The Spark to my Flame [pv Rowan] - Courtyard

3 Jun 2026, 11:46

Archer Duncan, a good influence.

These two words did not quite complement each other. A combination of reasons made their truthfulness dubious. Contrasting drastically to the required nature of the word, Archer did not see him as much of an influence at all. He had spent these fourteen years with little words, of mild disposition in his youth before retreating into his own melancholy, reserving himself in its cage. He did not have enough of a standing in any social circle to be an influence. A mediocre duellist, no sensational writer, and certainly never having been blessed with any position of prefect, Archer had never made any ripples amongst his peers.

Good? That was even further from the truth. From wallowing in his own misery and harbouring a heart forever overcast, to the potion reliance of last year and the occasional dabbling in alcohol (courtesy of his good friend Matthew Campbell, and the robberies he called interventions), Archer was rarely anyone would choose to look up to, and certainly not the boy any parent would have wanted their daughters — or sons, for that matter — to hang around. trivialities.

No matter, he just hoped he would not plague the minds of Hogwarts’ youngest generation, this gaggle of first years who had waddled in during September and made themselves comfortable on school grounds. They had marked their territory, form the forbidden depths of the forests to the empty classroom no one wanted, not even the tedious Muggle Studies professor. He had made acquaintances with some of them, that much was true. Some with animosity, some with begrudging respect, some with, he was reluctant to admit, what bordered on friendship. He just hoped none of them would take pages out of his book, although some were equally ruined already.

The courtyard, deep into the shroud of night, was quiet. Silent, even, with the only soundtrack being the distant rush of the wind. The cobblestones below his feet were familiar, grounding, each crack between the rocks a space he could sink into and hide, a gentle texture under his boots, grinding into his souls. An anchor, a tether, a reminder that he was here, and breathing the crisp air of the untamed Highlands, and a testament to his soul’s coexistence with the high moon hanging in the night.

Whatever god brought upon the terrors to his life, also made that celestial deity, yet also made the dirt between the stones. Perhaps it was a god he ought to be grateful for; perhaps it was no god at all. He had long learnt not to ponder into the spirals of philosophy when his mind was in disarray. Merely, he did not need space to think. He simply needed space.

The courtyard, with its caressing wind blowing between open corridors, delivered as he sat against a pillar, hiking his foot up to draw his knee against his chest.

Alone, and almost, although he would never admit it, lonely in his solitude.

@Rowan Vexeley| banner by Adeline Spinks

Last edited by Archer Duncan on 10 Jun 2026, 00:57, edited 1 time in total.

I am not even singed. My wings are untouched. You use them for everything, except flight.
Liliya Starkova| Anthonie Engelbrecht

Rowan Vexeley

Second year, Ravenclaw

48 10

7 Jun 2026, 21:50

⌜ 𝔬𝔲𝔱𝔣𝔦𝔱 ⌟
Uniform without robes

⌜ 𝔡𝔞𝔱𝔢 ⌟
13/10

⌜ 𝔴𝔬𝔯𝔡 𝔠𝔬𝔲𝔫𝔱 ⌟
840

Rowan Vexeley was a bad person, by her account, and by decent morals account.

It was something she thought about once or twice when she lied to someone or manipulated them or framed them for something she did. But it never occured to her to linger on it to the point of leading her to the courtyard where she seldom went. It was always a feeling she just brushed off like dust on her sweater or a very persistent fly. Not this time, this time Rowan finally got the confirmation that she was a horrendous person.

The courtyard was grey and quiet, and only a few students still roamed around. It was the kind of afternoon that made you feel small, the way you might feel standing at the edge of the ocean or looking up at a ceiling covered in stars, aware, suddenly, of how much space there was in the world and how little of it you occupied.

The letter was still in the back pocket of her skirt. She had read it four times, maybe five, standing in the corridor outside the owlery with her back against the cold stone wall and her breath fogging in the air. Mother Superior has had an accident, the doctor says she will never walk again.Rowan had read those words and felt somthing warm rise in her chest, a feeling that she identified as relief. It took her a few minutes to realise she was smiling at the paper and even more minutes to conclude that it was wrong to smile at these news. It was immoral and bad to be happy because of someone else's suffering.

