Patio

The mirror reveals a densely packed patio. You and Jurgen are not alone.

He watched the awkward youth, shoulders hunched, hands stuffed deep into the front pocket of his hoodie. A hoodie. To a wedding. That alone marked him: young, yes, but more than that, an outsider. Not dressed for ceremony. Likely not old money. Likely not pureblood. And the way he hid his hands... guilt, perhaps. Or secrets.

“I'm Finn,” the boy offered. “...Just Finn.”

“Finnegan Conner,” Jurgen corrected, voice low but firm. “You date, or at the very least, occupy" he self-corrected, "my cousin.” Gideon Athanatos, his younger cousin on his mother's side. The mad dog of the Athanatos clan.

The smirk he gave was razor-thin, his tone deliberate. “Daily Prophet seems to think it’s worth a few columns.” Plural. Gideon was not one to discuss romantic ambitions, in truth he had no idea Giddy was gay but it really did explain the clothes.

“Who are you?”

“Jürgen,” he echoed, with a ghost of the boy’s own awkwardness. “...Just Jürgen.” His words were careful, somehow measured.

But then the mask slipped, and the faintest smile followed. “Groom’s cousin. Jürgen Hess.” The name wouldn’t carry weight like Athanatos, and he knew it. That was the point.

“I’m not particularly special,” he added but the assurance might feel hollow. Which was Hess-code for: You don’t need to be worried. But you will be anyway.

“You look unwell,” Finnegan observed out loud.

Jurgen’s face remained unreadable, though he did feel the sweat still clinging to his spine like a second skin.

“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...”

“No,” Jurgen said, the word landing with quiet finality. “The potion’s working exactly as intended.” He felt like he had been beaten by the concept of adulthood itself, wearing brass knuckles.

He adjusted on the bench but made no move to rise. “You Hogwarts wizards think everything is free, and often feels like it is. But every boon comes at a cost,” he murmured, lifting the glass and offering it Finn’s way. “You’ll be both miserable and uplifted. Isn’t that what prophecy is?”

Finn pulled a cheap compact from his hoodie, flipping it open to check his reflection as well as their surroundings. But Jurgen moved faster than his condition would have suggested. A sharp snap of his hand, he attempted to close the compact before it could fully open. Or at least he tried to. (Your call.)

It would not matter if hess succeeded or not, the mirror caught light before it shut and what Finn saw would chill him. There was the moon. The rooftop. The roses. Himself. And Jürgen. But behind them: too many people. Faint, shadowy outlines of wedding guests who weren’t there. Like echoes left behind by the dead.

Jurgen’s voice followed in a whisper. “You should keep that closed.”

