Reducio

𝕿𝖔 the right of the grand ballroom where roses bloomed and harps sang, the kitchen was its own kind of orchestra: fragrant, focused and brilliant. House elves were not mere beasts of burden, they were intelligent and it shown in their culinary industry. Copper pots gleamed from their hooks. Enchanted knives danced in the air, chopping carrots with concerning precision. The fire from a wood stove crackled, sending up a mouthwatering medley of aromas: sugar, citrus. cinnamon, roasted meats and something floral and mysterious.

House elves zipped across the fine porcelain tile floor in a flurry of motion, silent but never still. Each wore the same pink tuxedo as the servers in spite of the heat and carried a pressed tea towel emblazoned with a pale pink rose: the chosen symbol of the bride. They wore woven pink flower crowns that Winnie Harper had made for each of them. Their big eyes sparkled with purpose and elvish ingenuity. Some stirred sauces in bubbling cauldrons with others delicately assembled rose-shaped macarons with inhuman precision. One elf stood atop a crate, piping gold-laced cream into spun sugar swans with trembling reverence.

Crates of ingredients floated past in midair: enchanted strawberries still glistening with dew, champagne bottles from wizarding vineyards in italy clinking together softly, baskets of snowflake-white mushrooms picked under moonlight. The air itself shimmered with the residual magic of preservation charms and temperature-control enchantments. Not a wand among the house elves, this was power harnessed from practice, will and the snap of a finger.

At the center of it all stood the head elf, you could only tell by virtue of the fact that she did not hurry like the rest. A petite, for even a house elf, matron with a spoon bigger than her arm, issuing silent commands with a flick of her wrist or the twitch of her bat-like ear. The elves moved like clockwork under her watch, timed to perfection, aware that the esteemed guests would expect not just dinner, but spectacle.

There was no shouting. No chaos. Just the hum of an invisible system, fine-tuned and ancient. Magic pulsed through every surface. The kitchen didn’t just support the wedding, it sustained it, invisibly, impeccably, like the heartbeat of the whole affair.

But not all was normal or right in the kitchens. [Information is only accessible to muggleborns or part elves and requires a very high Wisdom Roll]

Arrived from the ballroom

Mathias lingered at the threshold of the kitchen, his gaze cutting across the bustle like a knife through fondant. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a flicker of blonde. Gideon, unmistakably, and dragged behind him, Taylor. Whatever drama was brewing between those two, it was thick enough to curdle the cream. He didn’t need to know the details. Gideon always broke his toys eventually. Whether it was by nailing them to a wall or tossing them into the sea. Well, his younger brother had flair. But timing? Inconvenient as ever. Not his problem.

His attention drifted to the trays on the prep table. it was the scent and the knowledge of what was here that drew him: breaded cutlets still steaming, golden and crisp. His eyes gleamed.

“Hey.” The word rang out like a snap of a whip as Matt clicked his fingers to announce himself, drawing the gaze of the service staff.

He gestured lazily toward the cutlets. “Some meat on a stick. For me and the wife,” he added with a smug little smile, tasting the word like fine scotch. Wife. It landed nicely.

The cutlets weren’t yet skewered, laid beside a bundle of stripped sticks that were rough-hewn, rustic, intentionally charming. Too natural, perhaps. Their pale surface bore faint striations, like veins on dried leaves.

One of the house elves, nervous-looking, gloved too formally, scrambled to attention. “Y-yes, sir!” it squeaked, bowing sharply while the others toiled on. Its white-gloved hands trembled slightly as it retrieved a tidy box of dowels from a high shelf, nestled between pots and rusted spice tins.

“How many?”

“Six,” Mathias said. “Don’t skimp. My wife’s starving.” His tone was flippant, dismissive.

The elf nodded, but its gloved hands lingered an extra moment on the sticks. Mathias narrowed his eyes, suspicious but not yet decided. He glanced at the cutlets again. They looked fine. Still, he wasn’t stupid.

“Actually...” the newest Athanatos said smoothly, pivoting as the elf prepared the first skewer, “Why don’t you take a piece from that batch. Just a bite.”

The elf froze. Just a half second too long. Then nodded quickly and obeyed, grabbing a cutlet bare-handed, chewing obediently. It smiled, eyes bright. “Delicious, sir.”

Mathias watched the whole performance like a man watching a card trick, arms folded. “Good. Now six, on the stick.” He reached over the house elf and pinched a schnitzel nuget and chewed on the glorious bite while the house elf skewered his meat. He accepted the plate when it was offered, this delicate pink porcelain with schnitzel stacked in threes.

“Lovely.” There was no thank you or expression of gratitude. He sauntered back into the ballroom, the plate balanced in one hand like a trophy.

Left for the ballroom.

Not posting in the ballroom until the next mod to give Winnie a chance to be addressed by others and for someone to privately address Mathias if desired.

Moderation:

Did Mathias notice? Roll: 3

Mathias had two true loves - Winnie and meat on a stick. It was a close race between the two, and perhaps reasonable caution was abandoned. Mathias failed to notice something integral when he peered into the kitchens and acquired his carnivorous snack.

It was a shame Mathias didn’t notice. He Did not see anything coming his way. he was just given the world on a silver platter. His was the next in line and there was shit-all his brothers could do about it.

So in this moment Mathias had the awareness of a tea cozy at a knife fight. The signs were there: glaring, neon, possibly screaming in Parseltongue; but he skipped merrily past them like a man humming down a dark alley named “Foreshadowing.”

In the warmth of the kitchen, away from the shattered glass and screams of the ballroom, five house elves moved with the usual rhythm of well-trained chaos. Clinks of platters, wafts of spiced meats, the steady ballet of silverware and fire.

Then the window shattered and everything changed. Three of the five turned. Not to the noise, but to each other. Without ceremony. Without hesitation. This had been planned after all.

"Real sorry about this, friend," muttered one, his voice a whisper of guilt wrapped in inevitability. A snap of fingers. A puff of smoke.

And then one elf was simply gone, teleported with such casual cruelty that it happened before anyone could react. Outside, barely visible through the storm-streaked kitchen window, the elf hovered midair. Suspended above the choppy waters like an offering. Then gravity remembered its duty and the elf dropped like a stone.

The second only had time to scream. Muted by the rising storm, the rushing waters, the pelting rain and the thick, stone walls that separated wizarding men and women from the elements.

It was not immediately after, but rather nearly the same time that a sharpened wooden skewer... casual, almost comedic in any other context... was driven straight into the neck of another house elf. A single thrust. Fatal, but not from the skewer alone. This wasn’t mere violence. As the blood spilled, the elf’s skin turned a sickly bluish-grey. Something else was at work. Poison? Curse? Pact? The answer didn’t matter. He was already dead. His blood would run from the kitchen towards the ballroom and trickle into a grate

The third betrayer, a female elf with an over-sized spoon that now seemed to be more like a weapon than an implement of her vocation, glanced toward the ballroom. She gave no orders. She didn’t need to. Her look was enough.

She walked out. And her subordinates would follow.

The kitchen was silent now. Empty. Save for the echo of dripping blood, the scent of charred meat, and a growing sense that somewhere, far too close, something had gone very wrong.