Odysseus faces the Siren

Polytropos was the man of many ways. Cunning. Sly. Resourceful. Always with a second option.

This was a philosophy he applied to all of his exploits, whether they be taking unconventional paths amidst forest explorations, or finding loopholes in the conventions of society. He enjoyed this application of different methods, and meandered through life as if it were the grand Mediterranean ocean he was sailing home to back from Troy. He harboured intellect, vigilance, among other qualities, but above all, he walked through life carried on the stride of possibility — always scanning his surroundings for more. Something entirely original to himself.

Perhaps it was for this reason that his mind was as plagued as it was. Perhaps his sleeplessness laid in the too much curiosity he harboured for the world. Perhaps his insomnia was a product of the many questions that floated adrift in his mind. Perhaps he would slip away into the land of dream in peace if he did not think of as many perhaps. For, at the story’s end, boy that sat at the corner of his wall, legs drawn up to his chest, stroking the fur of his sleeping cat and staring at his dorm mate as he worked away at his grand endeavours. For, at the story’s end, he was no Polytropos.

The clock ticked to two. “Are you still not going to sleep?”

The answer would probably be no. It was fine. Archer was not particularly tired in any case. Instead, his eyes shone with something deeper. A glimmer that almost reflected the constellations that shimmered in the ceiling above where he laid. He threw off his blankets, a light frustration crossing his face as he rolled his neck, the sides of his lips lifting in a grimace. As soon as his feet hit the floor, a thin jacket was already over his shoulders, for even as spring dipped into summer, the wind was not so forgiving. “I’m going out,” he remarked plainly, stating what was only obvious. “Take care of Zeno for me, and, for the love of God, fix your sleep schedule, Prat.”

He trudged up the stairs, out of the suffocating dungeons of the snake den, and into the open air of the ground floor. His steps were deliberate, slowed, with a wary sort of confidence. Winding through the many corridors of Hogwarts, eventually he passed the Great Hall and reached a pair of oaken doors he had always described as august. Yet, in the insubstantial light of the moon, it looked less like a myth and more like reality. He trusted his body to take him where he wanted to go.

The door was not locked. He knew it was never locked.

As he stepped into the halls of the library, surrounded by imposing shelves, the door closed to a shut behind him with a heavy thud, and he was drenched in darkness only punctuated by the odd rays of the moon though the window planes. His hands trailed the spines of each book, a habit long established in him, allowed to roam free now that no pesky students swarmed the halls. The tables were entirely empty, and the only breath was held. For once, it was entirely quiet, almost eerily. He broke it with the sound of his footfalls on wood, each thud a reminder of his presence.

At times, he found himself straying a little too close to the restricted section, yet curiosity drew him in, but what more could a boy do than cast furtive glances their way?

Footsteps. And this time, they were far from his own. Pressing himself against the shelf, he leaned his head over, yet saw no one as darkness swam in his eyes. A breeze slipped through the window propped open ajar, and Archer zipped up his jacket. As the sound grated against the silence in the library, he decided to forsake any idea of disguise. His words were low, precise, and accusative. Hiding and evasion had tired him out — instead more of a demand slipped out between his lips, and he stepped out to face his fellow lost soul. “Show yourself.”

@Helen Aletheia Doukas | banner by Adeline Spinks