Rowan pushed through the archway with her hands shoved in the pockets of her skirt, her heavy grey sweater hanging loose over her shoulders, her thick socks pulled up to her knees and her scuffed boots dragging a little on the stone. She looked melancholic and deeply lost in thought as she sat on a cold stone bench next to a pillar where a boy sat with his back against the stone, one foot propped against the wall, a tall, lanky thing with dark hair falling to his shoulders and eyes the colour of hazelnuts where Rowan could perceive flecks of gold. He looked how she felt and that compelled Rowan to sit on the bench more. She did not know his name nor did she care to ask, she just sat close enough to feel his presence but far enough that they didn't have to pretend they were friends.

Rowan stared at the grey sky and thought about her predicament, not with the feverish anguish of one newly fallen from grace, nor with the theatrical despair of a heroine in a penny novel, she wasn't sure she had enough guilt in her to think that way. And that was the problem. She had waited for the hot sting of shame, for the sleepless hours of remorse, for the desperate wish to reach back through time and undo the very moment in which she had felt, however briefly, that strange and ugly relief.

But the shame had not come and the remorse had not visited her. She lay awake, true enough, but not from guilt, only from the dull habit of lying awake, as though her body had forgotten how to rest while her heart had forgotten how to bleed for anyone but itself. And so she had arrived at this dreadful and quiet conclusion: she did not care. Caring, she found, required a belief that goodness was a thing worth pursuing, and that badness was a thing worth fearing. But she had looked into her own heart and found neither the fire of virtue nor the terror of vice.

And yet, she thought, pressing her palms against the rough grey fabric of her skirt, did that matter either? The world would not stop for her moral crises. She stared at the fountain where leaves fell from the long trees. The sun would still rise tomorrow and the owls would still fly. The grey sky pressed down just as heavily on the wicked as it did on the righteous, and the dead leaves collected in the fountain regardless of who sat beside it.

Was she...beyond redemption ? She thought with a small ache in her chest she couldn't identify. She looked at the boy next to her leaning on the pillar, at his sharp jaw and the way he made her feel less alone even though he was a complete stranger. And maybe that was why she felt eager to talk to him, she didn't need to impress him or manipulate him into thinking she was something other than herself.

"I think I'm a bad person," she said with a low voice staring at the distance. "And the worst part is, I'm not sure I care enough to change."

⌜ 𝔱𝔞𝔤𝔰 ⌟
@Archer Duncan

[anchor=rp][/anchor]

Ability: cat's grace

Archer Duncan

Fourth year, Slytherin

796 10

10 Jun 2026, 03:53

“I think I’m a bad person.”

The words did not quite cut through the air as one would expect. The confession was too weighted for the deftness of a scalpel, yet too delicate for the crudeness of a butcher’s knife. Its edges were not sharpened, bur rather dulled out with the numbness that came from committing the deeds of sin. Instead, it was simply uttered. It followed with no apology, no explanation, no doubling down on the premise; only a girl admitting a fact she had known longer than Archer had found the stones of this courtyard to be comfortable. Longer than since he had started to accept the cracks in the cobblestone, and the cracks in his own veneer.

“Oh good,” Archer said, voice deadpan, but the side of his lips twitched in a crooked smile. Then, a laugh escaped him, something along the lines of bitterness, with an edge of amusement, and a timbre to it that was twisted but not shallow. “I was wondering if it’ll get lonely here in my little morally failed club.” He had made himself comfortable in this world as the antagonist — at best the antihero. From untamed brawls and open duels to snide remarks and unapologetic comments, his moralities buckled under the stress of reality. The boy who had entered the troughs of life so ready to conquer it with the blade of curiosity and the shield of timidity was spat out of the wringer on the other side realising that such defences only left him with meagre protection. He had learnt, and obeying to its twisted ways, he had acted. The darkness had always been within him, waiting to be unleashed by the catalytic age of twelve. It had crept up on him, in the best of powers, in the worst of sacrifices.

