Something had driven him over the edge. It was several things, there was not a single trespass that had brought Jurgen Hess to this conclusion. He needed to talk to someone, but he did not know who he could trust. People had died and more people still were going to suffer and die before this was over, for the sake of secrets and power. He had to think long and hard about who and even then, he was not entirely sure that he had made the right choice when he sent an owl to the new Head of House for Hufflepuff. It was a woman that he did not know, in fact she had come to Hogwarts months after he was forcibly transferred to Beauxbatons 'for his safety' after the death of his cousin during the yuletide holiday.

He was just some random kid summoning a former Professor of Potions, future Head of House, the replacement of Caradoc Browne. He never quite trusted most of the old guard and he was uncertain about her, the woman's rise to power was swift and he was not sure what to take of it, but he needed an ambitious person and if she was not already tied to his uncle, then this was probably going to be his only chance. The letter was a plea for the woman to meet him during summer camp, that he needed to speak with the woman before the start of the school year. The letter seemed perhaps insane, some kid asking a professor to meet them outside of school, in fact a student that no longer went to that school. yet it was a gamble he was going to have to take if he wanted to relieve the burden of his conscience.

It was one of the last days of camp, he had not given Miss Wickham-Deakin long to reply when he sent the letter and since the letter was sent, he resumed his normal activities like clockwork so he could be found. He slept, he rose, he walked, he showered, he ate breakfast and he read books, then he walked again, ate lunch and read yet again. Always in isolated places, even when he went for a swim each evening. His day was strictly regimented. Each of the places he was, he detailed with the exception of where he slept, he did not trust those he slept with.

If Miss Wickham-Deakin found him, wherever it might be, Jurgen would stop in his tracks or set down his book. Rise if he was sitting and address her as formally as he could give the place she chose to meet him. A nod, a slight bow, but he would not extend his hand to her. He would keep his hands gloved and at his sides. A satchel bag slung over his shoulder; he would adjust almost nervously. Jurgen was a thin, tall boy. he had a beanpole physique that was characteristic of his family, they grew up before they grew out one could say. He was a little over six feet and unless he was swimming, he was wearing long linen pants and a jacket over a button-down shirt. His glasses would be removed from his face by a free hand and placed in his breast pocket. "You must be Miss Wickham-Deakin," he announced as he introduced himself immediately thereafter. "I am Jürgen Hess, I used to attend Hogwarts," he claimed.

"I am sorry that you must make my acquaintance, and I apologize for asking but before I say what I intend to say can you tell me who you used to work for and as?" Perhaps she was already bought. If so, there was no way for her to know what he was about to say, what he was about to do, and she might even errantly believe that he was summoning her at the behest of his family. In fact, it was likely she would not lie about an association with Jürgen's uncle, and she would already know exactly who she was talking to. A possibility he took into account when he called her here, a false concern to report that he had formulated - the fact that he was approached by Santario Martin regarding a trio of murderers on the family payroll.

The Summer had come with new opportunities, ones that Magdalena had not expected when she’d first taken on the role of Professor of Potions at Hogwarts. The calendar year had barely since begun when she returned to that institution of her youth, and with the end of the scholastic year, she’d found herself offered a position as the new Head of Hufflepuff. Caradoc Browne had announced his retirement from teaching, instead opting to settle into a quiet life of mail delivery, and she could not deny that the man had earned a respite. But he’d left her with large shoes to fill, and in a few days she would be set upon to govern a house to which she had little relation. So, in spite of her internal protestations, she’d cut her summer holiday short and made the trip northward to London.

Loving goodbyes had been made to her fiance and to her children, the latter of whom would no doubt be well on their way back to Singapore, and she’d floo’d to the site of the summer camp. It was a relatively peculiar tradition, but not one she’d been disquieted to discover had taken root since her own graduation. Even if she did find it somewhat peculiar that more than a few of her colleagues seemed to relish the opportunity to spend time with each other rather than with their families. It was a depressing thought, but not one into which she’d dare pry. God only knew more than a few of them had enough skeletons in their closets to keep even the bravest child afraid of the dark. She worried for them, a rather Hufflepuff trait she supposed, but aside from offers of sleeping tonics and whisky she’d not become overly friendly.

Magdalena was a professional first and foremost, and that meant that there needed to be a healthy separation of her personal life and her work. She had befriended fellow professors, but she cared not too become overly friendly or reliant on them for social validation. A job was a job, after all. Her job just so happened to involve the teaching, and caring for, of children.

