The First Experiment PV: Archer, Angel & Robin

More often that not, Hogwarts was fucking deranged. Archer Duncan was particularly ashamed to call himself a member of that demographic.

Really, Archer was just exhausted. He was exhausted of these walls that bound him, the psyche that limited him, and the body that trapped him. All Archer ached for was escape, but for escape to be possible, the promise of opportunity must be met. Within the quotidian existence of his daily classes, however, the task seemed to be an improbable one. His days were often passed with eye rolls, hatred, and vexation. That was not to mention his growing disinterest in his lessons, his peers, and the unbearable nature of life in general.

Soon he would slip away without a tether.

That was, until, by some cruel game of the string fate pulled, Archer stumbled across an advertisement tacked to the bulletin board — easily missed, yet somehow simultaneously demanding.

Volunteers required.
No risk no gain.
Compensation provided upon completion.
Friday 5pm in the Rehearsal Room.

Despite his dorm mate’s insistence that he could cover the costs, Archer really should have stopped drawing back from payment every time they visited Hogsmeade. His best friend had reassured him that he could have anything on the menu under his galleons, yet still he had continuously chosen the cheapest of drinks and meals. Often, that constituted to lemonades and salads, but for a few weekends he held enough dignity to brush as a lack of hunger. Yet it was not enough sustenance for a growing boy almost fourteen. His stomach said otherwise, for when Archer dared to race Prat to the premises of the castle, the only destination he had in mind was the Great Hall.

In the four lines that had been advertised in meticulous calligraphy, it was, with no surprise, the third line that caught his attention with unwavering certainty. After his father’s refusal to work, gambling habits, and reckless decision to cut ties with publishing companies, the Duncan family had been plunged into financial destitution. The house was empty with sold furniture, the pantry consisted only of a few slices of bread, and his heart faltered seeing a man he once admired in such disarray. Despite his hatred, his crooked heart was still making excuses for a father that deserved none.

He had grown to see him in a different light, but not one that was much better. It was really extraordinary, Archer had always pondered with curious thought, just how much you could lose in one night at the casino. Especially if you were Atticus Duncan, who could not even keep a poker face.

It was for the desperation of a child whose money bag clinked with the last of his coins that Archer Duncan found himself on the fourth floor, meandering through the winding corridors until he found the pair of oaken doors that led him into a room that carried more heaviness that it should have. It consisted of nothing no beastly creatures, the only monster sat in wait being a piano pushed to the far side of the room. It was that very piano, however, that had seen all his three years entrapped in the walls of Hogwarts. It was over that piano that he had argued, that he had wept, and that he had learnt. It was that piano who had witnessed his growth, from the pugnacity that came with youth, to the disparaging that came with grief, to the tenderness that came with a gentle moving on. All of these shoes he had walked in; the decision had been made that it was the last one that suited him best.

Yet today, as Archer pushed open those doors, he was there for a far different reason. To receive compensation.

But beyond such trivial, material needs, was a deeper desire. Curiosity. It was this curiosity exactly that ate away at his aching soul when it was unfulfilled. What was the aphorism again?

Ah. Curiosity killed the cat.

A grimace spasmed over his features, yet it soon passed as he made peace with his decision. No matter, with the unrepeatable offering of the words, he was prepared to die. An edge too dramatic, for what could only have been a child’s experiment, but still with resolution, he found himself stepping into those halls, boots thudding on the wooden floorboards as he strode into the room. Confidence, he reminded himself, would only course through ones veins when it was called upon and believed in. Confidence, he preached, would make a good impression to the stranger waiting inside.

Except, to Archer’s horror, the conductor the experiment was not quite a stranger. The nightdress pooled on the ground. The locks of black hair tangled and tousled. The promise of potential gone within her pain. Yet today, she seemed immaculate. More than immaculate. She carried a danger that could have only stemmed from anger, an anger that could have only stemmed from fear, a fear that could have only stemmed from desperation. It was a chain of sentiments Archer decided he would rather not indulge in. So, as he sat his bag down by the entrance, he decided that it was not quite someone he recognised either.

Yet still, he found himself uttering her name, the recognition almost an instinct rather than a choice. It was the same introduction they had made. Pleasure to make your acquaintance, he had said, even under such circumstances. Perhaps today, he would find out if that was indeed a truthful claim. Free from the burdens of his textbooks, he allowed the strap to slip from his hands as he circled the room, casting eyes of scrutiny over his target.

