The Augury Cloister - Front Yard PV Closed

F I N N E G A NxC O N N O R
omnes magni homines primum fuerunt pueri

gryffindor, third-year
─────────✫

He regretted his decision to travel here by train, and then foot when he'd made it halfway up the incline. What time was it? And just how much bloody longer did this path go on for? The humble ivy-covered mansion had not seemed to be that far away, but that was half an hour ago, when his calves hadn't been feeling like lead. He stopped at a bend in the road to catch his breath and go over his posessions one more time. The invitation for the wedding had arrived late in the year, leaving far too little time between cramming classes and writing essays to truly properly prepare. Still, he had learned his lesson after his excursion to St. Mungo's. Not to stay away from danger, as one might expect, but to be better prepared and to be exceedingly cautious. While his Professors probably thought he was scraping by as usual, much of Finnegan's time was spent reading far ahead in his books, searching for the most useful spells that he could reasonably master in the time between the arrival of the invitation and the wedding. He'd found several. If the balls at Hogwarts had proved anything, then it was that festive gatherings such as these had a way of going tits up fast like. Not every calamity could be prepared for, but a Bezoar was mightily useful thing to have. Far easier to acquire than complicated antidotes and effective against most forms of poisoning. He still remembered his meeting with Pride at Paddifoot's, how the Slytherin had slipped Hemlock into his tea and how cautious Gideon had been with all he drank and ate. The Athanatos boys would be wary of or boast about poisons so much if they had never used them, and so bringing a Bezoar seemed a smart thing to do. He'd brought three small potions with him. Small enough to carry in his pockets without getting in the way. Gregory's Unctuous Unction had been an obvious choice. Whether slipped into someone's goblet or forced down their gullet, it never hurt to have a friend, even if it was artifical one. The Drowsiness Draught was ultimately the closest thing to a handgrenade that he had brought along. When smashed its fumes would induce lethargy, offering a distraction, diversion or potentially affording an escape if push came to shove. Last but not least was the Babbling Beverage, quite useful if you didn't want certain secrets to spill and noteable for its property of not requiring to be swallowed. Finally, he had brought one more peculiar item along with him, a collection of dark and beautiful feathers only to be used if all other options failed. He'd been reluctant to bring them, but their lightness made it easy to carry them, and it never hurt to have a final trick up your sleeve. Finnegan shrugged off his Summer Cloak and set it down on a large outcrop of jagged rock. Taking a step back, he cleared his throat and incanted a spell that he wouldn't be taught until after summer. “Indesmulo” While he had been sad to lose his invisbility cloak in the Forbidden Forest, he had been even sadder that he'd wasted money on getting on in the first place. Granted, there was no guarantee that the Bedazzlement Hex was quite as good as a cloak woven with Demiguise Hair, but it was certainly far cheaper, and a lot easier than mastering the Disillusionment Charm and the effect appeared to be much the same. Pleased with the result, Finnegan put the cloak back on and resumed his stroll up to the Augury Cloister while a stiff gale bit at his face. The air here was cleaner, fresher, saltier, and yet... ...it wasn't quite the same as memories of Wales or trips to the beach. The lone cry of a seagull overhead did not remind him of a leisurely holiday but rather emphasized his loneliness in the landscape. The waves did not lapse gently or invite swimming. They crashed and threw themselves against the rock with force, determined to break it. And whenever he looked out over the sea, he could not help but feel like something, or someone was watching from those bottomless depths below. Soon enough the wilderness of jutted rock and blowing grass and wind-whipped shores made way for something far too carefully placed and managed. Like someone had tried very hard to make things blend in with their natural surrounding, but had made all the wrong choices. Though Finnegan was unable to name the flowering vines, he could tell that they were out of place in this landscape, and they smelled far too strongly besides. Likewise, every decorative stone looked like it had been hauled from some faraway place and put down just so, same with the grass and vines, and all the other decorations that tried too hard to seem natural. Finnegan paused a dozen feet or so removed from the entrance. He had planned to scale the cloister, to get a high vantage point and observe the surroundings from above. The ivy made it seem easy to do so, but doubt had begun to gnaw at his mind from the moment he had set foot on the seaside path snaking up the cliffside. The cloister stood upon a cliffside of jagged rock and while reaching its roof from the northern sea-side would hide him from view, a single misstep could prove lethal. His goal remained the same, to remain hidden and to observe, to look for a breadcrumb trail if there was any to be found, but above all, to be cautious. Perhaps he could attempt from the side? The east side had no windows through which he could be spotted, but could he really risk it? There would undoubtedly already be staff at the site, hard at work to make this Pride's perfect day. Not half a year ago he might have brazenly walked into the Augury and improvised from there, but that kind of approach just didn't do, not when it came to dealing with the Athanatos family. Now that he stood before the cloister, a different plan formed in his head. While he could not slip through the overgrown fence like an eel, he could attempt to get over it. Though he couldn't be sure what was on the other side, it certainly seemed far less likely that he would run into anyone that way, and he wasn't so arrogant as to think his Bedazzlement Charm made him impervious to being seen. After a short moment of deliberation, Finnegan advanced toward the door, but did not enter through it. Instead, he listened carefully while he approached a corner in the building's brickwork and gently tested the sturdiness of the overgrown fence with his hands. With one foot on the wall and the other on the overgrown fence, though he didn't really doubt they would fail to hold him. Frankly, he was much more at risk of being blown away by a particularly strong gust of wind. Hidden by the noise of the wind and the sea and whatever cover his enchanted Summer Cloak afforded him, Finnegan stood quietly for a few more moments, to assure himself the coast was clear before he would attempt to scale the overgrown fence. Note for mods: Reducio If allowed, Finn will use the mirror in the compact he brought (declared in the Cathedral thread) to peek over the fence once he has already climbed up a good portion of the way. Else, this can be ignored. https://pasteimg.com/images/2025/07/09/ ... tering.png