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

❶ ❷ ❸ ❹ ❺ ❻ ❼
─────────✫

“You date, or at the very least, occupy my cousin.” Heat crept up his neck though he tried to hide it. As if he needed reminding about his stunt in Honeydukes, as if he could ever forget. At the time he'd been annoyed that the papers had completely mangled his name, but it had proven to be a blessing in disguise. People had forgotten and moved on, and that included Gideon. Well, sort of. It wasn't that Gideon had forgotten, oh no, Finnegan was quite sure that Gideon was going to remember that particular sequence of events for the rest of his miserable little life, but he had moved on to a different game for the time being. Which suits me fine, he thought. Yet he knew that one day, Gideon would return to their game and demand he play, unless... He wrinkled his nose at Jurgen, like he'd just smelled something nasty. “God there's a lot of you. You breed like rabbits.” It didn't matter that Jurgen explained his surname was Hess, that didn't count. He was family and that ensured he went straight into the Athanatos corner in Finnegan's head. At least it explains the strange behaviour and the sickly look. “The potion’s working exactly as intended.” Finnegan arched a single eyebrow at Jurgen. Because looking like you are about to throw up is the point? You should have said so, I know a spell for that. Could have saved you some time, he thought quietly. Nobody in that fucking family could just be normal, could they? Aamon was the closest thing to normal and at his current pace he was going to be outlived by @Clark Baird. Clark fucking Baird, who'd throw himself off the astronomy tower if he thought there was someone for him to annoy or kiss at the bottom of it, and he'd survive it too. Maybe it was because he was so utterly braindead that there just wasn't anything inside of him, and so nothing could break, and that's how he kept surviving his numerous attempts at winning a Darwin Award. “You’ll be both miserable and uplifted. Isn’t that what prophecy is?” “I don't know what you're on about.” Finnegan said dismissively while he opened the little compact. He'd hardly managed to look at it when Jurgen's hand slammed it shut, but the dark-haired boy hadn't been fast enough. Finnegan had caught a glimpse of all the people behind him, and he jumped up reflexively, how had they gotten here? He hadn't heard any of the- But when he looked behind the couch, there wasn't anyone there. Not a single soul. Startled, he looked around the patio, then to his compact, then finally back to Jurgen as the teenager whispered at him. He'd been certain he had seen people, many people, a whole bloody crowd. “You should keep that closed.” “Yeah?” Finnegan bristled. “And why is that, Athanatos?” But instead of getting in the strange boy's face, Finnegan backed away. He had learned from his mistakes, he wasn't going to get into a fight if he could avoid it, least of all with one of their kind. “Don't want anyone else to see?” He was pacing backwards, away from Jurgen, yet never turning his back on the teenager. Somewhere along the line he had gotten his wand out, though it pointed downward, towards the ground, not a threat, just to be safe or so it would seem. It seemed easy to overpower Jurgen, especially in this sickly state, but what would be the point? He'd already spent his Unctuous Unction on some poor elf that had been taken away. Besides, there were adults and other guests in the nearby bar, surely one of them would notice if a loud bang sounded. The inability to decide between the myriad of options that lay before him revelead itself as he bit down on his lips and fired a quick glance over his shoulder, toward the cloister, before looking back at Jurgen. “I don't have time for this. Cave inimicum!” A shimmering protective barrier erected itself and erased Finnegan from existence. Where he had stood something that seemed almost like a giant glass pane now stood and everything behind it seemed exactly how it should be, an empty patio, some patches of flowers, the brick of the Augury Cloister. Finnegan wasted no time as he wheeled around and ran toward the fence which he'd already climbed twice. The point wasn't to hide behind the barrier forever, the point was to obscure himself for a precious few seconds which he would use to make his escape. Though escape wasn't the right word exactly, he wasn't leaving the reception just yet, even though he knew the clock was ticking. He wasn't taking any care to be graceful or quiet as he clambered the fence, his Hiding Spell would render any noises inaudible from where Jurgen stood anyway. Only someone outside of the Augury Cloister, on the front lawn @Erin Ryan, @August VanCleaf would be able to catch a glimpse of him—if they happened to be looking the right way—since his barrier only obscured him from one side. Instead of leaping off the fence and landing in a bed of oleander near the main entrance though, Finnegan turned and used the fence as a platform from which to climb higher and reach the roof. If Jurgen wasn't going to tell him where the western yard was, he'd find it himself. And what better place to do so than from a bird's eye view? He owed it to the house-elf he'd doomed to some terrible fate to at least try, and maybe, if he got lucky, he could convince the house-elf to apparate him some place safe. They could do that, couldn't they? His heart drummed in his ears as he clambered higher and was forced to reach up and stretch out completely in attempt to grab the rooftop ledge and hoist himself up and to safety. Almost there... He'd worry about the freaky mirror people once he'd made it safely onto the roof. @Jürgen Hess Magical action: casting Hiding Spell Mundane action: climbing up to the rooftop of the Augury Cloister

@Jurgen Hess | Veni, vidi, vici Undated Augury Cloister

Jurgen didn’t move or react as Finnegan bristled when Hess made himself known. A relative of Finnegan's boyfriend, or rather, more likely ex if this reaction was considered reasonable. Not that he expected reasonable, anyone engaged in whatever they were tangled in, was not right on their best day. "It is like that then, eh?" he replied dismissively. "Here I was concerned you were in danger, silly me. You're just either stupid or mentally ill."

Hess watched as the boy vanished behind the shimmer of a well-cast (assumed) Cave Inimicum, and watched as the hedge trembled faintly when Finnegan’s weight hit the fence. Watched him climb. Scramble. Escape. He might not be able to see the boy, but he could see the aftermath.

