pv The fault in our stars

One could only stay in the Slytherin dormitories for so long if they desired to be sane. They were a suffocating dungeon, and although Archer had learnt to grow accustomed to the cold stone walls enclosing him, a month in the Canadian mountains was enough to ease him out of the habit. Having woken up to a curtain of green blinding his eyes, the little viper had cast a softly illuminating Lumos under his breath. Donning a jacket over silken sleepwear, he pulled the hood up slightly to cover the little light of his. Slipping into socks and tightly lacing boots, he deftly stole out of his room, careful not to disturb the other students. So with darkness as his cover, it was just him and his light against the world....

The astronomy tower was just as he remembered from last year. Archer was no longer an astronomy intern but such limitations would not quell his love for the stars above. While his own room served as a gateway to the night sky with their burning constellations above implanted into the ceiling, Uranus was glorious after nightfall. Taking each step to the observation deck with care, the dark figure would move across an even darker landscape cautiously. Breathing deeply as he was greeted with the high autumn air, a breeze whipped at his swiftly growing hair, every part of tonight reminding him of the misty isle of Scotland. 'Nox,' he murmured softly, unaware of the presence of another student but unwilling to disturb the still fury of nature. Glancing upwards, the young mountain boy was brought back to nights on the roof with Maman. As the clock clicked towards eleven or twelve, or as early as ten, they would bring blankets and hot chocolate to the roof deck, and if Archer was willing, they would climb onto the slanted side and immerse themselves in not only the stars but the beautiful stories behind them. Papa would claim he did not know of such nights, but he did, for once Archer saw him smiling up at the inseparable duo. They were inseparable.

And there it was. The very incarnation of the mother and son in the sky. With the moon a bare sliver, way was made for two all but too familiar constellations to shine clearly. Ursa Major and Ursa Minor... Maman and her darling cub. Jove had "...snatched them through the air in whirlwinds up to heaven and fix'd them there; where the new constellations nightly rise, and add a lustre to the northern skies," as Ovid wrote in his Metamorphoses. And lustre they did add, for they were immortalised on the sky, forever to love each other even after death. And there it was, too. The Polaris the larger constellation revolved around, the guide to the traveller when night gets too dark. Being the son of a navigator, it was the first star Archer had learnt, it was his little light if he was to find himself without Lumos, but to him, pass the technicals of everything, his Polaris was Maman, the one light that shone his way, the one person that brought him up after each and every fall. "The brightest stars burn the fastest"... but his star would never burn out, right? Never.

Drunk under Urania's charm, the Scot took a few passional steps towards the edge of the tower, only to find himself halting in a sudden in front of a girl sat cross-legged on the cool floor. Silently retreating, Archer made no additional sound as he took his own seat by the blonde-haired lady. There was no need for conversation unless she was the initiator. Today, they were both up here not to appreciate the beauty of humans but the beauty of the stars above.

@Anastasia Varney

Feet on the ground, mind with the stars.

Taking Anastasia’s nod as acceptance of his presence, Archer tipped his head back before returning his gaze to the stars and their stories above once more. The great canvas in the heavens reminded him of the so much more left to discover, his own blank page of dreams he could paint them watch come true, his own little light that could lead him faraway from home then right back once more.

All too suddenly, he would be reminded of those bright days come summertime, when his freckles would fight for shine with his hazel eyes, specks of pigmentation dotting his cheeks ands the tip of his nose. He was still at a young age when his mother would dress him, and as Maman buttoned his shirt, she would take a step back and kneel down to look him in this eyes. She would smile, pride and cherishing crinkling at her own eyes. “Those freckles you have here,” she would softly say, a delicate pianist finger gently tapping him on the nose. “They remind me of the dots on my map- No,” she would them correct herself, shaking her head wistfully. “They’re like constellations, mon chéri¹.” As Archer would cock his head in curiosity, Maman would spin him to face the mirror. The young one would giggle in delight and say, “They do indeed!”

Who are you thinking of? The Scot almost let himself ask, before reminding himself not to disturb the tranquility of the night. She must have been thinking of someone. Someone who was a star, or someone up there with the stars.

1: my dear

@Anastasia Blackwood-Varney

She was crying.