Veni, vidi, vici 05/07/2025 Augury Cloister

Declaring my inventory upfront since this is a modded scenario.

• Gregory's Unctuous Unction [Trunk]
• Drowsiness Draught [Trunk]
• Babbling Beverage [Trunk]
• Bezoar [Trunk]
• Feathers of the Mockingbird [MS Earned Item]
• Winter Cloak [Trunk, Standard Item] - There is no summer cloak item that I was able to find. For flavor purposes I will claim this winter cloak to be a summer cloak to be more seasonally appropriate.
• Muggle compact - intended as a flavor item, just brought along because it has a mirror, which may yet prove useful. Has no magical effect. Mentioned to be on his person in the Sanctum Noctis thread.

The Bedazzlement Charm had been cast over Finnegan's cloak, not to render the boy invisible (heavens, no), but to make him less seen. As though the Gryffindor was draped in a thousand tiny, shifting mirrors, each reflecting back a sliver of the world around him. The result was something strange: not quite concealment, but a suggestion of absence. People rarely look to the flickering shadows at the edge of their perception. Beneath this veil of concealment, Finnegan would become a person half-remembered, half-glimpsed from the corner of the eye.

An iron fence ringed a stone patio on the southwestern side of the Cloister. The black fence was hemmed by a hedge of carefully cultivated menace—oleander and yew, alternating like chessboard squares. Pink blossoms bloomed in bursts beside their darker, evergreen counterparts. Together, they rose to just above his knees as Finnegan studied the barrier, testing its strength. One could not be too careful when intruding on an Athanatos event.

Finnegan's fingers curled around the cold iron. He gave it a pull. The fence did not budge. A firm pull confirmed it, this fence was sturdy enough to hold his weight, should he need to climb. Besides the slight gap in the hudge where Finnegan's legs sood, the cloak distorting the reckless blooms, it would be a challenge to notice the young spy.

Clandestine as a cat, Finnegan drew his compact mirror from beneath his shimmering cloak. A disembodied hand held the charmless glass and with a slight twist if his wrist, the wizard would catch a reflection from the other side—a stone patio, encircling a large fountain. A quartet of padded benches surrounded the fountain like solemn sentinels. But what truly caught his eye were the shimmering glyphs etched into the stonework—glowing rings of purple, blue, and red, humming with latent magic.

As Finn adjusted his mirror slightly, angling it toward the window found along the northern border of this closed in patio, he could view what was inside. Just beyond the pane of glass, lit by the low gleam of wall sconces and glowing orbs of magical light, a house-elf was hunched over a mortar and pestle, grinding herbs with practiced focus. Each movement was rhythmic, purposeful. This was no idle preparation, Finnegan would be certain that something potent was being brewed.

The veil between spectacle and sorcery at the Augury Cloister was thin. Finnegan had experienced the Athanatos family for that they truly were, a duality of natures. There was a face intended for the public, friend and enemy alike, and then there was a hidden expression that was no less remarkable, but often more concerning. The Augury Cloister was no different, Finnegan could feel it, even if he was unaware of the history of this place. Unaware of the significance of this cliff face. He did not need to know, he already knew. Every blossom, every rune, every elf bore the mark of ritual dressed as celebration.

And Finnegan had come here to watch, not to get tangled in a fresh disaster.