And then he just exhaled. Slowly. Not in frustration. Not in concern. He did not care that much for a complete stranger. He exhaled like a man timing something. Timing the ascension to ensure the boy was on the roof before he bothered to say anything more. The boy did not look particularly athletic, he needed to concentrate on lifting that bony ass over the iron bars.

Jurgen leaned back on the bench, pale and clammy but no longer trembling. The glass was still in his hand, untouched since the moment the compact had opened. When he finally spoke, it was low... perhaps he was speaking only to himself, or perhaps loud enough that, spell or no spell, someone might hear it on the wind.

“You’re making this about you,” Jurgen said flatly. “I didn’t kiss you. I didn’t break up with you. Whatever happened with Gideon is between you and Gideon.” He let the silence hang a moment, heavy and sharp as the scent of rose rot. “And, I don’t care if you see,” he added. “You seeing isn’t the problem. It’s what gets out when someone opens a door they don’t understand.”

He tilted his head toward the compact, now lying shut like a trap with teeth unless Finnegan took it with him. If it was where Finnegan sat, Hess would take the compact and slip it into his pocket.

“Some mirrors reflect the world,” he muttered. “Here they invite them in.” And with that, he simply sipped from the glass. He did not scream after the boy. He did not try to chase him down. He did not use his magic to subdue to subjugate the boy, he let him go.

He was too late for his friend anyways.

Jurgen Hess was not enjoying himself.

He had stumbled into a spat involving some self-important ex of one of his cousins. Someone mid-tantrum, brimming with old wounds and misplaced theatrics. Apparently, the entire Athanatos family now lived rent-free in the ruins of the boy’s fragile ego. Well, F him too.

Jurgen wasn’t about to lower himself to the level of slapping around some wounded soul auditioning for a tragedy. Let him vanish into the storm cloud of his own dramatics. Jurgen had better things to do, like drink questionable alcohol and observe the downfall of party decorum from a safe and judgy distance.

He had tried to warn Finnegan, though. Warned him about the path to the west. About the elves. About the mirrors. The boy was on a self-destructive path and his warnings probably compelled him in those very directions.

He had seen it, one of the house elves, unmistakably drunk, unceremoniously dragged off by his own kind. He’d been at the bar long enough to clock that it wasn’t just a scolding in the break room. It was either an attempted murder… or one of Thaddeus’s patented displays of orchestrated mayhem. Possibly both. Thaddeus Athanatos didn’t do “coincidence.”

House elves were part of the architecture of wizarding society. Subservient by tradition, yes, but bound more by ritual than law. And the ones that broke those rules? They didn’t just become inconvenient. They became dangerous. They knew everything: secrets, schedules, wards, blood rituals, and which heir was allergic to which potion ingredient. There was no way Thaddeus would let a liability like Cranbrey live.

The elves who hauled him off? Accomplices. Cogs in a machine. Fear kept them compliant. Or perhaps it was something simpler: survival instinct disguised as duty.

Cranbrey had made the first move. That was all the justification they needed.

He would have pondered more as the pair of house elves rounded the corner, obviously not in on whatever was happening outside or whatever was orchestrated in the ballroom.

So when the screaming began... The front lawn erupted in chaos, magic arcing across the lawn like lightning through the storm-churned sky. He could not see it, but he could hear it. The crack of glass. The chorus of confused screams. That was when Jurgen felt it: the sudden instinct to stand. To flee. To act.

But standing… proved difficult.

The drink. The one Hess had for the most part consumed, had been given raw cognitive potential, and redistributed this sudden boon by taking from something else. He had been min-maxed like a bad RPG character: Constitution sacrificed for brilliance. Elegant, not really. And as luck would have it, the light sprinkle was turning to a moderate drizzle and the winds were picking up.

Jurgen Hess had been enjoying the solitude of the patio. The sweet oleander. Comfortable, spacious seating. The cold stone underfoot. The illusion of stillness. Of course beyond the veil of vegetation, there was an altercation. He could hear August's arrogance, the wall hardly buffered ego. But that is what terrible men fed on, weaknesses in nature. For some, it was hubris. For others, it was pride. August needed to make a scene.

