And the Sky Cried for Us

Date: 1st April 2026

Whenever a storm dared haunt the horizons of the endless sky, those naive enough to still cling to the sick falsehoods of hope would mutter follies of waiting for it to pass, to relish in the delights of calm that will follow. Others tell you to accept the rain, to dance to the rhythmic thrashing against the earth or flourish in the renewal of its cleansing chill. What no one ever talks about is those storms that last an age, the ones that seemingly never relent or break. They don't speak about the constant tremble when thunder sunders once more and you remember you never truly escaped that last storm before being whirled into yet another. Campbell supposed that was the ugly truth of life, the one romantics didn't want to envision and poets dared not utter. Though truth it was.

Each storm only let up enough to trick you, to flutter that false hope and rise you on the precipice to devise your fall. Like lightning crashing to the ground; violent, destructive, and oh so hasty.

The fog wrapped him in a blanket of obscurity but there was no comfort to its hold, much like smoke it stuck to him and trailed along the waters edge inescapably. Matthew had not aged these last few months physically but after constantly facing the lashes of storm after storm he was unmistakably different. Like a darkness had seeped into his veins showing no sign of release. Every part of him felt bound by invisible strings that pulled him taut in each direction. Bound by his duty to his father, by the recklessness of his decisions, and the ever present defeat that haunted him as much as his own shadow. Those strings needed him to do a million things and that pressure was mounting each and every day. So he had to return. For to do nothing was to wither, and he was so unbelievably done with withering.

Coming back to Hogwarts had never been easy for the outsider. Each year felt like an entire new book that cared little for the chapters of the last, like a story whose protagonist was at war with its author, forced to endlessly recalibrate to the whims and desires of some predestined fate. A sadistic campaign of pain directed at a boy who just wanted a break. There were very few people he had here these days, even fewer he could rely on for a sympathetic ear. Anxiety wallowed in his throat preventing him from taking the trail up to the school, a sense of unwillingness to accept that in the dregs of his suffering he had to fight on and do so while living in the fabrications of being a good, studious, happy person. Matthew was already exhausted at the concept.

Such notions brought him instead to the grounds, where he could look upon the castle as a spectator. Its grandeur, a marvel while the backdrop around it thundered with anticipation and lightning cracked across the sky like fractures of broken glass. Backpack sagging under the added burden of the torrential rain he did not bother to summon an umbrella or take cover against the forest line. For Matthew knew that it would bring no comfort, his onus could not possibly be lessened by something as feeble as becoming dry. No, the fact was the answer to those burdens all lay in that archaic behemoth across the way. The one that taunted him to enter, but would haze him for doing so.

The way forward so clear even through the havoc of the storm, but so layered with complication and guaranteed to only bring him more challenges.

As he contemplated the fact that all paths led to the same place he heard the crunching of wet branches and before he knew it another haunting from his past emerged from the storm. A blessing or a curse Matthew would never know for this particular ghost was the hardest to read of them all. Under the soothing protection of Archer's umbrella Matthew felt the brisk brush of rain run down his face, heard the gentle patter as that rain rebounded off the defensive silk and plodded down around them. It was far from silence, the storm made and assurance of that, but it did not mean there was not a library of words that went unspoken. Last the pair spoke words had not exactly been easy, they memory of them kept him tormented like barbed wire, a string gnawing at him, one of the his multitude of failures.

Falling into a pattern together with the kind of familiarity of old friends he wondered what they looked like from the fleeing birds above. Pondered if they found the small quiet between them as uncomfortable as he did. Yet for once in his life when it came to Archer Theodore Duncan, Matthew had no words to say. There was no utterances that came to mind in the moment, no sentiments he could provide that might not lead to yet more disappointment and failure. The string of recklessness pulled at him in temptation, waiting on his downfall, praying for the outburst in the knowledge that it could rival the very storm itself. Still the string would remain unsatisfied.