F I N N E G A NxC O N N O R
omnes magni homines primum fuerunt pueri

gryffindor, third-year
─────────✫

Just before he went up and over, Finnegan glanced down at the perfectly maintained hedge of flowers. He supposed he ought to thank Mathias Pride for a very valuable lesson. "Look in your cup. Always check the vessel" the Slytherin had said when he had slipped deadly hemlock in his tea, followed by a too-casual, "You would have died." source And so Finnegan, knowing full well whose board he was playing on, heeded the advice in the fullest breadth of its meaning and took a second to observe the hedge more closely. Credit where credit's due, Finnegan thought morbidly as the names of the plants drifted lazily into his mind. Not a detail has been left to chance. While Finnegan could not name any potion or brew that required oleander or yew, he was aware of their symbolic meaning. Oleander was a pretty but toxic plant, something innocent and almost seductive that hid a powerful venom. But yew was even more loaded with meaning, so much so that even ordinary Muggles might know some of it without ever having touched a Herbology book. Yew trees were often planted at graveyards, which was why it was so strongly associated with death. How apt for a wedding. Either Pride was testing the acumen of his guests or he had a terrible sense of humour. Once he had tested the strength of the fence, he climbed up far enough to glimpse what lay beyond with the mirror. He frowned at the shimmering markings on the ground, unsure what to make of them. What if it was an Intruder Charm? No, that would not make sense. The entire purpose of such protective charms was that they were invisible, and these glyphs were shimmering and glowing. Besides, this was a public wedding; guests were expected. Perhaps some areas of this cloister had alarms or charms put in place, but this outside area? Well, it was fenced off, but who would have bothered putting padded benches there if the space wasn't to be used by guests? In the end, he couldn't be certain either way what the glyphs were for. It was magic, all right, but what kind? The faint outline of a house-elf hard at work with mortar and pestle drew his lips into a thin line. At first he thought it was simply food being prepared, some sauce or garnish, but the grinding persisted in a too-steady rhythm. If it were food being prepared, it would have been hurriedly bashed into shape and then carried off to be thrown into some pot or saucepan. That's not the kitchen either, is it? He couldn't be sure from his angle, but he didn’t need to see the full interior to know. There was no sound of pots and pans, no noise of skittish house-elves hurrying about, no smell of vegetables or meats being prepared. He was fully certain by the time he realised that he should have smelled Wiener Schnitzels being prepared if this were the kitchen. After all, Pride seemed to love that particular food almost as much as he loved poor @Winnie Harper. Finnegan stuffed the compact back into his pocket and climbed a little higher and carefully, quietly hauled himself over the top, but did not drop down yet. He listened closely for the sound of the grinding pestle and mortar until he had locked into its rhythm. It wasn’t a particularly long drop to the other side, but even a lightweight made some sound when they dropped onto stone. So he guessed the distance and attempted to time his landing so that the crack of his knees and the sound of trainers hitting stone would exactly align with the loudest part of the house-elf’s rhythmic preparation of herbs. One day he would inform himself that watching a violent war movie in which a sniper had timed his shot to align with thunderstrikes had proven to be far more educational than previously thought. Provided he remained unnoticed, Finnegan would remain crouched on the patio for a second, steadying himself before he rose slowly, all too aware of every breath he took, every rustle of his clothes, while his gaze remained fixed on the back of the diligent house-elf. In case of detection: Reducio In case of detection, ignore all prose below this reducio. If detected, Finnegan will attempt to cast Stupefy on the house-elf (assuming it is the house-elf who detects him) in as silent a manner as possible. If Finnegan is not detected this reducio should be ignored. It's just a house-elf, he reminded himself. One dressed in a very gaudy pink tuxedo, to be precise—or so it had seemed anyway through the mirror. He might have laughed at Winnie's brave but futile attempts to hide the toxic rot that oozed from every orifice of this bloody wedding if he weren't so preoccupied with remaining hidden. He stood motionless for several seconds, planning his next move. Past the door and window of the patio's northmost wall he spotted a gate that opened up to his right, leading God knows where. He immediately crossed out that option in his mind. Not only would it require going past a door and a window, he couldn't even be sure where it would take him. Can't stay here either. He was very nearly on top of the purple glyph; though he had made sure not to step on it, who knew what that might do... So he turned left, and headed south, sticking close to the hedge before he made a dash across to the nearest padded couch, feeling a bit more secure now that there was a fountain and a bench between him and the house-elf. While he itched to cast another protective, concealing charm, he knew that would have to wait. Now was the time to act, to discover and to catalogue, to gather evidence of wrongdoing if he could discover any, not the time to sit still. With some luck, the house-elf might soon abandon his work, or leave a smidge of his brew in the mortar, enough to take a small sample back home so that someone with more skill, like @Evelynn Decipio, might test it for any nefarious properties. But so long as the grinding continued, he knew that chance would not have presented itself yet. He could probably take down the house-elf, but then what? Drag him out here and force-feed him Gregory's Unctuous Unction? It would be most useful to have an ally inside, especially someone as easily overlooked as a house-elf, but that was the kind of brash move which could just as easily backfire. Maybe later. For now, he could do something a little easier, a little less risky, and build his confidence before he started pulling dangerous and daring manoeuvres. Crouched behind the padded couch, he focused on the red glyph before him and silently drew his wand. His incantation was spoken softly, almost whispered. “Revelio” Such a simple, common spell taught to witches and wizards early on—so simple, in fact, that it was all too often overlooked. But here now was a clear purpose for it. If there were anything hidden to be discovered about these glyphs, this spell would uncover it.

Veni, vidi, vici 05/07/2025 Augury Cloister

Status:

• Wearing summer cloak enchanted with Indesmulo (Bedazzlement Hex) for enhanced stealth.
• Compact is pocketed again.
• Wand is out.