The letter had reached her upon one of her first days at the camp, not so long after she’d settled. It was a name with which she wasn’t familiar, but analysis of records and discussion with others had confirmed that he had indeed been a Hogwarts student up until recently, withdrawn upon the death of his cousin. The Athantos boy, a victim of a terrible tragedy, by all accounts a relatively well-known student, and the scion of a powerful wizarding family. She’d never enjoyed politics, and her ties to the muggle world and time abroad had rendered most of her knowledge of the goings on of British pureblood society relatively paltry, and thus the family name barely registered outside of a curiosity that regularly featured in the newspapers.

Still, the letter had seemed panicked, and there was no doubt the boy was likely still grieving, so the professor had seen fit to meet with him, as he’d so requested. Dealing with troubled teenagers had swiftly become a part of her repertoire as the potions professor, and she had little doubt that it would soon form a large part of her role as head of house.

Hess had been reading when Magdalena approached, but swiftly rose to meet her greeting.

“Pleasure to meet you, Mr Hess,” She answered.

His gumption impressed her, especially as he all but demanded an answer from the professor before she even had a chance to properly introduce herself. It showed spirit and self-assuredness, and both were traits that she often hoped to inspire in the young people under her tutelage. Of course, it also struck her as rude, but she’d dealt with worse, and there was always the chance the boy was simply awkward.

Still, she smiled wryly, amused at his forwardness in that semi-patronising way adults so often reserved for children, “Curious as to my credentials, Mr Hess? I was a potioneer, mostly based out of Malaysia until a few years ago. Most of my work concerned the study of traditional Austronesian ingredients and the development of hybridised techniques through the utilisation of western wandwork and alchemical theory. Which is a dry way of saying I studied potions. As to who I worked for? No one, I worked in academia, which is a less-dry way of saying I worked for whoever fronted the grant money.”

She folded her arms, “Satisfied that I’m qualified enough to answer whatever question you have?”

She supposed he was curious as to healing magic, after all, he’d recently lost a cousin. Perhaps he was considering entering some sort of career to prevent other such deaths. She wasn’t a healer, but perhaps understanding her background was in a sister field would acquiesce his worries somewhat. And besides, part of her wanted to admonish the boy for his bluntness. Albeit, in a pleasant way.

@Jürgen Hess

Jurgen was apprehensive as he waited for the newest Professor, soon to be Head of House for Hufflepuff to meet him. A part of him did not expect her to come, that she would either disregard his letter as some strange message sent by a child that either did not know better or was playing some sort of joke on the new Professor. The fact that she had come had only fed into his festering paranoia -- why did she come? Who sent her?

He thought he had done his research, the little that a teenager could. Rifling through the life of a professor would raise red flags. Looking into foreign Professor since he was extracted from Hogwarts last year after the untimely death of his cousin during the yuletide season was even more questionable. Was it some strange obsession, youthful crush or something more troublesome. There are only so many questions one could ask before people start asking questions of their own. Well-dressed, of good pedigree and of means, people generally consider them in a better light than their pedestrian contemporaries. Jürgen Hess was seen as perhaps "eccentric," rather than "strange." The later was more honest, but in truth the difference between the terms was that eccentrics had money and strange-people did not. A "quirky person could just as easily be termed as peculiar or even bizarre for an offensive odor, cheap attire or lacking funds.

“Curious as to my credentials, Mr Hess?" Miss Wicckham-Deakin inquired with the tolerance expected of an adult. In spite of this Jürgen nodded vigorously, not unaware of the social faux pas he was committing one after another interfacing with the elder woman. "I was a potioneer, mostly based out of Malaysia until a few years ago. Most of my work concerned the study of traditional Austronesian ingredients and the development of hybridised techniques through the utilisation of western wandwork and alchemical theory. Which is a dry way of saying I studied potions. As to who I worked for? No one, I worked in academia, which is a less-dry way of saying I worked for whoever fronted the grant money.” That was the verbose way of saying she worked for whoever paid her and she did not know who paid her, or perhaps did not care. She was a researcher of apparently potions, he had his doubts that the circumlocutory explanation she had given him was the first tie she had uttered it.

That was quite the career, remarkable really. It was obvious from the cross armed pose she took that there was only one logical conclusion, the symptom of a rightly earned ego. “Satisfied that I’m qualified enough to answer whatever question you have?”

