Laments of an Insomniac
| Laments of an Insomniac | with @Samuel Sauber |
banner by Alyssea Brown| interacting as Archer Duncan
To be frank, there was only one true reason for Archer’s presence. Although he genuinely sought the answer to the former (and much more trivial) question, whether the excuse to seek out Professor Sauber’s time would be answered or not was a matter he did not truly care for. Being the resourceful adolescent Archer was, he would find alternatives either way. The latter was a more pressing question he found increasingly problematic in his daily life, affecting far more than his sleep but his every activity, ranging from academics, to duelling, to even sitting alone in his dormitory, pensive with thought.
He paused slightly in front of Sauber’s office, not in uncertainty, but more so in preparation. It was not as if he had trekked particularly far to arrive at the room. After all, it was not two steps away from his house of the Slytherin dungeons, but a short walk away from where he slept. He could always return, but that was not on the agenda. As determined as he was with anything else, he would not allow for himself to be indecisive and this opportunity to go to waste. If he was just going to leave why would he even have bothered in the first place?
He had nothing against Sauber. After all if he did he would have sought Nurse Baird for the first question and the second… well, hell, there were little people who seemed as well-versed in that art form as the professor. Sometimes Archer found his teaching methods questionable to say the least, bearing the hallmark of someone who clearly knew what he was doing, which was being overqualified for a teaching position. If he truly desired to better younger generations he ought to have found himself taking on apprenticeships as a potions master. His style was efficient, sharp and to the point, drawing blood at the first prick of the needle. Perhaps once he had enjoyed the frills and pastries of Fresnel but he was long past the age to be bribed by such things — after all Archer wasn’t exactly enrolled at a school so far from home to play around. Though not well suited for young children, there was a professionalism about him and his subject that Archer found comfort in.
If Maxi was here Archer betted the upperclassman would have frowned over his lack of artistic emotion. Certainly, he was a different boy from when he had first met de Fostoncy, and there seemed to be little left of the scholar who appreciated all the flowery language and Sometimes Archer wondered where the logical deductions and thorough calculations his mother had blessed him with since she died. She was not an emotionless person, but she knew when and how to control the uproars in her heart when she found it necessary. Perhaps Archer too once had the same skill. He supposed it all made sense, in a morbidly correct way.
But none of that mattered. After all, today’s visit was not to Maxi nor to his mother but a professor he felt as if he barely knew, only admired from afar. Today was both a chance to make an impression and to seek answers, and before he raised his knuckles he pondered on which one truly mattered more to him. Was he, in some futile way, attempting to seek validation and praise from a man who seemed impossible or giving it or would he be content with what Sauber would give him in the professor’s natural state of curtness and leave with answers and only answers?
And so he knocked, once only, short and sharp, forced his hand down in restraint, and waited.
I am not even singed. My wings are untouched. You use them for everything, except flight.
Liliya Starkova| Anthonie Engelbrecht
Liliya Starkova| Anthonie Engelbrecht
Laments of an Insomniac
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@Archer Duncan─────────────────────────────────────────────────────────The room was quiet, thick with undisturbed silence that clung like dust to stone.
Samuel sat behind his desk, not marking, not organizing, not preparing course work. Instead, he sat there and read. A small, red-leather volume rested in his gloved hands. The paper inside had turned yellow with age. The corners of pages had turned, others ink-stained, and the whole thing smelled faintly of his father's old Parisian cologne he once wore.
It was closer to a ledger than it was a journal. Not of debts, but of Samuel himself.
His father had kept a record of his progression meticulously.
> Samuel turned two today. Articulate. Understands enough to obey all commands without protest.
> At three he recognizes spell structure, He might have the mind of a lexicon.
Pride bled into every early line. Precise notes and measurements were scribbled down in margins: magical outbursts, languages spoken, eye under various lights. There were hardly any words of affection, just obsession.
> At age five, he practices restraint even during tantrums. Good. Controlled. Very unlike those his age.
But as the entries progressed, they changed. Slightly at first.
> He mimics emotions well, but does not seem to feel them as much.
> Others cry or laugh when they fall, Samuel looks annoyed at the waste.
> He lies very well, too well. I did not teach him that.