When his old friend finally spoke the world seemed to grow very quiet to him. Both boys had yet to make more than a flicker of eye contact, their heads hung in the collective guilt that seeped deeper than the damp of water within their boots. The words themself were no accusation, or deep enthral that might lead them to start another futile war. It was clear the pair were both walking upon the eggshells of their past mistakes and even the rain could not mask that uncomfortable tension. Tired with a level of fatigue that spoke to his mental state more than his lack of sleep, though neither were at a healthy level, he returned the pleasantry as best he could clearing his throat lightly before he did. After all, he had not spoken more than but a few words to the conductor since he left Glasgow. "People say all sorts of things about storms, though I'm not sure even a downpour of this magnitude is capable of that miracle."

Perhaps it was the wrong thing to say, at this point Matthew wasn't sure there ever was a right thing. His mouth was a constant source of trouble that never quite mastered keeping his foot out with it. Sighing to himself when Archer suddenly found his boots of great interest he paused for a moment, breaking their mirrored patter and relinquishing himself once more to the mercy of the elements. Then brining his hand to his face, embracing the cold wash over his skin he sighed once more long and defeated and spoke again with purpose. "Before you say anything Arch, I really don't have the energy for a fight right now, and even less so the desire. Maybe for a moment we can just be two people caught in a storm, not Matthew not Archer, not our past, just people. Cause if not as bad as it sounds, I'll take my chances with the storm." It was a pathetic admission but with the encumbering weight he already held, he could not fathom any more.

Interacting with @Archer Duncan

“I'm not sure even a downpour of this magnitude is capable of that miracle.”

It was almost comforting, the usual snark of Matthew’s after their makeshift truce of silence, peace achieved only by avoidance. The spark of conversation would either lead to a fire that relit their wilting candle or spread its wild flames until it burnt their lives down yet again. In some twisted way Archer missed the snide remarks of Matthew, the witty comments, the facetious sense of humour. Ins some twisted voice Archer missed hearing his very voice; even if it was a voice that had plunged them into the depths of hatred, it still brought a sense of reassurance being reacquainted with something as familiar after their prolonged parting. The silence, Archer had learnt, soon had become unbearable, and even more unbearable was the lack of understanding. The admittance had never been one he sat comfortably with, but in honesty, it was his greatest enemy that made him feel most seen.

He should have expected such a response out of Mister Campbell.

Yet Archer was not entirely without his own contribution of philosophy, and as the wide variety of possible replies graced his mind, Archer found himself picking through them as if trying to find the correct answer to a common school query. Agreement would have signalled weakness; disagreement would have led to the their stark collapse — Archer was well aware he was walking on eggshells, and as much as he wished to spit out the truth verbatim, he found his nervous system refusing the command as fear crept up his spine. Fear that he would ruin it again. Fear that he would push the umbrella into Matthew’s hand, turn away, and leave. Fear that he would lose the only person he could confide in, and it would be his fault.

Instead, of all things, what came out was a question: “Do I really need a miracle if I have a willingness to change?” An edge of vigilance tinted at his voice, yet there was nothing but sincerity in his articulation, no guiles with open claws or traps awaiting Matthew to fall into. Events were only miraculous because no one could have expected them: the blind regaining sight, the deaf dancing to music again, the dead rising from the ground. Yet if he poured effort into his endeavours, carved his heart and melted his soul in an attempt to be a better person, then it would only be the product of his own work rather than any cruel deity above’s. How unfair it was for moil to be discredited to an unforgiving god’s, and how blind Matthew was to not see how each fibre of his being ached to be a better person, and how he was working for it.

He knew what Matthew would say — that it was impossible. Before he could break his heart and his constitution, Archer held up a hand, already aware of how the conversation would proceed. Yet Matthew, seemingly taking this as his rejection, stepped out of the umbrella instead, the spring shower dripping off the tip of his nose, down his chin, and onto the slick, awaiting cobblestone, like crooked tears he could not cry. Archer watched as his clothes got drenched, as guilt welled up in his heart, for matters far beyond the loss of an umbrella. He took a step closer and held it out, yet did not dare to slide it above him as he had for greeting. Instead, he only watched, momentarily at a loss for words. Until Matthew began to speak, and his assumption of his own pugnacity found clutch in tearing down his heart. Since their acquaintance, had Archer harboured any further motives than to make friends?

