⚜ MORNING, 24TH JULY, 1990, THE GOJO ESTATE ⚜
IT WAS RATHER easy for Jasmine to forget that there was an entire party planned in celebration of her and Ivy's birthday.
It was rather strange that the party would be taking place six days before the actual day, but her parents had easily explained that away when the question came up in social circles after the party date was announced.
Basically, since it was the twins' eleventh birthday, it was a noble obligation of the Potters to celebrate the event. However, since the Potters wanted to have a private and relatively quiet day on the actual day, they set the party to happen on the 25th, rather than the 31st.
Jasmine didn't really care about birthdays much, really.
Sure, it was fine to celebrate the anniversary of one's birth, but she didn't really see the point. It was probably fun for a lot of people, and she could see how people would want to celebrate a loved one, but she couldn't bring herself to care as much as most people seemed to.
In any case, that wasn't to say that she would be a joy kill — just because she disagreed with it didn't give her the right to ruin it for others if there were no irrefutably proven reasons to do so.
Besides, people celebrated so many seemingly mundane things simply because they were trying to forget the cruel reality of the world, trying to find warmth and revelry in a cold world that didn't care — and that was okay.
However, something rather amused Jasmine — among the nobles, the affluent, the kings, queens, and merchants of the world, revelry was never truly an escape. It was an illusion, a delicate façade that disguised the relentless machinations beneath.
Within spaces of revelry and merrymaking, it was those at the top — the ones draped in jewels, sipping the finest vintages — who found themselves in a bigger prison than ever.
Beneath the glittering chandeliers and flowing silks, it was war. The dance floor wasn't just a place for swirling gowns and graceful steps; it was a battlefield where alliances were forged, betrayals plotted, and reputations teetered on the edge.
The dining table wasn't just a place for feasting; it was a stage where every choice of wine, every morsel consumed, and every raised eyebrow could signal declaration of war or allegiance.
Jasmine had always found this dynamic fascinating, in a darkly amusing way. Among the common folk, revelry was genuine — a chance to forget their worries, to laugh freely, to live, if only for a night. But in the grand halls of the elite, revelry was simply another mask.
Here, joy wasn't spontaneous; it was choreographed. Even laughter had a purpose, and the merrymakers were merely players in an endless game, where the stakes were power, influence, and survival. And the more powerful you were, the tighter the chains became.
It was ironic, really.
The lords and ladies who often looked down on the commoners with disdain, believing themselves superior, were, in truth, more tightly bound than anyone else. They were prisoners of their own wealth, status, and ambitions, shackled by the very privileges they cherished.
Jasmine wondered if they ever realized it — if, when the music stopped and the lights dimmed, they lay awake in their silk-sheeted beds and felt the weight of their invisible chains. Or perhaps they had long since forgotten what freedom even felt like.
In the end, it didn't matter. Whether they knew it or not, the nobles lived in cages of their own making. And that was why, no matter how grand the banquet, how lavish the ball, or how extravagant the celebration, Jasmine could never quite suppress a small, knowing smile
She knew the truth: the only true measure of power, as was made most apparent at such events, was one's own strength.
If the world were to fall into anarchy, if glittering gold and fine silk lost their appeal, if all the world was to turn against mankind, and mankind was to turn on itself, how long could one survive — by their own capabilities — against the chaos?
The answer would then be the truest measure of their power.
Everything else was just a façade, an illusion meticulously crafted by mankind's collective use of mass delusion — a carefully woven tapestry designed to create a reality that bent to its control.
Beneath the shimmering surface of morality, luxury, and power lay a truth that few dared confront: that civilisation was nothing more than a fragile construct, sustained by the silent agreement of those who lived within it.
It was what made revolutions such a tragic comedy.
Every so-called new dawn of civilization was merely the rebirth of the same delusions wearing a different mask. A never-ending cycle, destined to replay itself for as long as mankind possessed the gift — and curse — of intelligence.
It was almost poetic, in a twisted way — a cosmic joke delivered at humanity's expense. Unlike the beasts of the earth, mankind had the intellect to transcend the programmed cycle of life: birth, growth, procreation, and death.
