric, constantly thinking of what he could be, always in motion, always considering his next move.

And then there's Lucius.

I've been watching him, too. Cold. Precise. A little unnerving, even for Slytherin. He carries himself like he's already in control, like he's already the one pulling the strings. He's calculating, always several steps ahead of everyone else, his eyes always scanning, always measuring. Some might call it ambition. But it's something different, isn't it? It's more like a fear—fear of losing what little he has left, fear of falling apart. He hides it behind all the power plays, the perfect façade of a leader, but I can see it.

Lucius is broken, though he'd never admit it. The ambition and cold calculation mask something much deeper, something more fragile. I don't know what it is—loss, maybe, or something that happened before he came to Hogwarts. He hides it behind his perfect smile, behind his sharp words and sharper plans, but I feel it. He's still grieving something, someone, and he doesn't want anyone to see that.

I understand why he pushes himself so hard. The stronger the ambition, the less you have to think about what's missing. The more you achieve, the less it matters that you're hollow inside. He doesn't want to need anyone because the moment you need someone is the moment you lose control, the moment everything slips away.

It's an interesting thing, really. To want nothing is one thing, but to need nothing? To fear needing anything or anyone? That's something else entirely. That's the kind of thing that twists you inside out, makes you drive yourself further and further, until you almost forget what it was you were running from in the first place.

Lucius doesn't care that I see through him. He doesn't even notice. And maybe that's the most telling thing of all. He's so consumed by his desire to keep everything together, to keep his mask in place, that he doesn't even sense the cracks anymore.

I strum a few more chords on my instrument, letting the sound fill the space around me, soft and steady. I don't need anyone to hear it. I don't need anything, not really. But there's something about this—something about the music, the quiet, the understanding of what's beneath the surface—that keeps me centered.

I'm fine, just like this. In this moment, the silence is enough. And the distance, the space between me and everyone else—it's just how it needs to be.