Qualified? Empathetically, yes. Yet he was riddled with paranoia and his concern would only be bolster by the self-assured status as an experienced, competent wizard. wasn't there a saying regarding teaching? In George Bernard Shaw’s ‘Man and Superman’ (1903) it was said that there are ‘those who can, do; those who can’t, teach.’ Teaching was the terminal point in someone's career, not a stepping stone the teenager reasoned. He could feel his heart pounding in his ears as he said it, "aren't you a bit overqualified to be watching a bunch of kids?" He asked restlessly, his voice sounded almost accusatory in spite of the fact that he had called Magdalena there. He was having second thoughts. "This was definitely a mistake," he muttered nervously. His feet shuffled beneath him and his fingers fiddled with the flap of his satchel. She came all this way for nothing, [color-darkred]"it was just a bad joke."[/color] He looked away when he said it, the evasive gaze of a not particularly practiced liar.

Had he told her the truth, everything he intended to say, she probably would not believe him he reasoned. If he told her the truth and she already knew, he was not sure what would happen to him. There was a sick theory twisting around in his head, one where most of his family was complicit in the death of their own.

The satchel he carried rattled obnoxiously. He would quickly press it firmly against himself protectively in an idle attempt to quell the noise. He took an uneasy step back. "I am sorry," he rambled a quick apology "it was a stupid dare. I don't know what I was doing. It certainly has nothing to do with dark magic and dark being." His words came out as a single, extensive word that was poorly enunciated, as if he had marbles in his mouth. "I am really sorry," he repeated. Perhaps he was contrite or would have been if it was a joke but in truth he was scared.

Scared enough to not do the right thing. Scared enough to turn tail and run.

Evidently, she had overspoke. In trying to defend her qualifications to a child, she had put him off. She cursed herself internally, no one liked a braggart, especially not a braggart who saw fit to brag about their accomplishments to a child. Admittedly, she was loathe to have her credentials questioned, especially not in such a way by a student who was not even one of her’s, but she had been lacking in tact. She wanted to assume that it was that failure in social decorum that put off the young Mr Hess. But, there was something else to it. His words were peculiar, accusing her of being overqualified, before speaking an utterly blatant lie as to the whole thing being a bad joke. No, there was something very peculiar going on. That much was certain.

What it was, Magdalena did not know, but certainly the boy knew something, something that evidently had him worried. His body language betrayed that well enough. Fear, Magdalena knew that plain and simple. But it was not the same expression that so often fluttered across the face of her own children. The boy’s fear was raw, almost wild.

Magdalena’s brow furrowed, the rather basic curiosity she’d felt replaced by a far more real sense of worry for the boy and for his health. The rattling of his bag did not go unnoticed, nor did his utter change in demeanour. He looked more rabbit than human, as if startled at the sight of his own shadow.

The change had come quickly, almost as if the confidence with which he’d approached her had been little more than a facade.

“Easy, easy,” Magdalena said hastily, attempting to calm the boy down at least in some degree, “You can talk to me.”

She sighed, trying to think of the words to say.

“Like I said, I worked in Malaysia, when I came back to Britain I needed work. The position at Hogwarts allows me to teach what I love and affords me enough free time over holidays to see my family abroad,” She provided an easy-going smile, “Rigorous study is hardly conducive for raising a family or for planning a wedding.”

She paused, before adding, “The satchel. It’s rattling. I take it that’s what you wanted to show me.”

“You needn’t worry, I won’t tell your professors or anyone that you came to see me,” She spoke neutrally, worried that any attempt to inflect too much may betray intentions that were not there, “Besides,” She offered another smile, “You’re a terrible liar.”

She outstretched a hand, as if to take the satchel from him.

Before her was a troubled child, as to why he was troubled, Magdalena did not know. But, a gentle touch had often proved the best when it came to settling fears, and she saw no reason, no true danger or worry, that would cause her to deviate from such a strategy.

@Jürgen Hess

It was easy to spook one such as Hess, confidence and competence were off-putting when faced by a youth who was often overlooked or considered irrelevant. Had this been a prank, he might have seen the former Professor, soon to be Head of House for Hufflepuff as a challenge but this was not a challenge but rather a red flag. Why was such a traveled woman willing to settle down in such an isolated castle to deal with children such as himself. children were awful, he knew that because he was one of them!