His words were soft, but within them lay no tenderness. If she wished to be dangerous, he could do. That danger, that anger, that fear, and that desperation — he had lived through them all the same, and he could channel any one with the ease of breath. “Meiyu Xiang.”

What was the aphorism again?

Ah. Curiosity killed the cat. But satisfaction brought it back.

@Meiyu Xiang | banner by Adeline Spinks

Date December xx, 2025 Time 17:00 Location Rehearsal Room, Hogwarts Tags @Meiyu Xiang @Archer Duncan

Reducio "dialogue" | thoughts

Robin had grown used to cold winters, so December hadn't been such a pain for him as it might've been for students familiar with warmer temperatures. Quite the opposite, he considers the snowy season his favorite. No icky sweat, more excuses to stay indoors . . . well, essentially just those two. Aesthetic isn't the eleven-year-old's main concern, all four seasons have their own flavor of charm. The freshness of spring, abundance of summer, calmness of fall, and decadence of winter.

Just like being used to Scottish cold winds, Robin had grown quite "used to" his school life at Hogwarts. Generally positive, dipped with pleasant surprises and a single drop of bitterness from a certain pure-blood Gryffindor. Learning was fun, no questions in that, but Robin felt like he was one of the few who hadn't experienced something significant in his life yet. It was only halfway through his first year, but a friend developed a crush, other first years became prefects of their dorms or official team members of a sport, and some weird underground activity seems to be brewing in the guise of clubs . . . that one's just a speculation though, he tends to imagine things a lot so it's likely inspired by a ridiculous fever dream.

Either way, Robin had a relatively peaceful first year as of now. He thought of what could've happened instead, what could've gone wrong. Contrary to what some might believe, Robin is perfectly fine with keeping it that way. Peaceful yet uneventful, it means you're safe and fortunate. Occasionally boring, but learning new spells and reading interesting books can make up for that.

Following the footsteps of every other Friday, Robin made his way to Transfiguration after lunch. It was rather crowded, he had to intentionally evade incoming students and find his way through the current like a lost fish. He took a deep breath as one particular student forced him to lean on the wall for a few seconds, spending this time scanning the presence of new notices from the school. Nothing important, it seems. The only thing that caught Robin's eye was a piece of parchment with handwritten notes on it . . . an invitation?

Volunteers required. No risk no gain. Compensation provided upon completion. Friday 5pm in the Rehearsal Room.

————————————————————

When it comes to risks, Robin usually isn't such a fan. The reason he dislikes flying class—apart from physical activity—is the risk of dying by bludgeoning damage either from falling or crashing into random obstacles. Robin doesn't want to die early, and if there was a way to live forever, he might be interested in whatever ritual that entailed. The knowledge one can learn in their lives are infinite, and the ever-curious boy wants to devour every piece of information he comes across.

This advertisement for "volunteers" was sketchy at best and incriminating at worst. Not the ad itself of course, Robin is nervous about the excluded explanations. Professor-initiated errands had a whole sign-up sheet and detailed descriptions of what they need help with, but this is . . . beyond unprofessional. No way a professor wrote this. A student then? It reminded him of the occasional posters sent to his house back in Inverness, where college students or researchers needed participants for their projects. His father affirmed that it often costed both time and money to find enough people, so he'd always accept if possible.

Robin squinted his eyes, as if that can help him read between the lines of this suspicious poster. His mind formed an absurd jury, debating whether to incarcerate his curiosity or let it roam free. The lack of information and emphasis on "no risk no gain" voted for the incarceration, but his curiosity appealed to its audience with a speech about helping young researchers and the excitement of possibly being a part of something big. Who knows, this student might be a future pillar of the academic fields!

In hindsight, Robin was still a naive eleven-year-old suffering from delusions of grandeur. He takes pride in his "logic", but that logic is as useful as a wisdom tooth when his curiosity takes over. If Robin ever dies young, his relentless pursuit of knowledge would be the most likely reason.

After his Transfiguration classes, Robin did some homework in the first years' study corner before heading to the fourth floor. He hadn't been to the Rehearsal room much . . . maybe not at all, now that he thought about it. Robin just passed by when he went dueling in the nearby room. Standing in front of the heavy oak doors, the boy decided against his better judgement and finally sealed his fate by taking a step forward. Robin's heart pounded with the creaking door as he pushed it open to reveal the interior. The boy, still wearing Ravenclaw robes, didn't have the energy to observe his surroundings. His gaze was hooked by the two others already present. The two strangers, a boy and a girl, weren't in an active conversation when he intruded their space.