The Archer of the past, the one teary-eyed and stumbling, had directed all that darkness inwards. He had relented to it; he knew he could not fight it. Despite the walls he had erected, he was not so much as strong as the facade he directed. He was a weakling, small and frail, so fragile he could break at a wind too strong. It was until, inevitably, he combusted in a cloud of smokey nebulous. But nebula transcend. They become something greater, deeper, and far more sublime. In its place was a swirl of dark matter, riveting and strong. In its place was all his sadness directed outwards, becoming rage, fury, and an anger that could not be leashed. He threw punches at others because he could no longer himself; cursed others to hell because he had already made it his home. Damn whatever astrophysical inaccuracies — Archer’s mood was, as the moment dictated, far too volatile for considerations of the bounds of science.

Outrage and melancholy were the two sides of the same coin. Simply, one was directed outwards, one was directed inwards. Archer, selfishly, or perhaps intelligently, had chosen the one that caused him the least pain.

“And the worst part is,” the stranger continued, “I’m not sure I care enough to change.” She stared at the distance, not meeting his eyes. Why would she?

“What makes you think that is the worst part?” Archer’s response was almost immediate, yet it was not rushed with his usual cadence for debate. In this stranger, this odd girl who sat upon the bench, sharing his company and the air he breathed with an unshakable aura of perturbation, Archer saw no opponent, but rather a soul that sauntered upon the same path he did, a soul as lost as his own… or perhaps far more in touch with truth than he could ever hope for. There was something close to musing in Archer’s voice, almost wistful as he glanced away to the distant spires of this castle that could no longer contain their wrongdoings, at the life of light they had left behind in return for a channel for their anguish. The price was hefty, but it was worth it. “That is the best part. It is clarity at its utmost service to you.”

Archer, despite his sneers and scowls, despite his frowns and grimaces, had light in him. Deep down, smothered by fog and darkened clouds, was a sun that struggled to be bright. Its shine drained from its soul, a lone bird with a broken wing attempting at flight. Archer, the boy who saw so much evil in himself, did not accept it with a huff and a few sarcastic words, but rather sought, in every way he could, to fight against his own shadows. His light, however faint and flickering, were enough to banish them, and he stood by that belief in firmness, even if it was more delusion than truth. These haunting demons, whether of his creation or bestowed upon him like a devil’s kiss were demons no matter their disposition and if he were to win… well, did that not make him, however crooked, some sort of hero?
 And Archer, the boy who had been telling himself so many stories since the dawn of his childhood, who had imagined himself as the protagonist of so many days since he knew what the word meant — did he not want to be a hero? Nobility, honour, strength, and reputation were never things he had sought. It was why he had felt so empty, without a sin he could repent for. Archer Duncan saw a world that would never grant him redemption, and a world he would bend, break, burn down, just to find what truly belonged to him.

“If you truly have no intention to change, you would be unbothered by the fact you cannot change.” His words were flat, monotonous, almost painfully factual. He stared straight ahead, at the sun that dipped on the horizon line, at the strong breeze that picked up as evening licked at the sky’s outermost limits. He turned to the stranger, finally, and raised a brow. It was different from the unimpressed arch, it was different from the sarcastic crook, it was different from the challenging curve. Instead, it was simply curiosity. Intrigue. And buried somewhere under what he convinced himself was concern, he too was a green eyed monster. Buried somewhere under what he convinced himself was morality, he could already feel the envy creeping up on him, a slow- acting poison he thought he had mithridatism to, only for it to swallow him whole with greed.

He too yearned for that liberation. That liberation to forsake the bounds of the moral compass. Make north south and south north.