Their fights had never been Archer’s intention, and as much as he could be accused of attempting to play the victim, he was one, if not of Matthew, then of circumstance. Any outstretched hand of his had been beat down, perhaps by his counterpart, perhaps by fate, perhaps by some working of the universe that deemed they would forever be at each other’s throats, despite their attempts at reconciliation. Perhaps they could just be two people caught in a storm, not Matthew Campbell, not Archer Duncan. If so, why was Matthew acting like their history was the one thing between them they could never fight off?

“Listen, Matt- Matthew….” He began the words, yet found it impossible to talk to another when they stood so far, their distance both a physical refusal and a psychological demurral. Despite his attempts, he would never be at peace with the boy standing opposed to him. Even the world had drawn out the lines that separated them, the low-drawn umbrella hiding half of their faces from each other, the handle a Line forever in the sand of their beach of misery. The eloquence knocked out of him, he did not know what to say, the fight losing in his war, he did not know how to act. He managed to let out the words, a low pleading that was drowning somewhere between tender and harsh, both a beseeching and an order, disguised in words of uncertainty. “Come back under the umbrella, please?”

Matthew did not budge. And at first, neither did Archer, until he finally relented. “Fine, if you don’t need it, I don’t need it either.”

He lowered his umbrella, and with a click of the gears, slid it to a close. Wrapping the tie around its plastic, he allowed its wet and battered surface to drop to his side, and embraced the rain. In mere seconds he was drenched completely, the pelting droplets colouring his shirt a darkened brown and weighing down his sweater, the feel of wet wool uncomfortable against skin, yet not more uncomfortable than the way Matthew stood, his eyes full of an emotion that was not hatred but exhaustion. He accepted the rain’s judgement, accepted its punishment, and stood unmoving, the hairs on his arms standing as a cold numbness enveloped his body. He did not wince, did not move, was just erected with ghostly stillness as the rain fell, seemingly around him rather than on him.

Yet he almost smiled as a particularly large raindrop plopped in his hair, sliding down one strand and into his eyes, blurring his vision, so he could have, for that singular moment, forgotten the presence of Matthew Campbell. How he wished he was a child again, dancing in celebration at the rainfall — instead, he was playing a game of lethal psychological waltz, where one false step could have constituted in a relationship forever ruined. In the haze, as his clothes stuck onto his body, he almost remembered when they had swam in the Great Lake, and how Archer, for that split second, of that day, before everything had gone amiss, had believed they were almost friends. Perhaps then, that belief carried nothing but truth, and it was time and their own mistakes that were truly their enemies.

“Sorry.” The sole word slipped out of his mouth on instinct, yet apologies no longer carried much weight if he kept fucking them up.

He decided an apology for more trivial matters was due, even if it was only a distraction from the greater guilts he carried. He thought before he spoke, and as he managed to mouth out the words one by one, they were segmented, awaiting a reaction, and awaiting for a hope to shatter. He almost added an awkward laugh, before realising it was a touch too much. “I mean, sorry, there’s not really much more to say than pointless aphorisms, is there?”

Finally, he stopped, turned, walked the few steps forward, and made eye contact with Matthew. All this time, they had not been so removed, simply a few footfalls away from each other, yet separated by the distance of an universe. All this time, they were a hand reach’s distance away, from their shared hours in the Headliner office, the duelling hall, yet neither of them had the guts to step forward, hidden under a guise they called respect. All this time, it was only their cowardice that kept them separated. Months had passed — December, January, February, March, until now in April, did Archer realised that he, in some crooked way, missed Matthew Campbell. Archer had noticed his absence, yet decided not to ask on it, for the gaze that stared back at him were the same aching souls, same brown flecked with long-dulled gold and fast-withered olive.

Gathering his breath, he stated the obvious, hoping that it would be enough. “I am trying to make amends—”

If you would let me.

Instead, something else slipped out, more accusative, yet more genuine: “Why won’t you let me?”