Robin found his throat a bit dry, but after another deep inhale, he mustered the courage for a basic greeting. "Good evening?" He said nothing else, hoping the others would confirm that he is, in fact, in the right room. They both had dark hair and presented an academic aura . . . slightly darker than usual, or maybe that was just the hair and eyes. They also both looked a bit older, one or two years perhaps, which added even more fuel to Robin's restless thoughts. Do they know each other? Am I the only random kid here? Robin didn't want to bring anyone else he knew, since he didn't want to bear the responsibility of causing them harm if it ever comes to that.

The boy gulped. He hoped for a more in-depth explanation of the volunteering he assumed was an experiment now that he and possibly other participants were present. Robin realized too late that he really had no idea what would happen. He felt like a newborn cat, still blind and deaf and completely helpless. His grip tightened, the satchel strap in front of his chest twisting and pressing against his heart. He could probably still leave if he wanted to, but it would be too awkward after a greeting. Besides, his curiosity is still alive, pushing him closer and closer towards the point of no return.

Just what have I gotten myself into?

Reducio

n/a

“Shall we begin?”

Archer Duncan decided to take that as his cue. Seized by the recklessness of teen hood, the boy, both vivacious in his steps and pallid in his cheeks, had no further considerations as he swept the vial off from between Meiyu’s fingers, done easily, considering how it dangled just between her index and middle. The anticipation in her eyes gleamed with an edge of ferocity, determination, and what just might have been satisfaction. He leaned back, face a mask of unreadability, the tips of his fingers already clasping onto the cork as his wrist spun in a swirl. His eyes followed the rocking of the liquids, yet behind the fascination of a child’s wild wonder, they were already calculating.

He recognised the draught without necessity for explanation, the same way a hero recognised both an ally and a minor inconvenience. Disgustingly green in colour, he scowled at the familiar formula. The particular shape of the delicate bottle given to prescription drugs, the particular hue of the colour that shone at the bottom of his satchel, the particular hum of artificial serenity it emanated. A guise under which the medication operated, the potion attacked his cogs and workings with a draught supposedly calming, before tearing his systems apart to replace it with the soft purr of mechanical nothingness.

“Eugh,” Archer lamented with a groan, overplayed to an effect. It was casual, almost, the way a friend may gripe to another about a teacher he found especially vexing. In that moment, it was almost as if they were talking not about mind altering affects but the trivialities of what would be served for dinner. It was in his off-hand carelessness, his peers’ inevitable dismay, and Meiyu’s enigmatic reactions that he found an odd solace. Stilling his hands, his eyes were trained on the thin layer of bubbles that formed just below the cork. He cleared his throat, a smile almost coming to his lips like an old, half-discarded, half-cradled friend. “Odd, I’ve never seen it do that before…. I was prescribed this during outpatient. Its a sedative, in some ways, no?”

He did not question where Meiyu had obtained such a bottle; only that he offered his gladness to see her reception of psychological assistance, conveyed merely through a glint in those deceptive hazel eyes. She, maddened by her own sins and in the depth of the minds’ lies, could have benefited from intervention. So could he, but in the momentarily stability, settled denial.

The room must have been growing inpatient, for tensions rose as the scattered pairs of eyes converged on him: the introspective wells of Meiyu Xiang’s obsidian black, the crisp cuts of stone that were Robin Lockett’s clear grey, the innocent shine belonging to Angel Dayes’ doe brown. All were waiting. He shrugged — the action a languid dismissal that seemed to suggest for them to worry not, for he would soon allow them to take their own sips, whether with reluctance, defiance, or obedience. His smirk spoke of patience being a virtue; his own eyes told a much different story.

It had always been his philosophy that he would face a problem first and deal with its consequences after. It had served him well, in these past few months.

Archer was first prescribed the potion soon after his mother’s passing, after it having been determinate that his attacks of panic or spells of unrest were too much for a young body yet drained soul to bear in solitude. Having been instructed to take it both whenever sudden spells struck him and every night before for a reduction of the nightmares that so often plagued him, he had grown to tolerate it, and in the depths of his depression, even rely on it with the fidelity of a bride under her husband’s iron fist.

Withdrawal had been a quest. Would he sabotage it so easily just for a few stray galleons?

His eyes unfocused from any of the pairs that had found too much comfort on him. His vision blurred. The world was slipping away. Clutching onto the vial as if it was a final lifeline, he uncorked it gently and took a swig.

There was no rush over his body. Only a terrifying stillness.