It was a joke, just a terrible, stupid joke. He should not have done it, it was definitely, totally a dare. That was something rich, pampered and spoiled brats do all of the time and he was no exception. He was just a scion of a, no the pureblooded empire and in his privileged life he never knew strife and this sociopathic lack of empathy had made him needlessly cruel.

“Easy, easy.”

Jurgen shook his head vigorously. "N-no, n-no... I am sorry," he insisted.

“You can talk to me.”

The assurances were hollow and they meant nothing to him. Talk to who? To her? She worked for him, or worse yet them.

"I-- It was dumb. A stupid dare," he muttered, his words rattling out of his mouth lowly.

“Like I said, I worked in Malaysia, when I came back to Britain I needed work. The position at Hogwarts allows me to teach what I love and affords me enough free time over holidays to see my family abroad,” she insisted, changing course perhaps as he stubborn former Gryffindor clung protectively to his satchel. It was a semi-good story. “Rigorous study is hardly conducive for raising a family or for planning a wedding.”

His breathing slowed but his grip did not become slack on the bag he clutched firmly to his chest.

“The satchel. It’s rattling. I take it that’s what you wanted to show me.”

"N-no," he lied (terribly). "They... this... these are books," he claimed. yes, clanking, clamoring, dull-sounding books.

“You needn’t worry, I won’t tell your professors or anyone that you came to see me,” she continued to assure him. An act of futility perhaps, he was far more skittish than anyone could have estimated. There was a flicker in his eye, a soundless 'maybe' that was not meant to be communicated or conveyed but he did not have the years of practice contorting his face into images not meant to be read. He was an actual child, well technically teen. He was not some ninja trained from birth or this person with inhuman, even by an interrogator's standard's skill in reading or hiding micro-expressions.

“Besides, you’re a terrible liar,”

"What?" The absurdity! "I'm not lying!" He squeaked. Super convicing.

Contrarian to his words, he did submit the satchel, albeit hesitantly to Wickham-Deakin. It rattled and it was most certainly not books. No, not at all. But it was something that served as 'proof' perhaps that this was not a farce, although what the boy had claimed thus far was nonsense. Too nervous to be of great use, and what he would continue to say not being of great help. "My dead cousin's almost girlfriend is probably going to get herself killed," not convoluted at all. The flap pulled off, exposing the contents -- long and hard and ivory in color. Most intact, a few broken. They were bones and while the Head of House was an expert in potions and not in biology, these bones certainly looked human. "If she tries, they will kill her because we already saw that they succeed in their murdering," not helping or making much sense. "The holes have these and the mattress is full of them," he claimed.

Whatever Magdalena had been expecting when she examined the satchel offered by the clearly-worried boy, it had certainly not been human bones. Her rather easy-going demeanour was instantly washed away, her shoulders going rigid as she stared at the bleached hominid ivory. The boy’s explanation left a lot to be desired, but the professor listened intently all the same, her eyes not straying to him. No, those blue orbs remained trained on the bones that he’d submitted for examination.

“Which mattress? Which holes?” The questions were delivered with a neutral tone, that of a professional, any form of emotion or worry would have to wait for the moment. There were a number of things she needed to turn her mind toward first.

The mystery of the bones, for one, could not go without further investigation. Why were there human bones in the quidditch stadium, why specifically had they been hidden in and around the camp? To have them in mattresses of all things… It was grim. Far too grim for a summer retreat for a group of school kids. But there were other issues at play, after all, the boy had spoken of imminent danger to the girlfriend of his dead cousin. Magdalena wasn’t aware that Vladimir Athanatos had a girlfriend, not even an ‘almost-girlfriend.’ Murderers loose and targetting students.

“Who has been murdered? Who is in danger?” More questions, returning to his earlier statement, the query of the bones was of no doubt less importance than the very real risk to the life of one of the students.

Magdalena closed the satchel, and laid icy eyes upon the teenager, “If this is some kind of joke, I swear to Christ, lad…”

There was more, if it wasn’t a joke, the boy’s demeanour betrayed something about him. He had not merely stumbled upon bones or a rumour, he had been nervous, not scared. His attempts to back out of the discussion, as well, did not paint him as a student who was seeking help. No, there was something else, something that he’d not offered up. Students did not attempt to bring bones to a professor then hastily confess the meaning behind them when confronted, they definitely didn’t try to run away from bringing light to a situation where they had happened upon danger by happenstance.

“What is your part in this?” Her eyes narrowed.

God, she hoped this was all some sort of twisted joke.

@Jürgen Hess