He studied the stranger. This odd girl who had entered his life not on a whirlwind or hurricane but with the quiet announcement of the moment before a storm broke out. This odd girl who had said so much in those odd few words, yet nothing at all. This odd girl who had contradicted herself, and even then, did not quite know it. Finally, he titled his head, as if caught deep in thought; he world became a mere accessory as his psyche overtook sense. Eventually, after a long silence, though not one he would make uncomfortable, Archer reached his conclusion. The truth was simple, and whether there was something holding her back from true evil or whether she had found grounds for salvation in damnation, Archer’s eyes sparkled with jealousy. “You are either wrong about how much evil flows in your veins, or you have reached true nirvana. You either harbour more good than you would like to admit…. Or, you are simply incredibly free now. ”

He spoke it as if he was the one freeing her from her cage himself. Perhaps he was, in the encouragement that, whichever path it may be, she would choose to embrace it entirely. Either she would commit to the quest against darkness, or she would fall into it completely.

Yet then something in his eyes softened, something so cosmic and so minute at the same time. Something that carried both the sorrows of the world and the joys of this life. Something that he could almost describe as observation with an edge of tenderness. He clutched his knee closer to his chest, and rested his chin on the curve of his trousers, eyes unmoving from the girl in distress. His words came out far too merciful in comparison to the philosophy he had left behind. The the eyes of the hawk, who now saw a younger, delicate birdling rather than prey. “Maybe you are a bad person, or maybe you’re just…” Archer’s voice trailed off as his eyes flicked up and down the stranger’s vessel of fatigue, small and curled on the bench. Despite her lankiness of all limbs and no flesh, her age was not difficult to gauge, and Archer’s tone harboured more curiosity as he treaded the waters between their shared melancholy, “Eleven, twelve?”

He leapt off from his perch on the side of the corridor, his motions fluid, almost dancerly in its rhythm. He took swift strides towards the girl, and to any other, he may have taken on an aura of intimidation. Something told him that she would not be scared, however. He circled her, eyes roaming, yet then, they looked away entirely. Something else that caught his attention, the bumps under his boots.

Oddly, he knelt down, and curiously, he extended one hand, fitted with an archer’s glove, to touch the uneven surface that he stood on.

Perhaps maturing was realising the cobblestoned ground had grooves and trenches not because it was broken, but because it was wholly itself.

@Rowan Vexeley | banner by Adeline Spinks

I am not even singed. My wings are untouched. You use them for everything, except flight.
Liliya Starkova| Anthonie Engelbrecht

Rowan Vexeley

Second year, Ravenclaw

48 10

12 Jun 2026, 12:06

⌜ 𝔬𝔲𝔱𝔣𝔦𝔱 ⌟
Uniform without robes

⌜ 𝔡𝔞𝔱𝔢 ⌟
13/10

⌜ 𝔴𝔬𝔯𝔡 𝔠𝔬𝔲𝔫𝔱 ⌟
1200

Rowan was startled at first by his laugh,an unexpected sound from a face that did not seem to laugh very often. She has not been prepared for laughter, more an awkward smile or empty words of concern. She had been prepared for silence, even, or for him to simply walk away and leave her to her own cold company. She glanced at his face, searching for mockery, for the cruel expression of someone laughing at her rather than with her. But she found only that crooked smile, that bitter twist of amusement that seemed less like she was the butt of a joke and more the laugh of familiarity.

I was wondering if it'll get lonely here in my little morally failed club
"The morally failed club," she repeated, deadpan, rolling the words over her tongue like something sour she had decided to taste anyway. "Sounds exclusive. Do we get a badge or a uniform ?" She let out a chuckle that felt a bit out of place and out of the wrong mouth. There was music in it, light and fleeting, and for a single breathless moment, the melancholic almost-smile that usually sat upon her features lifted entirely, and she looked...almost luminous. But the effect disappeared as quickly as it came.