@Matthew Campbell | banner by Adeline Spinks

Date: 1st April 2026

The accusation was a punch to the gut and harsher than the cold wind and rain, but it was a fair one. Still Archer had made a stand and Matthew wanted to meet him half way. Yet today was not a day of logic for the young wizard. These last few months he had tried to push away all emotion and focus on the study of what he could actually do. He had not allowed himself to grieve what he was going to lose as he was determined it would not be lost. Until this reminder that he had lost Archer unleashed the flood gates. Suddenly his guards and walls crumbled away and he felt untethered to the grounding logic he had administered himself. A torrential storm that had gone brewing for months unleashed far thicker than the physical one they were in and he let his words fly out unbound. Not knowing where they would land or what he would say, just sure that he could not miss the opportunity to recover what he had lost. Something he could not yet do for his father, something he had to do for himself.

"Because you don't need to make amends Arch. You were in pain... I had just hoped that I might've been able to help as someone that could understand even an iota of it. I don't hold it against you for not letting me, we all heal in different ways. I just, I just couldn't understand why it seemed you started to hate me instead." There were tears streaming from his eyes that felt colder than any of the condensation that had seeped drenching into their clothes. "I just wanted to help, and I'm sorry I couldn't." Overwhelmed with the urge to actualise his apology Matthew found himself charging towards the boy and curling around him in a desperate primal embrace. His eyes never stopped pouring and the exhaustion overcame him hastening his breathe and shaking his core with the cries. Cries that had clearly been held in far too long and threatened to collapse his weight with them.

His next words choked out with such necessity it would be amiss to not understand them for the purest of intent they were, "Please no more sorrys, I don't want us to be sorry anymore I just want us to be friends. Because I for one could really fucking use one." His sobs formed spit at the edges of his mouth that he made sure to wipe upon his own jumped not wanting to stain the finery of Archer's outfit. It was so clear to see that he was broken and Matthew could only imagine that to Archer, he was looking into a mirror and seeing the devastation of his loss reflected back at him. Whatever the boy was not saying, wherever he had been, carried the weight of the world even as it fell crumbling around him, like the cracks on the cobbles below.

Pulling back the harsh red around his eyes was vivid as if the very vessels had burst under the pain they had endured. Backdropped with the semi permanent dark bags he looked a wreck and he knew it. Still he found himself instantly wiping away at them, an act seemingly pointless in the downpour but a necessity in his attempt to conceal the extent of his pain. Still even in that darkness, Matthew glanced over at the drowned boy who had sacrificed his comfort to brave the elements alongside him. Laughing at the site of it, a pathetic excuse for a laugh, he choked on his throat once more and managed to utter, "Put the umbrella back up you idiot before we freeze to death." It was not confrontational but the kind of jab to an old friend and despite his bodies initial resistance he found himself moving away from the opposition they had so naturally reformed, but to his side. Something they had attempted only once, but something they so clearly needed.

If Archer once again drew the umbrella he would squirm himself under it and let the soaking sleeve of his jumper drench further in wiping his face. A hand through the hair would draw it back into a slicked back fashion and he would look at Archer with fresh, though weathered, eyes to see what had become of him over the months. Matthew lingered on the eyes that so much mirrored his own and wondered if they had suffered as much exhaustion as he had. Still he hoped they had not, Matthew hoped that somehow Archer was beginning to heal from the wounds life had dealt him, hoped that somewhere within him that kind, quiet soul was still alive. Thinking back to the last time the pair had been drenched his smile turned melancholic. It was not a traditional sadness but one for what they had lost just as they were starting to gain.

Stopping any movement they had begun to rekindle, he asked the boy if he remembered that night and wondered what might've happened had life let them be, "Do you ever think about that night in the lake? It was the first time I thought we might actually be becoming friends, it saddens me that we did not. Let's not waste the opportunity this time." A declaration not ignoring their past but resolving it.

Interacting with @Archer Duncan

tw : mentions of self harm

Lectures and laments Archer could stomach with a wince and a grimace, yet when this human being, who now defied any labels of friendship or animosity, rushed towards him like a barrelling beast of the Highlands, he froze completely. A reaction out of the primal reservoirs of fear, sense drained out of his body, and all his muscles rotted away from the nerves that controlled them. As Matthew wrapped shaking arms around his tightened chest, the boy too would feel the rise and falls of his heartbeat, pulsing and insistent. His gut would hurt less if he had taken a punch to it instead — at least that was decisive, evocative of a punch back and a duel started. But this, whether a show of kindness or desperation, left him speechless, stood motionless in the pelting rain as he was uncertain whether to return the sentiment or curse him to the depths of hell. Yet as the unrelenting storm soaked his sweater, even the weather demanded an answer.