Meanwhile, Finnegan Conner had squandered something valuable: a chance to listen. To learn. Logic had fled the young Gryffindor, overridden by something else. Anger? Longing? A desperate need to act before thinking, to run before asking? Or maybe suicidal conviction dressed in the vague costume of a mission. Jurgen wasn’t sure, and frankly, he didn’t have time to guess.

The contents of the lion's stomach roiled, like a cauldron on a high flame. Hot bile licked the back of Hess' throat, bitter and sharp as memory. Jurgen swallowed once. Then again. And again. It kept rising, only to fall with the next bolus of astringent saliva.

The cost of the teen's little divinatory indulgence was collecting its due. Jurgen felt like wet parchment staggering through a hailstorm: thin, heavy, torn. His mental capacity had increased by several fold, but his constitution had made him frail. He was still as strong as he always was, but that was never substantial.

Then came the inevitable. Jurgen leaned sideways and vomited into a potted plant. It was hardly more than bile and whatever he had for breakfast this morning. He really should not have drank on an empty stomach. The plants won't mind.

The nausea passed as quickly as it had come. Empty, at last, Hess felt steadier. Paler, but lighter. The fog in the Gryffindor's skull lifted just enough to let the wheels start turning again. He lurched across the patio in an series of exaggerated steps, pushing the patio door open with fingers still trembling.

Inside the Augury, the bar flickered with warmth and noise. Uncle Thaddeus was there, too composed to be unarmed. The man was an enigma to even Jurgen. According to familial lore, he catapulted to head of the house seemingly overnight. Named heir, a few months later his uncle had died and he ascended. The once bright, athletic man fell into himself. Stoic and angry, most of the family feared him. There was just something about the seat of heir, a coveted role his cousins all scrambled for, that he would do anything to avoid.

One of his freelance men lurked nearby, although Hess knew him better as the Professor of Defense Against the Dark Arts. The hit wizard, yes still-practicing as far as the lion knew, was dangerous in his own right and was also unlikely concerned. And in the next room over? A pissed-off giant.

Jurgen's eyes didn’t linger long. He knew a distraction when he saw one. “He’s not the real threat,” Jurgen muttered, voice hoarse but certain. “At worst, this is an ineffective suicide mission.”

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and moved into the bar like a shadow that hadn’t been invited but knew where it belonged. “Think about it,” he continued, scanning the room. “A wandless giant, mid-rant, wands being brandished outside, no subtlety. What’s he going to do in a room full of armed wizards? Maybe hurt someone. Maybe die trying. That’s not infiltration. That’s theatre.”

He turned slightly toward his uncle, eyes still scanning for something invisible. “This isn’t the fire. It’s the smoke. The real blaze is somewhere else.”

Jürgen Hess departed the patio in silence, leaving behind the faintly glowing runes etched into the flagstones. He had not solved their purpose, perhaps it was some drunken spellwork or half-finished game, but whatever it was, it was now destined to go unnoticed and unmoderated. Beyond the wall of dense shrubbery that bordered the patio, Hess could hear voices. August VanCleaf in confrontation, his clipped tenor volleying against the sharp tones of strangers. Trouble. Real trouble.

Jürgen had the sense to return to the Augury Cloister. The open air was no place for a man like him, not tonight if trouble was brewing. Yet even inside, flanked by a Hit Wizard and one of the most formidable spellcasters in the UK, he found no comfort. Proximity to power did not ensure safety, not when one of them was the intended target.

He raised his voice, announcing what he'd pieced together: This isn’t infiltration. It’s theatre.

It was not a conclusion he would’ve reached on his own. But the drink, whatever that party-game concoction had been, had opened something in him. Bridged synaptic gaps. Loosened his mind just enough to perceive the matrix behind the moment. The threads of fate, normally opaque, to all but Seers such as himself, became a lattice of probability. In that fleeting clarity, he understood the why, and so calculated the how.

Too late.

The ceiling above the ballroom gave way with a groan, followed by a thunderous collapse. Screams tore through the thickening air. Somewhere beneath the debris and spellfire, a teenager made his half-hearted assassination attempt, and in that moment, everything changed.

The performance was over. The masks were off. The true play had begun.