@Meiyu Xiang, @Robin Lockett, @Angel Dayes | banner by Adeline Spinks

Date December xx, 2025 Time 17:00 Location Rehearsal Room, Hogwarts Tags @Meiyu Xiang @Archer Duncan @Angel Dayes

Reducio "dialogue" | thoughts

The boy nodded in response to the girl's correction. Five in the afternoon is an awkward time to define, and it's even more awkward when two people say different greetings and you're likely the wrong one. Robin gulped and turned to focus on the door he just entered from, hastily averting his gaze when another student walked in. The new girl didn't greet anyone, but the lack of social interaction was perfectly fine by Robin. Now that she wasn't looking around the room, he got the chance to observe her more closely. Finally, someone who appears to be in the same year as him.

The comfort didn't last long, as the "host" of this gathering started explaining the purpose of their presence. An experiment, just as he had predicted. Robin examined the vial held between her fingers as he listened to the instructions, his mind racing and his pulse quickening without a change in his expression. A potion from St. Mungo's? An actual medical potion intended to treat a specific condition? Is this even legal? Robin wasn't here for the compensation, really. He was just a curious gambler interested in discovering niche research areas. He tried not to let concern flood his facial expressions, and as far as he knows, it's a success like always. No matter how unstable he is mentally, his face is usually neutral or with minimal fluctuations.

Despite all his worries, however, Robin does not intend to leave.

The self-preserving part of him mutters how this is a bad idea, but the stubborn devourer of knowledge disregarded all those whispers, mind set on tasting the results. This is a once-in-a-lifetime experience, the chance for him to add a mystery candy on his satisfactory but rather casual Hogwarts days. An absurd story he can narrate, one that can compete with the tales flowing out of his parents' throats.

Following the somewhat excited invitation of the host, the other boy seemed to lack any hesitation when he grabbed the vial. The boy revealed his familiarity with the potion, causing Robin to be even more on edge. He was never prescribed anything for his mental health, so his limited knowledge of sedatives came from his paternal grandparents, muggle vets, and his father who occasionally examined sedated magical creatures otherwise considered dangerous or feral.

Robin studied the older boy closely. He knows of the potential risks, he can't afford to be reckless and uninformed. Though, the suppressed part of his logical brain argued that he already is by agreeing to this obvious self-destruction. The anxious Ravenclaw quickly realized that everyone else was also watching the first volunteer, not just him. The room went quiet for a moment as he almost reassuringly shrugged and smirked at the onlookers. Then, without even a slight hint, he drank his portion. Nothing seemed to happen immediately, at least nothing visible from the outside.

An eerie stillness expanded from the center point that is the older boy. Eerie, yes, but also somewhat comforting. Whatever the effect, at least it isn't instantly lethal. Robin convinced himself that this was surely not a cause of concern. Even the hot-headed portion of him wouldn't dare say the experiment had suddenly become safe, but from his perspective, it seems at least better than the worst case, which is enough to persuade him to stay.

"I can go next." Robin raised his hand half way from where it usually would've been if he were answering a question in class. He studied the older boy's face one last time before walking up and carefully taking the vial into his own shaky fingers. It wasn't long before he steadied himself, lifted the bottle above his face, and poured the agreed-upon amount into his open mouth.

The liquid stayed there for a second before being swallowed by Robin, whose imagination ran free as he mentally prepared for the worst that can happen after the sedative sets in. Honestly though, what's the worst that can happen? Robin had no way of knowing if that thought was rooted in innocence, hubris, or pure ignorance, but as the potion ran down his throat—maybe due to his recognition of having drank the potion, not the actual effect of it yet—Robin comforted himself in the midst of his rampaging consciousness that there wouldn't be any difference between him being sedated or awake.

His face was always an emotionless statue; his eyes an indifferent observer of fortune and misfortune.

Reducio

would prefer you roll for Robin if that's fine! i do have discord i just feel like it'd be more fun and unexpected if i didn't know the results too early:)

Date December xx, 2025 Time 17:00 Location Rehearsal Room, Hogwarts Tags @Meiyu Xiang @Archer Duncan @Angel Dayes

Reducio "dialogue" | thoughts

Robin did not completely register whatever was going on before his eyes. Their experimenter, the girl with an elegant madness to her, didn't hesitate at all when she shot her first spell at the older boy. Robin watched as he flipped upside-down—stared blankly, more like. He began to recognize that this was a bit different than his usual calmness. Background noises faded away, his blinking slowed. Before long, the girl's wand pointed at him, an incantation was muttered, and he felt his vision blur.