Inventory:

• Gregory's Unctuous Unction [Trunk]
• Drowsiness Draught [Trunk]
• Babbling Beverage [Trunk]
• Bezoar [Trunk]
• Feathers of the Mockingbird [MS Earned Item]
• Winter Cloak [Trunk, Standard Item] - There is no summer cloak item that I was able to find. For flavor purposes I will claim this winter cloak to be a summer cloak to be more seasonally appropriate.
• Muggle compact - intended as a flavor item, just brought along because it has a mirror, which may yet prove useful. Has no magical effect. Mentioned to be on his person in the Sanctum Noctis thread.

Finnegan climbed the fence with the ease of someone accustomed to quiet trespass, truly what sorts of media was this young man consuming. He went from social warfare against Gideon, to breaking and entering like some sort of military insurgent. Finn would find the wrought iron frame steady beneath his weight. The metal was cool, dew-slicked, and vines of woodbine curled like serpents around the bars, brushing his sleeves. The Augury Cloister loomed mere meters from where he stood: picturesque, elegant, entirely unfortified. This was not a place meant to repel; it was meant to dazzle, to distract.

The hedge that flanked the fence had been carefully cultivated, yet Finnegan recognized it for what it was. Oleander and yew. Beautiful. Lethal. He marked their placement not as accident but intention or perhaps cruel humor. These plants were guardians in disguise, chosen not just for their color palette of pale red and deep green, but for their quiet menace. Poison did not need to scream.

Still, the danger was not in the brush against the skin, it was in the ingestion. Sap could burn, sting, irritate, yes. But death came slower, more intimately, when the toxins were drawn into the body. The later entered his mind, about the decorative hedge's apparent toxicity, but he did not concern himself with mere dermal irritation. Unprotected, Finnegan would graze some of the blossoms and leaves. The wizard had no risk of death, just minor irritation. A subtle statement for one with keen eyes and an even keener understanding of the Augury that this guest traveled to places via routes unintended. A non issue with hidden hands or alternatively a lack of witnesses that even knew he was here. Of course, perhaps this hedge was merely symbolic. The danger or mild irritation caused by the hedge was merely a coincidental happenstance. Unlikely, afterall, the Athanatoses never wasted a metaphor. Here, beauty hid decay. Danger sat perfumed.

And yet, there were no corpses here. Not truly. This structure was more inviting than the church where the ceremony was taking place. A temple dedicated to some dark and faceless god. But for those who truly knew the Athanatos family, they do not deal in death. That was their mythology, at least in name... Athanatos means without death, a clear suggestion of their distant Greek heritage that at this point was only obvious in their surname. Their gospel however was written in a different tongue, not by them or for them, but taken by them all the same. What the Athanatos trafficked in is subtler, sharper: futures, fates and secrets.

The Athanatos family dealt in the economy of inevitability. They bought with bloodlines and sold with prophecy. Every guest who passed through the Augury’s vine-draped archways came to sip wine and witness vows, yes. But more than that, they came to see and to be seen. To be recorded by unseen eyes. To take in and perhaps even take for themselves a thread of truth, an ounce of regard, a new connection or network within insular pureblood society. Every whisper in this place would be preserved like pressed flowers between the pages of time.

Finnegan pressed on, hands perhaps tingling faintly from a brush of sap. If so, a little sting was fine. That was merely part of the price. He did not come here to watch the ceremony. But more than that, he was here to learn, earn, destroy and depart from the ominous gaze of a family with a reach that stretched a bit too far.

The irritation would come later, a low sting blooming quietly along Finnegan’s forearm where the oleander leaves had brushed too close. But for now, Finnegan remained undisturbed, nimble even as he landed on the stone patio with the grace of someone who had scaled stranger thresholds, timing his landing with the grinding of the mortar and pestle for maximum stealth.

The stones near Finnegan's feet shimmered faintly, etched with glowing magical runes that pulsed like slow heartbeats in shades of purple, blue, and rust-red. Not beautiful, not symmetrical, simply archaic. The sort of sigils that predated clean, modern wards. This was a sort of magic that was rooted in something less refined. This lack of coordination and symmetry as well as clear use, betrayed not carelessness, but origin.

If these runes were meant as protection, then someone had long since forgotten how to wield them. Or worse, how to interpret them. These glowing runic circles encompassed nothing. These glyphs guarded no door. It was as if the very concept of perimeter had been abandoned in favor of ritual or haphazard aesthetic. If this was meant as a means of wardind, this rune set would leave a legacy of inadequacy, left to simmer in modern pretense as a glowing patio accessory.

Finnegan kept clear all the same. The lion was not taking any chances, it was as if he knew the narrator was out to screw with him. As Finn scurried along the border, his eyes sharp, his mind ticking... he knew that he needed to remain out of the view of the service staff and possibly guests. This was not the first time Conner had danced near someone else's old magic and survived. But he did not let survival become overconfidence, the last time he had met a truly ancient and powerful wizard, he learned what a powergap truly was.

