Patio

Arrived from the front lawn

Finnegan Connor wrote: 10 Jul 2025, 02:24

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.

The Narrator wrote: 12 Jul 2025, 02:57

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?

Finnegan Connor wrote: 12 Jul 2025, 04:12

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.

The Narrator wrote: 12 Jul 2025, 17:37

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.

Finnegan left for the Small Bar

Drink in hand, Hess would enter the patio. There was a bit of a breeze, enough to tousle his hair but not enough to demand his return to the Augury. He found it hard to breathe in that place. The walls held memories even if they could not speak them, the Augury was certainly a place of power but power came with a price. He took another small sip of his drink, fruitier than he had expected, but thankfully still not too sweet. Perhaps the tender was new, unfortunately they all looked alike to him, even more so with the creepy pink suits they all donned that made them appear as sentiment wads of bubblegum.

"Let's see what you have for me," the Gryffindor said out loud to himself as he cracked the quail egg and listened for his party-prophecy. Likely some canned fortune cookie fates to give the crowd a giggle. While it cheapened their role, it was all in good fun he reasoned.

He expected to hear something along the lines of in two days, tomorrow will be yesterday or you are an angel, beware of those that collect feathers. The usual hollow statements that are meant to sound profound when they were a little bit stupid. But, he internally shrugged, girls (and most young guys) like this short of shit. "Well, you know what they say," he said out loud as he cracked the egg on the edge of the dish. "A drunk mans' words are a sober man's thought."

Action: Breaking the Quail Egg

Roll: 43

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

gryffindor, third-year
─────────✫

Like the bar, this was not a place to linger. A paltry wall did little to stop the heavy and cloying presence of Thaddeus Athanatos from being felt. That cold and predatory gaze could x-ray him right through the brickwork if he chose to, and Finnegan was kicking himself for having stepped out of hiding. Aamon had seen him, Gideon too possibly, Orion and Thaddeus certainly, and now this strange boy seated on one of the cushioned patio benches. It won't be much longer, he thought to himself. From the moment he had first read the invitation he had known with near certainty that something terrible would happen. It hadn't occurred yet, but it was coming. The sky was darkening, a storm was brewing, the air swollen with too-sweet and too-thick smells and the music sounding from the ballroom was too languid and drifting. There was always an Athanatos involved whenever something bad happened, he'd seen it even outside of the balls. Aamon's dolls, his hand, Avis's accident, the incident in the dungeon, Gideon's stabbing. All those things had just involved one or two from that cursed family, now there was a whole slew of them, all gathered in one place. The signs were there, he'd seen the house-elf collect oleander and yew, he'd heard the endless grinding noise, he'd seen and taken a sample of the paste. On instinct, he'd laid the blame at the feet of the Athanatos, of course this was their doing, of course they intended to poison their guests for some unknowable purpose... Except... Contaminated That was what Thaddeus had said. Contaminated. The implication could not have been clearer. The poisinous brew had not been made by his command and the man had even instructed his servants to start over. But if this was not Thaddeus's doing, then by whose instruction had this paste been prepared? It seemed deeply unlikely that this was some house-elf rebellion, the man's servants looked terrified, as well they should be. Pride then? But what reason would he have to ruin his own party? He had already achieved his victory had he not? Besides, it would be far more like Pride to boast and gloat, to relish in the sour look on other people's faces. And how could he do that if he decided kill all his guests? Mathias certainly did not shy away from poison, that much he knew for certain, but Pride also needed an audience for his victories, and it would be a very short-lived victory indeed if he and Winnie were the sole survivors of this marriage. Perhaps Gideon then? The blonde would undoubtedly get some satisfaction out of seeing estemeed guests choke on poison, but Finnegan had long since learned that Gideon enjoyed playing the game far more than he did ending it. Death would be so final, so boring, and then he'd have to find a new game to play. And who was that girl he was with that he'd dragged into the bathroom? Finnegan had only caught a glimpse of the scene within, but it hadn't looked very romantic, what with the slugs and all. Gideon had seemed uncharaceristically desperate, now that he thought about it. Aamon then? Well that was most unlikely. The boy could hardly set foot into a room without bringing disaster upon himself. If the deadly herbal paste had been his idea, something would have gone terribly wrong already. Though in a sense, it had, because the pestle and mortar now lay idle, and the house-elf tasked with preparing it had been taken away. Aamon had no reason that Finnegan could think to even want to poison the guests, no matter how much he might dislike some of them. Most importantly though, surely Thaddeus would have known if his youngest was up to something? Once again he was stuck in the middle of the labyrinth, knowing full well that there was a way out, that there was a pattern to be found, yet unable to connect all the bits and pieces into a cohesive whole. I should have stayed hidden, he thought when the dark-haired boy told him no. It would have been better to linger on the edges, to observe without being observed. Instead he had thought he had seen an opportunity with Gideon, only for Clark Baird of all people to throw a goblin-sized wrench in his impulsive plan. Maybe the most sensible thing to do would be to leave. He could climb the fence again and walk all the way back, catch a train, return to London, then back to Cardiff from there. But that would mean leaving Evelynn behind, and Aamon, and the house-elf whose name he might never know. It would mean giving up and running away, just like last time, like a coward. “You won’t find friends there.” Finnegan flared his nostrils with an indignant little scoff, but said nothing in return. The strange teenager was likely right, yet potentially also very wrong. If he had brewed his Unction right, then his best friend in the whole entire world was in the Western Yard right now. No need to clue a stranger in on that though, let alone the sort of stranger that muttered to themselves and looked at their own hands a bit too long. “Sit down.” It wasn't a question. Several natural laws and forces guided the workings of the universe, laws such as gravity, the weak force and the strong force. But there were other forces at play in life too, other laws that were unwritten yet were always observed, and one such law was that the younger tended to defer to the instruction of the elder. There was only a flicker of hesitation at the edge of Finnegan's mind before his legs had already carried him to the bench. The dark-haired boy seemed a bit daft and a bit unwell, but not dangerous. In fact, he seemed to be the least dangerous person he had encountered all day. “Tell me who you are.” Finnegan shrugged, quick and easy as breathing, with both his hands stuffed firmly into the front pouch on his hoodie. “I'm Finn,” he said without heat or menace, “Just Finn.” He cocked his head at Jurgen and squinted a little. He really did look rather pale, and was he sweating? Why was he sweating? Today wasn't a full moon day, was it? “Who are you?” It was more accident than pre-meditated plan that Finnegan's fingers, digging around in his pocket, found the familiar shape of the cheap, gaudy compact he had brought with him. He pulled it out, flicked it open, and played the part of the vain, self-conscious young teen doing his hair and checking the white of his teeth while pretending very hard to not to care what the mirror showed him. In reality, he arced the mirror skyward, checking for a moon, and then dipped it down again, looking behind him before finally tilting it sideways, briefly catching Jurgen's reflection in it. So pale. “You look unwell,” he said bluntly and then remembered that the dark-haired teenager had taken a drink from the bar. Finnegan's eyes widened slightly, though he kept his cool for the most part. “I hope you didn't drink that special you ordered, it's probably spiked, I guess that's why it's called the special. Anyway, I better be off, find my friend...” He moved on the couch, but didn't leave just yet.

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

Reducio

Magical action: none
Mundane action: using the mirror to observe his surroundings and Jurgen.
Status:

• Wand is stowed.

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.