Humanity could challenge nature's rules, rewrite its scripts, and forge a new path.
And yet, the farther they ventured from the natural order, the closer they came to a harsh truth: that beyond the laws of nature was an existence so vast, so unknowable, that it dwarfed their every achievement.
Therefore, to protect themselves from the crushing weight of existential truth, mankind crafted elaborate an illusion — civilization.
By constructing a controlled reality, they created the illusion of dominance, order, and purpose. Yet, beneath the layers of progress, science, and philosophy, the ancient truth remained unchanged: mankind could never escape the universal laws of survival.
No matter how far civilization advanced, behind every throne, and within every technological marvel lurked the primal instincts that had guided all living things since their dawn — fear, hunger, desire, and the relentless drive to survive.
Nothing ever really changed. The game remained the same — mankind only made the rules more elaborate and complicated, disguising the brutal simplicity of life beneath layers of nuanced politics and false sophistication.
Survival, dominance, and hierarchy still governed the world, just as they always had — only now, they wore polished masks and played out their roles on grander stages. Who knew? Maybe the world would go back to those times at some point.
Whatever the case, Jasmine was simply considering.
Her thoughts drifted back to the party that her parents were arranging. Tomorrow, the Gojo Estate would be packed with people of influence from all over the world — rather hilarious that the place was large and lavish enough for such an event despite being unoccupied by any residents most of the time.
At least she wouldn't be bored. Her cousin Ashley would be in attendance, at least. It was expected, given that she was among the last six living members of the Black Family — besides, Ashley was a figure of note, and it would be strange if she didn't attend.
As the daughter of the late Lord Regulus Black and the esteemed Lady Ploy Sayre, and the current wielder of the Black Family innate technique — Creation and Manipulation of Curses — she was almost as much of a legend as Jasmine and her sisters.
She bore an uncanny resemblance to Jasmine, actually — the same sharp features, high cheekbones — only that Ashley had black hair and the signature red eyes of the bearer of the innate Black Family technique.
She was also one of the rare people Jasmine could truly consider a peer, which meant that events Ashley attended were far more tolerable than most. Unfortunately, however, Ashley didn't live in Britain.
She resided with the Sayre Family in the US, and it wasn't like anything could be done about it. Even if Lord Arcturus Black might have wished for her to stay in Britain, the Sayres were the most powerful wizarding family in the US — and the world at large.
They held enough power and authority to retain custody of Ashley. After all, while she had inherited the Black Family's innate technique, her mother, Lady Ploy Sayre, was still very much alive, which meant the Sayres had a stronger claim.
Besides, Ashley was sent to Britain for four months every year, which allowed her to maintain her connection to the Black family and its legacy. Those visits were something Jasmine always looked forward to — having Ashley around made things livelier.
Unlike most other people Jasmine had to deal with at parties or formal events, Ashley never bored her. There was a certain sharpness to her wit and a shared understanding between them that made their conversations flow effortlessly, like a secret language between them.
The likely reason why Ashley came to mind while Jasmine was reflecting on the tragic comedy of mankind was probably that shared understanding.
Ashley, like Jasmine, saw through the layers of masks people wore. They both knew that beneath the surface of every interaction, beneath the finery and smiles, lay the same old struggles for dominance, influence, and status.
They had been to many such events and they had learned, over time, to navigate that world with the same ease as breathing. It didn't mean they liked it, but it did mean they were rarely caught off guard by it.
Perhaps that was why Ashley's presence always made these events more bearable. She could cut through the artifice with a single sardonic comment, turning the absurdity of it all into something they could mock together.
If the world was going to be a stage, then at least they could laugh at the farce.
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Author here.
My obsession with uniformity had me put this author's note here, so I thought I may as well ask for you guys to leave comments and reviews as to how I might improve. 👍
I also thought to look a little bit into the Geto of Jasmine's Gojo — her version of a fellow "strongest" that she could call a best friend, aside from her sisters. Infer what you will from that information, but know that whatever you might be thinking might be wrong. 👍
Anyway, have a nice day, guys! Ciao! 👍