“Hey-” he started, before cutting himself off as Matthew’s body pressed against his, the tips of his curls wavering just below Archer’s chin. The world around him magnified, leaving himself disproportionately out of shape — the brush of wool against wool, the hot breath on his back, the way the tips of his fingers dug into his skin. Unable to bring himself to return it, the fibres of his body still instinctively tight, his eyes searched the distant horizon in helplessness. Then, as the torrent of unease finally seized him, his arms took the better of him and before he could force himself to stop, they were pushing him away. Not daring to look him in the eyes, all he could say was a muttered out, half-intelligible curse word.

As those hazel eyes finally lifted from the cobblestones, they landed on Matthew, hair a mess, mind in disarray, and he could not help but take a step back. For once since they had first met, Archer burdened his name with no expectations — none that commanded him as his friend or foe, simply another fellow person, lost in the labyrinth of this world. With tears staining the corners of his eyes, with the exhausted sobs he had just let out, with the way his primal instincts overtook sense to hug an old enemy… who reminded Archer more of himself than Matthew? Stood in front of him was a mirror, and looking at this version of himself, he was not sure whether to laugh or cry. And that hurt him all the more. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to— I shouldn’t have— but, please, a fucking warning next time?”

Somehow, he managed a laugh. A sad, deflective laugh, but a laugh nonetheless. Stretching out his arms, he beckoned his old enemy into his grasp, and curling his arms around Matthew’s chest murmured into his sweater with some semblance of reassurance, “Here.” Archer gripped onto him tightly, and today, it felt almost reassuring that he was the one offering help rather than receiving it. Empowering.

Empowering enough that, finally, Archer deigned to address the elephant in the room. When he finally found words, he did not let go, but buried his face in the odd comfort of his other’s woollen garment, as if he was a child again, and the darkness could make him forget the world existed. As he blinked back tears of his own, they spilt out before he could stop them, a confession that was a knife twisting in his heart. “I did not hate you for being unable to help. I did not hate you at all. I did not hate you, I do not hate you.” He reiterated his words time and time again, if only to prove to this boy who had seen his greatest demons that he was truthful.

Breaking him, his voice cracked as he finally released the devil he had been hiding in the depths of his mind: “I hated myself.”

His breath hitched, but now he could not stop, words coming rapidly, desperately. “And every time I looked at you, you were just a mirror. And all that hatred I- there was only so much of a body and a mind it could have been projected onto in my own skin. And let me tell you, I would rather hurt myself before I hurt anyone else, and that includes you.” He pushed Matthew away again, yet this time, it was with the gentle handling of a friend. He need to look into those hazel eyes that reflected his own, and more than ever, he needed Matthew to see how much he was already trying.

“I tried to protect everyone around me but it wasn’t enough.” With insistence, he shoved the umbrella into Matthew’s hands, as his own frantically undid his sleeve buttons, rolling it up to expose skin criss-crossed with white lines of scars. A physical manifestation of the same marks that ensnarled his heart, their eyes met and Archer’s gaze dared him to utter one word. Any word at all.

His breaths hung heavy in the humid spring air between them, the silence louder than the pelting rain.

Something cracked as laughter erupted. Something Archer could almost recover. For the third time he pushed him, yet this time, there was no instinctive fear nor tender restraint, merely the sort of playful pugnacity between friends. “Call me an idiot again and we can recreate the swim, starting with me pushing you into the lake.”

He offered him a flash of a grin before his face settled back into seriousness.

“Listen Matt,” he said, leading him by the arm as in their aimless springtime stroll as his eyes conveniently found perch everywhere but meeting his. “We’ve cycled through this so many times, so many almosts — let’s not fuck it up again.”

A promise to swear by the way the unrelenting rain pounded on the cobblestones below. A promise witnessed by the raging forces of nature themselves.

@Matthew Campbell | banner by Adeline Spinks