Moonlight reflected streaks of liquid crystal, rolling down her pale cheeks. She sniffled, shaking breath breaking their steady and rhythmic yet utterly silent duet of ins and outs. The stars themselves seemed to dip and waver behind closing clouds as if they too weeped with her. Archer did not watch as her thumbs moved up to dry her tears, eyes instead flitting up towards the distance, where he imagined his home deep in the mountains. Like him, she desired the comforting freedom of the skies removed from life’s smothering tragedies. He would give her space tonight.

She was nothing of the familiar painting Archer was accustomed with, a young lady stepped out of gothic fiction itself instead of a proper and prim heiress or a free and cheeky maiden. Her presence was an unsettling one, a layer of frost coating what seemed to be a delicate heart beneath. By no means was this a presence the Scot minded. Their harmonic co-existence was much more valuable than useless small talk or time-consuming arguments. He looked towards her, dark hazel eyes landing on a piercing grey. Blinking at the residual water still lodged in her eyes, he smiled, lips tugging upwards as if they had been friends for years already. He did not hold the wordless interaction for long before returning his attention to the skies once more.

Perhaps this world was unforgiving. But she was not lonely. If only she would realise… life was beautiful.

@Anastasia Blackwood-Varney

She flashed him a smile, yet the pain behind Anastasia's desperately blinking eyes told a different story. Dark grey, like Minerva's, yet unlike the goddess of wisdom, they were plagued by dark circles brought on by time and loss. Only confusion struck as another memory flashed in front of his vision, for it was not the face of a young lady he knew. She was no figure from remembrance, only a fruit of his own imagination, a disorienting shape spinning across fields and mountains, fading away into the fog itself, leaving no traces behind. She was only a reminder of what could have been.

The world was quiet here, but the world wouldn't be quiet forever. And then Archer spoke, the silence shattering around the duo, words certainly becoming more suffocating than the enveloping quietude. They were five words, softly uttered, barely audible despite not even the chirping of crickets in the background. It was such a simple, yes or no question and perhaps a resounding "no" was all it deserved. Yet still, he looked up towards the skies, for he still hoped that the stars, like Maman had said, had answers to all the questions he could ask. The whole stage seemed to have quieted in anticipation of a Shakespearean soliloquy, yet as the Scot trailed off, the lights seemed to dim once more.

'Do you think heaven exists?...'

Maman had told him stories, of angels, of Jesus, of heaven, but at the end of the day, perhaps stories were all they were. He had never been faced with the pain of loss, yet perhaps the afterlife was merely a production of fiction to ease the aching grief. Maybe everything was only matter, and maybe the deceased were not up in the stars but being devoured by decomposers. Maybe after death there was no hope. But, starting from "even the weariest river winds somewhere safe to sea", hope had always been an integral part of Archer's life.

@Anastasia Blackwood-Varney

'Do you?'

'No,' Archer said in response, with a shake of the head, single word blunt and swift, almost as if he regretted not believing. He stood up, dusting off his clothes. Walking to the edge of the astronomy tower, he turned to face Anastasia so he could look her dead in the grey eyes. Slowly, he said, half musing, 'My question is: should I?' All the sudden, a painfully clear memory surfaced in his mind. A cracked cup. Hurried footsteps. An unexpected hug. Answers he already knew. The Divination professor's attempt at offering him the barest hope. If heaven did exist... he could see his friends and family again someday, even after death's cruel fingers parted them violently away.

'Last semester,' Archer began with a deep intake of breath, 'I saw the Grim Reaper in my tea leaves.' His tone was monotonous, that of a narrator telling a story he had presented time and time over before, for he had already accepted the dreadful fact. 'Please,' he beckoned, holding a hand up, 'Before you dismiss this as superstition, Professor Clairmont confirmed it.' Leaning back and closing his eyes for a few brief seconds in an attempt to collect himself, he continued, wind tousling at his hair, 'She told me that, most likely the person receiving the tea leaves' message is who it is aimed at.' He paused, 'I have attempted to erase it from my memory, but now it seems as if it is more of an emergency than ever.' Hastily pacing towards Anastasia, his voice rose and so did its urgency, 'As delusional as it sounds, my death does not scare me. I fear my parents' reaction. I do not know if they can live with such grief. I do not want to hurt them.' Kneeling down before the blonde, he would grip her shoulders if she did not pull away, pained voice breaking, 'Please, why must we die?' If she was still there, he would fall into her, muffled scream tearing apart all remnants of silence, 'Why must we die?'

@Anastasia Blackwood-Varney

Referenced threads: Breakfast with the Reaper and Professor's Office