Through the patio window, movement flickered. A house elf, small and focused, hunched over a bar counter inside. There was not much to observe, the creature was muddling herbs in a mortar with precise, rhythmic movements. It was the misen plais for the post nuptial celebration that would start any moment. It was not particularly interesting, there were bundles of dried lavender and what might have been blackthorn sat nearby. A drink preparation? A ward? It was impossible to tell the purpose from where Finn stood and observed. There were many academic brews and even more mundane concoctions meant simply for pleasure or taste that required other.

The elf froze mid-grinding motion. Its bat-like ears twitched, its' nose lifted, as if catching a scent, remembering something important, or listening to a summons Finnegan could not hear. Then, without ceremony, the house elf bartender abandoned the herbs on the counter and bustled out through the southern door. The elf was dressed in a pink suit that did not suit the creature's natural complexion. This was certainly attire required by the bride.

The house elf was not looking for Finnegan, it was unaware of his or any guest's arrival. That did not mean that the elf was blind, but Finnegan was well hidden. The shadows from the fence behind him cast him half in darkness. The Gryffindor's enchanted cloak lent the fabric wrapped about his form a near transparent shimmer. The teen's form mostly obscured by a cushioned bench and a fountain.

Awareness Roll: 2 [He does not detect Finn]

The house elf did not percieve Finn.

Finnegan’s cloak, shimmered like heat off pavement, it held just enough distortion to obscure the boy from notice. Budget magic indeed, but it was good enough. The elf had wandered only a few steps into the patio, none the wiser of Finn's presence, muttering something under its breath about “spice bloom timings” and “guest visibility schedules.” He didn’t glance Finnegan's way even once.

The house elf reached out and plucked a handful of fresh oleander with careful, gloved hands. The bush's vibrant pinkish petals were deceptively lush. The dark stems bled a clear, sticky sap. The house elf did not linger. There was no reason to remain in an empty patio when there was still so much left to accomplish. The elf turned silently and padded back through the door from which he came. The herbs in the stone bowl were placed in a small, clear, shallow dish with a small label in a script too small to read from Finnegan's distant vantage point. The mortar stone was then filled with the freshly plucked oleander and the house elf began to crush the plant with his stone pestle.

Curiosity had tangled Finnegan's intention. The red glyph piqued his curiosity. Rather than find a place to hide and perhaps spy on a rival or a lover, admittedly the distinction was a bit blurred with Conner, he wanted to solve the mystery of the crimson glyph. So with a flick of the Gryffindor's wand and a whisper: “Revelio.” A spell was cast.

The red glyph flared, a sudden surge of ember-like light that flickered in midair—not flat, not fixed. It twisted like a living ribbon, elongating into a sigil wheel of seven arms, its edges scrawled in twisting runes that snapped and reformed as if trying on languages. They never fully settled. Instead, they bled meaning in fragments:

“Singular flame will blind. But mix your bloods and shadows… and harmony will bind.”

The glyph pulsed once, slowly, almost expectantly, then dimmed again, folding in on itself, returning to its inert form. The sudden bright light did not go without notice, the house elf would glance out the window at the empty patio in brief wonder.

At the very least, Finnegan would have a partial answer. This was a color game. Or something older. Each glyph on the patio: blue, purple, red was a part of this parlor game that Finnegan was prepared to wage war against. Of course, he would be left to wonder one more truth: what did he win if he got it right?