Samuel's brow tightened. The next page had a smear of red ink at the bottom corner. A note his father had returned to and amended years later.
> He asked me today what love feels like, not what it is. That distinction is chilling.
> I answered truthfully. He blinked, thanked me and left with no follow-up questions.
Samuel's fingers hovered, turning the next page slower. The script began to slope downward more erratically.
> Today I realized I don't know if he has ever cried. Even as a child.
> He got into a brawl, broke another boy's arm and showed no remorse. "He started it, I ended it."
> He is everything I hoped he'd be. Brilliant. Precise. Unflinching. But when I look into his eyes, I see nothing reflected back. There's no shine.
> Have I bred something hollow?
The final entry was brief. Dated a few months after Samuel's acceptance into Hogwarts:
> He excels. Everyone says so. But I wake up some nights, unsure if what I've raised is a son or something wearing the mask of one.
The ink trailed off.
Samuel closed the book softly with his gloved thumbs resting on its spine for a long while.
He did not look away when a knock came. Sharp, singular and timed with careful restraint.
Samuel did not need to ask who it was.
The book was lowered gently into the drawer and locked.
He straightened. His voice, when it came out, was back to being calm and clinical.
"Enter"
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Seven Minutes is all I can spare to grade your HW.
[ sta ] 10 [ eva ] 15 [ str ] 01 [ wis ] 20 [ arc ] 10 [ acc ] 14
Laments of an Insomniac
| Laments of an Insomniac | with @Samuel Sauber |
banner by Alyssea Brown| interacting as Archer Duncan
“Enter.”
A single word spoken like a cold, curt command, Archer obeyed as he gripped the handle in calculating, cautious fingers, and pushed down, that imposing door creaking open to reveal a space more welcoming than he would have imagined from their potions teacher. He did not waste time by stopping the gawk at the doorway — he knew Sauber would not have appreciated that behaviour, but moreover he reckoned he would have shared the professor’s opinion. Potioneering was an art of precision, if it were an art at all, and as eyes under lowered brows briefly surveyed the room, he took measured steps to the desk, just as each perfectly weighed cup of finely grated ingredients. His boots clinked against the stone ground, not in a manner meant to be dramatic or rouse intimidation, but certainly enough to draw eyes from most.
It was a quiet office after all, and the two syllable word was the only thing that had broke the cool silence in the Slytherin dungeons. Without the meows of Zeno — unfortunately Archer thought it uncouth to bring a feline — the room was a sharp contrast’s to Archer’s own, still, and above all, organised with the meticulousness he would have expected from Sauber. As hypocritical as it would have been he thought, good. At least one person in the room knew what they were doing with their space. Stepping forward he realised, oddly enough, that the air was scented with cedar wood and citrus, a combination that perhaps once he would have found familiar, yet today only strange. As he clanked to a stop, before him was a sleek desk, a full black darker than the nights of the new moons, and two immaculately designed chairs. Their soft seats were inviting, but as his eyes flitted over the carefully arranged desktop, for now he found himself stood, arms tenser than he would preferred stuffed into his jacket pockets, back straight yet stance almost bordering on defensive.
Although Archer was well aware of his purpose for the visit, his only preparation done was the brief seconds spend stood outside his door, and he had no prior visitation over the words he was soon to say, the two questions he would pose nor how he would pose them. As long as he kept his words clipped and to the point, he saw no reason he would have required a preview if he needn’t purple prose or fanciful expressions. Perhaps to say he was unnerved wouldn’t have been the best word choice for a day spent precise, to say he was comfortable would have been far from it either. Not seeking warmth or hospitality, he should have known — he was only there for answers. Simple answers to simple inquiries. So the sole word of “professor,” was all he said in greeting, accompanied by the subtle nod of his head. His voice balancing on an edge that wasn’t jarring nor soft, conveying the respect intended and not much more emotion. It rolled over the echoing room, an unexpected hinderance to their quietude.
“I come with two matters I hope would see addressed,” he began, cutting straight to the matter at hand. “Firstly, I am experiencing adverse side effects to the Sleeping Draught, namely headaches, further insomnia, and vivid nightmares.” Archer paused slightly, the symptoms leaving his tongue as if he was writing them into a fill in the blank question rather than describing his own. Pressing his lips together he continued, “I acknowledge this is my own fault from over intake, but I do seek solutions or alternatives, if you can kindly provide any.” More cordiality was slid into the final words. However, while he sought for the solutions or alternatives he had asked, his heart knew he gave little care to how it was answered.