Still conscious, Robin tried his best to observe his surroundings. His body became absurdly light, like he was floating. Not upside-down like his upperclassman, just a few centimeters off the ground, with an almost magical filter on everything other than himself. A whimsical womb flickering with dream-like hues: purple, blue, pink . . . mostly translucent, barely enough visibility to make out the silhouette of the caster. Robin averted his gaze from the human, focusing on the shifting colors around him. He chuckled lightly, then the urge vanished and he resumed his stoic exterior. The fantastical lights completely captivated his attention, Robin even raised a finger to touch them, then frowned in disappointment after they escaped his grasp like a child who failed to catch a firefly. He tried a couple more times before allowing himself to give up, his body resting like a depressing rag doll. An old, floppy, lifeless-looking rag doll.

Muffled voices echoed in Robin's skull. The Witch Queen said her orders, her army attacking anything she pointed at. She pointed at herself, strange. Strange? Is it strange? The Witch Queen will die and be reborn and execute anyone who harmed her, even if it was with her direct permission. Soldiers are acting, they failed to see the consequences? Or did they have a death wish? Swords clashing, cannons firing, the world cracking more and more with every war cry. Her army is dying, her army is dead, her dead army is rising to become wizards. No no no, soldiers are too weak. Wizards will do. Magic replaced swords and cannons, incantations replaced war cries. Incantations grew louder and louder and finally pierced Robin's ears, ripping away the curtain blinding him from the stage.

"Whit the deil?" Robin's senses are still in shambles, but the new round of spells awakened him somewhat. He'd lost control of himself. His mind had become blurry like the surface of the bubble he's trapped in, his consciousness warped into an imaginative universe made with the purpose of explaining things in a metaphorical fashion, but as one can see made things worse. The boy's head doesn't hurt . . . well, he technically can't feel anything. Even thinking is enfeebled, it took him mental energy equivalent to a potions test just to remember what previously transpired and analyze the situation.

The one thing for sure is that the sedative or whatever potion he was fed had made its impact. Robin is terrified by the thought of being stripped of the ability to be terrified by something. Survival instinct is lowered to rock bottom, ignorance raised high enough to pierce the ceiling. After regaining most of his consciousness for a few seconds, Robin finally started raising his hand. He patted his robes like a crawling toddler, then finally pulled out his wand, which is only loosely held between his fingers, in contrast with his habit of gripping it firmly before casting any spell.

"Flipendo . . . Jaculor . . . Nive Percutio . . . " Robin kept voicing random offensive incantations, but his hands couldn't pair them up with the correct movements. His view is also obstructed by the bubble, so he can't see his target clearly and focus his spell-casting intent.

Robin's mind could not race to find the best counter-measure, it walked with a cane in one hand and an overflowing grocery bag in the other. Every time the fruits and vegetables and meat and eggs and milk and whatever the hell was put in there spilled, Robin's train of thought would come to a halt and restart. The cycle went on, the world outside of his whimsical bubble-prison kept . . . worlding. The effectively incapacitated boy became a passive observer of the box: did the cat get killed by hubris in the form of curiosity? He'll have to open the box to know for sure. To open the box, he'll have to get out of this damn bubble which is what he's trying to figure out but can't. Robin can't see out of this thing clearly, and his movement is slowed by both the potion and the spell, so there's no way he'd be able to land something on the girl successfully.

Robin was never someone easily inspired by motivational speeches. In this instance, the words "inspire" and "motivate" mean nothing either. There's no need to keep thinking. There's no point. It doesn't take an annoying speaker to squeeze that optimism out of him.

The boy allowed his eyes to follow the shifting hues once more, voluntarily entering the trance-like state he was just now so eager to escape. More incantations were muttered with Robin's voice, but no intent and movement existed to complete them. Fireflies flew around the battlefield, landing on corpses and the sweating faces of new recruits. The Witch Queen stands in the midst of chaos, unbothered by her fallen followers. Antagonistic magic kept shooting across the space, nearly scratching the Witch Queen's fair skin.

There was undeniably action, but it seemed so still . . . like the battlefield is merely an impressive oil painting you stared too long at and started to imagine being in.

It's oddly comforting.

Reducio

the excitement begins! robin: bruh im prolly gonna get traumatized by the end of this wdym excitement
also i had too much fun with the "going crazy" part, as you can probably tell lol
*i did vaguely mention that there was some action outside of robin's bubble, but please let me know if there are any notable contradictions with your planned actions (such as if nobody did anything) so i can edit my reply accordingly, thanks!!