F I N N E G A NxC O N N O R
omnes magni homines primum fuerunt pueri

gryffindor, third-year
─────────✫

Slightly backtracking in this post to keep chronological order. For the sake of clarity: fence first, then hiding, then the elf, then revelio on the glyph and then new actions. The grinding stopped. Why had it stopped? The silence weighed heavily on him. Finnegan’s head snapped up. Through the window, the silhouette of the house-elf was gone. The rhythmic noise that had been the patio's heartbeat had just flatlined. Finnegan heard the faint shuffle of small feet on stone flooring. Crap He ducked back behind cover, folding into an awkward, painful knot. A cramp instantly shot up his calf, hot and sharp. He bit down on his lip, hard, fighting the urge to hiss. He dared not move. He dared not even breathe. The door creaked open. Light spilled onto the fenced courtyard. The movement was unmistakable now, there was a blur of garish pink at the edge of his vision, that came nearer and nearer and nearer. And then it... sniffed? Had it smelled him? Finnegan held his breath until his lungs burned, worried that even the shallowest breathing might tip the bat-eared creature off. It was close. Too close. He could see the crisp seams on its silly suit, though it mercifully remained turned away from him as it leaned down to tend the shrubs? Eat the grass? Who knew what house-elves forced to wear pink were capable of. The creature was small, distracted, utterly oblivious. A perfect target. The thought was a hopeful spark in the dark of his panic. Now. Do it now. Stun it, drag it, drug it. But his wand was yet buried deep in the kangaroo pocket of his hoodie. He would have to dig for it, and the rustle of the fabric would sound like a foghorn to those enormous ears. The chance was there, perfect and golden, but reaching for it was too risky. You lucky little sod, Finnegan thought, his jaw tight. The house-elf was bent over the oleander, plucking the flowers with its gloved hands. How ironic that it was so unaware of the danger right behind it. One whispered word was all it would take, then he'd have an ally on the inside. And not just any ally. No, house-elves were easily overlooked and this one would have access to spaces that might otherwise remain out of reach. But the risk of a startled yelp, of a single sound that would bring the whole house down on him, was too much. And so the opportunity slipped away. With a final rustle of leaves, the elf gathered its toxic bouquet and shuffled back inside. The door remained slightly ajar, perhaps to let in some fresh, seaside air. Finnegan stayed frozen for three long seconds before letting out his breath in a shaky gasp, hissing softly as he finally straightened his aching limbs. Right then. Back to the glyphs. He turned his attention to the red sigil at his feet, raised his wand, and whispered, “Revelio” Reducio To be abundantly clear, I am not performing the same action again. This is the same revelio as in the previous post. The reaction was immediate and spectacular and thank Merlin, quiet enough. The glyph flared like a struck match, surging upward in a ribbon of ember-bright light that twisted and writhed in the air above the stone. Finnegan's eyes widened as the light reformed itself into something that looked almost like a wheel with seven spokes, covered in runes that seemed to shift and change even as he watched them. It vaguely reminded him of fireworks and he almost had to chuckle at how worried he'd been over what was just a bit of fancy moodlighting. But then glyphs shaped itself into meaning, a fragmented vision of something of which he understood each individual part, but not the whole. The glyph pulsed once more, slow and expectant, before folding back into itself and returning to its dormant state. Finnegan stared at the now-quiet sigil, his mind turning the words What is that supposed to mean? It sounded like a riddle and he immediately wished Eve or Pericles would be here. They were the smart ones after all. The best he could hope to do with messages like these was pass them on, and try not to mangle them while he was at it. Perhaps it would make more sense if he tried the other glyphs too, but he wasn't sure how many more lightshows he could get away with before that house-elf... When his gaze drifted to the window, where the house-elf was back at work, everything suddenly clicked into place. The stinging on his forearms. The elf’s gloves. The rhythmic, endless grinding. First, came the sharp and cutting awareness that the house-elf was mixing oleander into whatever conconction he was working on. His stomach clenched with a mixture of dread and some kind of cheap thrill, the satisfaction of having your suspicions confirmed. Here was evidence of wrongdoing, the kind of breadcrumb trail he'd come looking for. But it was also evidence of immediate danger to unknowing guests. Right on the heels of that shocking realization came an almost sinister, gleeful thought. He could use this. The elf had just handed him a weapon. He looked down at his own forearms, at the faint red rash blooming where he had brushed against the hedge. It itched like mad, but that was all. He had a bezoar in his pocket. He was fine. He was more than fine. He had just been given a deadly weapon in a house full of enemies. There was no more time for hesitation. Keeping low, Finnegan crept around the fountain, his trainers making no sound on the stones. He was a Chaser, he knew how to dodge and weave, knew how to aim even better. The house-elf was bent over its work, completely absorbed in the rhythmic grinding. The creature's back was to the window, pink suit jacket pulled taut across its narrow shoulders. He stopped, half concealed by the fountain’s spray. He had a clear line of sight. He scanned the ground, found a loose pebble, and with a deft flick of his wrist, sent it skittering against the half-open door. It wasn't a loud noise, just a sharp, unexpected clack. Enough to break the rhythm. Enough to make something with ears that big want to take a look. His wand was up, aimed squarely at the doorway. He held his breath, waiting for the pink suit to appear, for the creature to step out into his trap. He would get one chance. The spell on his lips would not be bellowed or shouted like it usually was. Instead, the stunning charm would be spoken in a low, breathy and hurried voice. Stealth wasn't the only concern here. He had no use for a passed out house-elf who wouldn't regain consciousness for hours. The intention was to hit suddenly, quietly, but not too strongly. Just hard enough to be knocked out for a minute or two, that was all the time he needed. “Stupefy.”

Veni, vidi, vici 05/07/2025 Augury Cloister

Status:

• Wearing summer cloak enchanted with Indesmulo (Bedazzlement Hex) for enhanced stealth.
• Targeting the house-elf with stupefy, aiming to stun and render it momentarily unconscious.
• Wand is out.

Inventory:

• Gregory's Unctuous Unction [Trunk]
• Drowsiness Draught [Trunk]
• Babbling Beverage [Trunk]
• Bezoar [Trunk]
• Feathers of the Mockingbird [MS Earned Item]
• Winter Cloak [Trunk, Standard Item] - There is no summer cloak item that I was able to find. For flavor purposes I will claim this winter cloak to be a summer cloak to be more seasonally appropriate.
• Muggle compact - intended as a flavor item, just brought along because it has a mirror, which may yet prove useful. Has no magical effect. Mentioned to be on his person in the Sanctum Noctis thread.

Had that rune... flickered?

A flash of red flared in the patio. The elf leaned forward, brow furrowing. The runes were overly sensitive to change, that much he knew. He glanced out the window instinctively, noting that the runic circle was still red. It had been blue earlier in the day, he was not sure why it was blue then and not now and he had no inclination to learn. He did not have much time, the guests would arrive shortly.