She listened to him speak, and she did not interrupt. She let his words wash over her like the cold Irish rain she had grown so used to. If you truly have no intention to change, you would be unbothered by the fact you cannot change. She turned this over in her mind, slowly, like a crystal ball she was tying to decipher. She had said she did not care and she had meant it, or thought she had meant it. But if she truly did not care, if the question of her own badness had become as irrelevant to her as the weather in a distant country, then why did she feel that small, sharp tug somewhere beneath her ribs? Why did the words you cannot change carry a weight that you are bad had long since lost? She had gotten used to being bad or at least didn't mind it.. The idea that change was impossible that the door was closed not because of her choice but because of some outside decree that bothered her. And in that bothering she saw something she had been too tired to see: her indifference wasn't real. It was exhaustion or pretending not to care repeated often that it became her face rather than a mere mask.. Yet...her face was still there still hurt, still capable of wincing and itching.

When she heard the word 'nirvana', Rowan's grin widened a bit, her eyes turning into narrow archs, the thought amusing her more than she would admit. She was not a bodhisattva floating above the concerns of mortal morality like a an alien UFO. She was a kid who had grown tired of performing, and that tiredness had felt like freedom, but perhaps it was only another kind of cage. The performance had grown old, and the audience had dwindled to one, and that one audience member was herself, watching herself act and feeling nothing but the weary recognition of a lie repeated too many times. She had freed herself from the burden of worrying about goodness, only to find that the freedom itself was hollow, a room with no furniture and no windows, comfortable only because there was nothing left to break. If this was nirvana, she thought, then nirvana was terribly lonely.

She opened her mouth, closed it, then opened it again, not sure what to say to this stranger who did not quite feel like one.

"You think I'm a riddle," she said, her voice low and not as steady as she would have liked. "You think there's an answer hidden somewhere inside me, and if you just look hard enough, if you just say the right words in the right order, you'll find the thing that makes me good. Or the thing that makes me free... that makes me eleven instead of evil."

She shook her head slowly, and the movement sent a brown strand of hair falling across her eyes that she did not bother to brush away.

"I'm not a riddle, riddles have answers. I'm just..." She paused and looked down at his gloved hand resting on the cobblestone, and then at his face, younger than his words, older than his years, a contradiction she recognized because she saw it every morning in the mirror. She drew her knees closer to her chest and rested her chin on them. "I don't know what difference it makes if I'm eleven. A bad person at eleven is still a bad person at forty. The only difference is the number of years she's had to practice." Yes, she thought, an oak sapling did not grow into a willow. A birch did not wake one morning and decide to become a pine. The seed determined the tree, and no amount of sunlight or careful tending by gentle hands could turn one thing into another. The tree grew taller, yes and its bark thickened, its roots burrowed deeper. But it was always, always what it had been from the very beginning.

She stared at the horizon, the sky the color of a bruise starting to heal.

"But I suppose...that I wouldn't be sitting here talking to you if I had truly stopped caring about everything. So maybe you're right, maybe some part of me is still asking the question. Maybe some part of me still wants the answer to be you're not bad, you're just young and think too much."

She looked up at him then, and for the first time, she did not look away. Her eyes, green, she had always been told, though she thought them closer to the colour of moss after rain- deep and muted and devoid of real joy-met his. His eyes, she noticed now, held more than gold. There were specks of olive in them too, deep and greenish-brown. She had not seen them before, or perhaps she had not looked closely enough. But now she looked and her eyes narrowed, her brows furrowed as she studied them. Rowan had always found eyes fascinating. Not in the way that painters found them fascinating, as things of beauty to be captured in oil and canvas, all light and shadow and the gentle alluring curve of an iris. Not in the way that poets found them fascinating, as windows to the soul and stars to navigate by. She found them fascinating in the way a collector might find a row of locked boxes fascinating, each one different, each one containing something she could not see but could almost guess at.

"My name," she said quietly, "is Rowan."

The green of her eyes didn't leave the hazel of his, she did not know what he saw in hers. She only knew that for once, she did not mind being reflected.

⌜ 𝔱𝔞𝔤𝔰 ⌟
@Archer Duncan

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Ability: cat's grace

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The Spark to my Flame pv Rowan