I am not even singed. My wings are untouched. You use them for everything, except flight.
Liliya Starkova| Anthonie Engelbrecht
Liliya Starkova| Anthonie Engelbrecht
Laments of an Insomniac
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@Archer Duncan─────────────────────────────────────────────────────────"Enter."
The door responded first, way before the boy and the creak of hinges filled the office before footsteps did. Samuel's eyes lifted briefly from the parchment he had been annotating, red ink pausing mid-stroke. The quill was held suspended as he observed the figure crossing his threshold.
Archer Duncan.
A name Samuel did not frequently have to repeat or reprimand. Their academic records showed consistency, if not brilliance; classroom presence, quiet and utilitarian. No records of outbursts or unsightly drama. A student who, quite reasonably, stayed out of his way and followed instructions. In a school brimming with flailing limbs, attention seekers and fragile egos, Samuel regarded that alone as something approaching merit.
He did not immediately speak as Archer stepped inside. Instead, he adjusted his glasses, straightened the lines of ink on the page, and pointed wordlessly to the seat right in front of him. Frankly, if they were going to have a conversation, Samuel would rather do it quietly, sitting on these newly purchased and much comforting chairs.
The boy remained standing. Interesting. Not disobedience, simply a deliberate choice. That, too, was fine.
"Mr Duncan," Samuel returned, voice as smooth and flat as iced glass, accompanied by a short nod of acknowledgment.
There was something in the boy’s posture that had previously not been there before. Not fear, no, something else. Tension? Measured, perhaps quietly restrained. It looked like someone practicing to not flinch.
Nonetheless, Samuel did not pry, it was not his concern to begin with. Samuel, throughout his year had not cared for dramatics or origin stories. He did not believe that every bruise necessarily warranted an audience from him or anyone else. Whatever burdens this boy might be carrying, they belonged to his own personal architecture.
"I come with two matters I hope would see addressed," Archer began.
Of course he did.
The next few words came out clinical, as if almost rehearsed in his mind several times. Headaches, insomnia, nightmares. Samuel’s brow barely twitched, but mentally he noted the phrasing, cataloging Archer's demeanor. The calm recitation of symptoms. Disassociation was a habit among people who’d seen too much too early, did Samuel believe Archer was disassociating? There wasn't enough data on him first hand to diagnose, nor was he Hogwarts' therapist.
"I acknowledge this is my own fault," the boy added.
Well, that doesn't really help either of them does it?
Samuel set down the quill as he simply asked. "How much?"
It wasn’t a question laced with judgment. The tone was the same he might use when asking a student how many grams of belladonna root they had added too early to a boiling base. Calm. Direct and Diagnostic.
"You’ve likely reached dependency," he said plainly, once Archer responded. "The side effects you’re listing suggest your body has stopped distinguishing it's state of rest from sedation. Continued use will eventually lead to cognitive blunting for you, and should you be particularly unlucky; hallucinatory loops."
He leaned back slightly, fingers steepled.
"I can help you. But it would not mean anything unless you choose to help yourself. No potion can cure foolishness permanently. I do not say this to insult you; only to clarify where my job ends and yours shall begin."
With that, Samuel rose from his chair without further ceremony, his footsteps barely made any sound as they crossed towards the cabinet near the far wall. Cedar and citrus still hung faint in the air, a blend he found much more tolerable, unlike the cloying lilac or lavender. He selected the proper vial for this: Draught of Peace. He returned, setting the vial precisely at the center of the desk between them.
"Small doses. Measured. Half a teaspoon at most. Come see me before class to avail your doses. This will ease your symptoms without deepening the dependency. After three days of this, we taper. After a week, I expect you to attempt sleep unaided. If you fail, you report it, no guesswork or silence. Understood?"
He didn’t wait long for an answer before continuing.
"Now, sit down. And proceed to the second matter, Mr Duncan."