He busied himself in the industry of crushing his newly collected herbs quickly before demanding patrons started asking for drinks. Candied lemons and muddled mint, various bottles of vodka and whisky waited behind him. He did not have time for curiosity.

But then a cracking noise broke the rhythmic grind. A pebble had been thrown by Finnegan Connor and the impact echoed like a snapped femur in the hush of the coastal air. The sound was sharp, dry, and unnaturally deliberate.

That was the point. Inside, the house elf froze mid-motion, his long gloved fingers smeared faintly with a dusting of crushed leaf matter. Not seasoning. Not sage or rosemary or thyme. Something far more specific. More precise. Something toxic in the wrong hands, or the right ones for that matter.

The house elf should have ignored the sound.

It wasn't a bartenders duty to investigate noise. That was a guard's duty and none were on staff. No house elf was ever meant to serve as a sentry, with their bulbous heads and dense midsection, spindly arms and little legs, they were no predator, they were a target. But the house elf's ears twitched. His thin neck craned toward the window. His gaze flicked to the mortar in his grip, then toward the sound again. It wasn’t just curiosity, it was an instinct to remain unseen. What he was preparing wasn’t meant to be known.

And whoever was out there might have seen what he has just done.

The elf stepped toward the window, hesitant, pausing just short of the sill. His fingers curled protectively over the bowl. He whispered something, an old word, in a language that hadn’t been spoken by humans for centuries. The mortar stopped vibrating. House elves were powerful magicians in their own right, even if they lacked the dignity or the respect of wizarding society.

Outside, the elf saw nothing. Or rather, he didn’t know what he saw. He likely saw Finnegan, or the shimmering cloak he donned, but it looked like a garden in the evening, not an intruder slinking about. Certainly, the light shifted strangely. It was the coast and the winds here shifted in strange ways, particularly before a storm. The sky was unsettling this day, as if the heavens themselves were aware of the tragedies of this way and were preparing to weep. But it was just low clouds, starting to dark and salty wind. There was nobody there.

The house elf made his way around the counter and walked to the door. He opened the door, not that he had a plan if someone was hiding there. He knew that he would see just ivy on the iron fence, quivering in the breeze. But when the door opened and his eyes passed over the hedge, the fence, the shimmering runes on the patio, the air twitched.

That was when Finnegan moved. The cloak shimmered faintly, catching the elf’s attention for just a flicker, any pretense of stealth abolished when the Gryffindor made his move. The house elf blinked, rubbed at his eyes with a knuckle, but that one instant of uncertainty had already granted the interloper another window of advantage.

Finnegan would not make the same mistake twice. The house elf would not walk away.

Before the elf could eact, Connor would cast Stupefy.

Stupefy Spell
Attack: 14
Evasion: 5

When the Stupefy spell struck the house elf, the effect was immediate and jarring: A brief flash of crimson light, not unlike the crimson that flared from the rune emitted from Finnegan’s wand. Finnegan himself exposed, the magic that had obfuscated his presence was no longer active. Recognition crossed the elf's face as the spell hit the elf squarely in the chest. The impact sounded like the crack of a whip snapping in wet air. The elf's eyes went wide with shock for a split second. No scream, no alert rang out, he couldn't. All that the house elf could do was twitch in alarm before his small body seized, arched ever so slightly, and then collapsed as if every muscle had been simultaneously turned off.

The creature landed heavily on the stone patio with a muted thud, limbs slack, mouth slightly open, eyes closed but fluttering faintly before settling into stillness. Its chest rose slowly once, then again, alive, but deeply unconscious. The Stupefy spell, designed to incapacitate without lasting harm, had rendered it utterly insensate.

The house elf was unconscious, unmoving, and for now, out of the game. But others would eventually notice the house elf away from their station or stumble upon their fallen service person, then an alert would be raised and the Augury would be turned inside out until the cju;llprit was found. One could only wonder with horror what would await someone caught in a place so steeped in obviously dangerous occult activities.

