The First Spark
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—date. [ 01/02/26 ]——————word count. [ 536 ]— —interacting with @rosaline everhart & @erast yan— Every god ever lived, whether forgotten, castrated by their own sons, devoured raw by their fathers, perished through sheer negligence, or slaughtered outright by human hands, every deity that had existed and ever would exist, could bear witness that last night, Roland enjoyed the sweetest sleep of his embarrassingly short life. When he first lay down in bed, he was almost certain his racing mind would keep him awake. But the sweltering warmth of his tiny dormitory, a stark contrast to the frosty, winter-strangled world outside, gradually lulled him into a drowsy stupor. Then sleep, as indiscriminate and as fair as a flying bullet, took him. What truly set off fireworks within his tiny heart, a parade of emotions, was the sweet excitement of knowing that tomorrow he would take the first actual step towards realising a dream long lingered in his mind. Roland Domagoj, the only son of two bohemian performers who had once inhaled the dust of Parisian theatre stages, was finally going to conjure his own kind of magic, in the Marin way, at Hogwarts. Roland had initially entertained the idea of launching a grand drama club. The unappealing face of reality, though, prevailed vehemently. Securing administrative approval, combined with the intimidating prospect of directing a considerable number of 'cool' upperclassmen, felt like an impossible burden for him. The latest blow was the boy's favourite sin, his undeniable sloth, and eventually, such a venture seemed far out of reach. A full, three-act production without going under such a burden? Unthinkable. Thus, Roland set his sights on performing a small scene from Angels in America, a masterpiece in his eyes. After recently discovering the Rehearsal Room, he began searching for two scene partners to bring his idea to life. Word that Roland was seeking fellow actors had spread through the castle (primarily, and perhaps -probably- exclusively, among a small number of the first-years) via amateur flyers (no more than ten in number) and the ever-reliable rumour mill. Just as Roland was resigning himself to the idea that no one was interested in his silly project… two volunteers emerged: Rosaline Everhart, a bright fellow Gryffindor, and Erast Yan, a brilliant young badger. Roland knew their names and vaguely recognised their faces from the Sorting Ceremony, but he had never interacted with either of them yet. The Marin boy managed to ambush Rosaline just outside of the Common Room the day before, locking a 3:oo PM call time. The purpose of the meeting was to get acquainted better and possibly go over the script. As for Erast, encountering him proved tricky. Particularly since the boy somehow already carried the admirable, busy mantle of a house prefect. So, Roland, after leaving the Fat Lady portrait behind, not too far from the Owlery, decided to send him a short letter. Now, Roland sat perched on a desk in the centre of the unused classroom, his legs swinging in uneven rhythm. They would arrive any moment, unless, of course, they had backed out. He dropped his gaze to his wrist, watching the vintage, self-winding watch that had belonged to his great-uncle Zvonimir. Crafted in Belgrade in the 1960s, its worn brown leather strap creaked faintly. It read: 2:53 PM. ═════════════════════  ═════════════════════( codes & banner by harlan ! )— | —— |
| sta • 6 | eva • 5 | str • 2 THEATRE KID wis • 9 | arc • 7 | acc • 6 | the muggle condition THROUGH⠀THE⠀YEARS every step a scene worth watching |
The First Spark
Date: 1 February 2026
A PV with: @Rosaline Everhart, @Roland Domagoj Marin
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Erast had never been much of a philosophist. Deeper thought into matters beyond his interests of astronomy and consuming romantic fiction often only revived the suffocating hand of misery curled around his neck. However, it was often through literature and theatre that he explored the complexities of human nature. Ironically, his favourite lines had been from a Muggle play, having read his governess' copy of the play book in secret.
It was quite poetic for a Muggle work, surprisingly so. The soliloquy had went: “Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player. That struts and frets his hour upon the stage. And then is heard no more.”
It reminded him that life was, perhaps, truly a meaningless performance that will end, and that is proof enough to himself that he can afford to not take everything so seriously.
Perhaps it truly was nostalgia that Erast considered involving himself when Rosaline pointed him to a discretely-positioned flyer in the hallway. It sought out 2 students to take part in a reenactment of 3 scenes from a Muggle play. He had never seen, read or heard about its contents before, but it seemed intriguing. Just a day ago, he had received a short letter from a boy named Roland Marin about this exact request. He originally thought it was a scam, but thankfully, he didn't throw it away at the time.
The invisible, self-inflicted pressure of Rosaline's pointing out of the flyer spurred his impulsive response: “I'll go with you.”
Cue 1st of February, the day that Roland had set for their first meeting. He was most probably late. Erast briskly walked down the hallway to the classroom that was on the letter, minding to keep below what was classified as running even in his haste. He had been so immersed in his reading on stellar evolution that he had only remembered the meeting 10 minutes ago. He had an inkling that he wasn't that late, but he wouldn't be caught dead being complacent.
The brunet knocked on the door thrice, and gently opened it. He peeped inside, and saw a boy sitting on the desk of the empty classroom. He must be the boy who sent the letter, and said boy was glancing at his watch. Oh dear, was he that late?
Erast nodded in greeting, “Hello. You are… Roland? Sorry to keep you waiting.” His Chinese accent laid on thick in his uncertainty, and his hands fiddled awkwardly with his sleeve.
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