There was no warmth in the tone. No pity, no pressure. Just clinical interest, and a baseline expectation that if a student walked into his office, they did so with purpose. Sauber was not here to soothe. He was here to fix what was worth fixing, and discard the rest.
He allowed a beat of quiet to pass. Just enough for Archer to prepare his words, if he hadn’t already.
"There is value," he added coolly, "in clarity. So whatever you have left to say, do not dress it up. Say it."
He adjusted his glasses again, sat back fully, and waited.
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Seven Minutes is all I can spare to grade your HW.
[ sta ] 10 [ eva ] 15 [ str ] 01 [ wis ] 20 [ arc ] 10 [ acc ] 14
Laments of an Insomniac
spring-summer of 2025 | Professor Sauber's office
“How much?”
Clean, precise, to the point — Archer liked that. He reckoned it was part of the reason he chose to visit Sauber. It was as if he was speaking to a doctor, no frills, no unnecessary emotion, just an input of symptoms, and an output of a diagnosis and solution in return. After his own sentiments having been used against him by the boy he thought understood him the most (and perhaps that was the worst part of it), he had tried to shy away from showing anything he deemed weak. The lack of emotion in the man he was talking prompted him not to show any himself, and oddly, that provided him a sense of comfort. He provided an answer of a roughly estimated number.
Eyes following his steepled fingers, Archer mulled over the Potion professor’s words. His first sentence was one Archer had deduced himself and the reason he made this trip in the first place. Although Archer ought to have known the side effects of overdosing in theory, the descriptions were still reacted to with nerves as his right index finger began absentmindedly tapping on the surface of the desk. The sound of his body losing awareness seemed particularly concerning, and so did the long-term issues that followed. Regret flashed over his eyes — he probably never should have started relying on it for sleep in the first place.
“No portion can cure foolishness permanently.”
Despite Professor Sauber’s aura of seriousness, Archer could not help but smirk slightly. He did not exactly come here for the opinion that he was foolish to be reinforced; he probably knew well enough himself without the external validation. There was, however, sense in his professor’s words, he must admit. Archer was not particularly well-known for self-discipline, and whenever a semblance of such was established, it often quickly slid downhill into toxicity. Without much of a routine nor caring for one, and certainly a forgetful person with often with too much on his hands, he was right that Archer needed to help himself.
That advice probably expanded to outside of his insomnia. He knew he needed help, both emotionally and medically, and therapy at least was a route he should have considered. Yet as he chose instead to cope with self-destruction, he could never have reached out for help, much less reached inward.
Archer watched, half with idle interest, half with slight tension as Professor Sauber stood to reach for the cabinet in which vials sat in neat rows. The one he returned with was not a remedy Archer recognised, and possibly one much above his year level. Squinting, he made out the shape of a dove, and as his Potions professor began to speak he listened with intent, not so much focusing on his own troubles but with interest to the potion’s affect. Certainly Archer hoped he would find no need to report it, much less for guesswork or silence. However, he did have a question, and by tone of inquiry, it was more out of curiosity than true practicality, as if it was something he would ask in a lesson, “Since you said I have reached dependency, am I at risk of withdrawals?
“Otherwise, though, understood; thank you.” At the direct words for him to sit, he did. The chairs were comfortable enough, and much to his surprise, and perhaps the disagreement of his peers, he felt exceedingly comfortable in the man’s presence. Although icy, he also seemed to be as clear as ice, and Archer need not have worried for hidden nuances or useless subtleties in conversation. This was only further reinforced in the instructions he gave for his words. In a world where everything was as bewildering, there was indeed value in clarity.
Archer nodded slightly. He had composed his thoughts before his entrance, but it would have been incorrect to claim he had rehearsed what he would say. “I seem to have troubles with controlling my emotions. More often I feel as if, especially the more negative ones, has control over me rather than vice versa. I believe, to some degree, this is tied to my first issue, considering it has adversely affected my schedule, as well as my academics, athletics, and interpersonal relationships. I am hoping to seek some advice on that.” His speech was not rushed, and not particularly slow either, vocalising his thoughts with as much order as he could muster without filtering them.
@Samuel Sauber
I am not even singed. My wings are untouched. You use them for everything, except flight.
Liliya Starkova| Anthonie Engelbrecht
Liliya Starkova| Anthonie Engelbrecht