F I N N E G A NxC O N N O R
omnes magni homines primum fuerunt pueri

gryffindor, third-year
─────────✫

That went well, Finnegan thought lamely while he lowered his wand-arm. But he felt none of the usual grim satisfaction that so often accompanied his offensive magic. Knocking a Slytherin off their pedestal was satisfying in ways that flooring an innocent house-elf just wasn't. Although it remained to be seen how innocent this creature really was. Was it a willing servant or a slave? Perhaps it feared its master's whip more than divine, moral judgement. Or perhaps, divine judgement was exactly what it feared and why it worked so diligently. Finnegan didn't remember seeing any crosses on the way to the cloister, just weathered statues and exposed rock. So who was this a place of worship to, exactly? Like the elf, he lacked for time. He had urgent work to do and a storm was brewing. This was not the moment to dwell on the true nature of this place and he had a hunch he would learn it soon enough anyway. In just a few big steps he closed the distance to the open door and entered the Augury Cloister. The room beyond the door opened into a small bar, unassuming in size yet quite charming. A place to pass through for a drink, but not one to linger in. And so Finnegan wasted no time dragging the unconscious elf behind the polished oak counter, out of immediate sight. Using the counter as support, he quickly sat the creature upright and held its head gently in place with one hand whilst the other fished out a potion from his pockets. The stopper came off the phial with a soft pop, like a bottle of the good stuff being opened for thirsty guests. But this wasn't the good stuff. This was a green, oily liquid which probably tasted less like bourbon and a whole lot more like soap. Gregory's Unctuous Unction had only one purpose: to make the drinker think that the one who administered the potion was their best friend. Finnegan put the potion to the elf's lips, pushing down slightly to open its mouth. His other arm was halfway wrapped around the elf's bony shoulders, positioning the creature just so that its head lolled back a little, to ease the drinking. Once the potion, or enough of it, was down, he rested the elf back against the counter, balancing it so it wouldn't tip over. Then he rose to his full height again and looked around in search of the mortar and pestle. If he managed to find it, he would use a stirring spoon or the pestle or even the elf's gloves to secure a small amount of the crushed substance into his now empty phial of Gregory's Unctuous Unction. He didn't take much, all too aware that if he did, it would be noticed. Once he had stoppered the phial and slipped it back into his pocket, he opened a bottle of what looked like firewhisky, poured some of it through the window, then placed the bottle in the house-elf's hands. Perhaps it would only take the creature a few minutes to wake up and no one would notice, but on the off-chance that someone found it unconscious behind the bar, well, this picture would decidedly lead them to the wrong conclusion. Finnegan hurried half-crouched towards the door. From there, he would attempt to scale the fence again and make it to the other side, the right side, the side from which normal guests approached. That was who he'd be. A normal guest, albeit a very obviously muggle one. Someone for the purebloods to snigger at, someone too poor to afford proper clothes for an occasion such as this. The only sign of his intrusion would remain on his forearm, obscured, but not wholly hidden by the sleeve of his hoodie. There would no longer be a need for him to hide in the bushes when he could have someone working for him on the inside. He would just stroll into the bar and strike up a warm conversation with his dear, small friend, whose name he'd yet to learn.

Veni, vidi, vici 05/07/2025 Augury Cloister

Status:

• Summer cloak is no longer enchanted. No more stealth bonus.
• Wand is stowed.
• Used Gregory's Unctuous Unction

Inventory:

• A sampling of crushed herbs (if actions are succesfull)
• Gregory's Unctuous Unction [Trunk]
• Drowsiness Draught [Trunk]
• Babbling Beverage [Trunk]
• Bezoar [Trunk]
• Feathers of the Mockingbird [MS Earned Item]
• Winter Cloak [Trunk, Standard Item] - There is no summer cloak item that I was able to find. For flavor purposes I will claim this winter cloak to be a summer cloak to be more seasonally appropriate.
• Muggle compact - intended as a flavor item, just brought along because it has a mirror, which may yet prove useful. Has no magical effect. Mentioned to be on his person in the Sanctum Noctis thread.

The house elf crumpled like dropped linen, limbs folding under him in an awkward sprawl. The Stupefy had done its work, concerningly clean, precise, and efficient. No screams, no warning. Just continued silence.

Finnegan moved quickly.

He crossed the short distance to the bar in purposeful strides. The mortar and pestle still sat warm on the stone counter, the plant inside pungent and half-ground, oleander. The mortar was never cleaned, so remnants of the herbs crushed before. A smear of this fresh paste was enough; the Gryffindor scooped it into a glass vial and sealed it. Evidence? Insurance? Murder weapon? Maybe just curiosity. Time would tell.

The elf. Its' tiny chest rose in slow, shallow breaths, alive but insensate. Good. The boy had not killed someone before the event had even started, it would have put a damper on the festivities.

But there was more to do than commit minor theft. Finnegan had brought with him a potion: Gregory’s Unctuous Unction. It shimmered faintly in its stoppered phial. A potion known to awaken trust, to soften suspicion in the drinker. A perfect veil if timed right.

The problem was, the elf was unconscious. Too far gone to sip or swallow. This did not stop the determined youth, he wasn’t about to waste an opportunity, not now. He made the elf drink, much of it ended up in the unfortunate creatures lungs. A reflexive, rather than conscious cough and sputter. Perhaps Finnegan had an ally on the inside, the condition of said ally was still up in the air.

With more effort than one might care to admit, Finn dragged the limp creature behind the bar. House elves were not large or sturdy creatures, but nether was Finn. Posing the creature, as if he had drunk himself into a stupor. The elf would likely suffer for this failing of character, but that was not a concern. A story was and with a fire whisky in hand, the cause would be obvious.

With his work done, Finnegan took a last glance around the bar. The room remained undisturbed, untouched, still dressed for guests with the exception of that failure of a staff member. He would leave the way he came, escaping through the south door and climbing the iron fence. The party would be starting soon. He had other rooms to see. Other secrets to steal. Just not as a shadowy interloper then, but rather as a welcome guest.