A/N: The first scene of this story was inspired by the September 12th post on the incredible, the incomparable, the blog-to-end-all-blogs, livesandliesofwizards on tumblr. If you haven't seen it, stop what you're doing right now and get to it. Nightingale is currently, um, sort of stalled, but not abandoned I promise. This piece is hella AU, sort of batshit mental at times, and most importantly, not a romance. I just want to be clear on that so no one is disappointed later on. Nevertheless, I hope you give it a try. Should be 3 to 4 chapters if all goes as planned. Onward!
Order of Merlin
by GR
The entrance was dissimulated behind a statue of Millicent Bagnold, whose arm stretched nobly to the heavens, holding a wand aloft. Hermione had to flatten herself between the stone barrier and the wall of the alleyway behind Flourish & Blott's and tap at the bricks one by one, up five, left three, down one. The brick melted away, allowing her passage inside a smoky vestibule lit by a solitary floating lightbulb.
And the bulb wasn't even attached to anything, for heaven's sake. That was just poor showmanship.
"Name?" rasped a young man in dragonhide without looking up. He flipped idly through a yellowing photo album plastered with moving pictures of youths in school uniform.
Hermione's eyes traveled from his slicked back hair to the dark circles under his eyes, stunned.
"Justin?" she said. "Justin Finch-Fletchley?"
The man looked thrown off balance.
"Hermione Granger?" He dropped the book. "It's—It's an honor to have you here."
"Justin, what are you doing here, working the door?"
A clipped silence greeted her question. The muted hum of synthetic bass floated through the wall, sending vibrations up her spine through the floor.
"I was told there was some sort of system to sort who's allowed inside," said Hermione bleakly.
"Oh." Justin waved at the photo album. "Colin took a lot of photos of the DA that last year, when you and Potter and Weasley were gone. Rules are simple. You appear in any of the pictures, or you find someone who does to vouch for you, you're in. You don't... Well."
Hermione stiffened. "You Obliviate people?"
"Shit, no. We send them away. This isn't the war any longer."
"Well, I won't be in that book, I suppose."
Justin scoffed. "You can come in. Open invitation for you and the other two. Not that you've ever taken advantage."
Hermione nodded her thanks and Justin showed her through a set of charmed velvet curtains. She began to regret her decision to come the minute she saw the crowded barroom on the other side. The smoke here came in a spectrum of colors and the noise was a firestorm. Waitresses in bikini tops woven from unicorn hair slid through the writhing press of bodies on the dance floor, incandescent, balancing drink trays on the tips of their wands. Corner booths charmed unnaturally dark housed half-Veela, half-Goblin parties along with every other permutation. The Muggles were easy to spot: they lingered along the periphery, trying to blend in and failing desperately. It was a bad scene.
Hermione coughed the smoke out of her face and plucked the Chocolate Frog card from her pocket; it was her own, with a message scrawled across the top in everlasting ink. An address and a time. And a short, cryptic line. It was the latter that had convinced her.
If you want to solve the Riddle...
Her eyes flitted over every table with distaste until they settled on the one in the far corner, where a familiar stoic figure sat looking wildly out of place. She scurried to join him, resigned to the awkwardness that was sure to follow. His jaw slackened when he saw her.
"Herm-own-inny," he said, springing to his feet as she took a seat. Always the gentleman.
"It's good to see you. I imagined I wouldn't be the only one summoned, but I didn't think you..."
He waved a Quidditch collectors' card, special edition, briefly before her eyes. She caught the silvery blur inked over the picture.
"Vould you care for a drink?" he asked. "Vater, yes?"
She smiled. Of course he remembered.
As Viktor poured her water from a carafe into a spun-glass goblet, Hermione's gaze drifted to the stage, where the black clad band members were playing distinctly Muggle instruments at an unreasonable volume. A pack of girls with charmed antlers and wings and false electrical wands scrambled up on stage and tore off their blouses. Viktor averted his eyes at once, but Hermione glanced up at the booth above the musicians. It was shielded from view by tinted glass. She thought she saw a shadow stir behind it.
"Who's up there?" she asked.
"That's the question, innit?"
The answer had come from a third addition to their table. Hermione was shocked to see George Weasley sitting down across from her, tie askew and eyes bloodshot.
"The Muggles reckon it's some sort of cult," George went on. "A ring of magical recluses running things behind the scenes, with beards and pointed hats and everything. They call it the Wizard of Oz—Yeah, figured you'd smile at that. Cracked dad up too when I mentioned it, whatever it means. Load of bollocks, of course. Five years since the Statute of Secrecy fell and the world still thinks we've all got warts on our noses and toads up our sleeves. Though to be fair, anyone who's spent a bit of time in the Hog's Head..."
"So who is up there?"
George shrugged. His gaze was unfocused.
"When did you get here?" Hermione asked, concerned.
"Me? Been here all night. And every night before." He raised his glass. "Cheers, eh? Where's ickle Ronniekins tonight, by the way?"
"He wasn't summoned. Obviously whoever is gathering us here values their secrecy."
"And you held your tongue? Tsk, tsk, Hermione. A healthy relationship has no secrets."
"You vill watch your tone," growled Krum.
"A family squabble already, fantastic," said a quiet voice, and Blaise Zabini joined their table with a disdain that suggested they might all have been sea slugs.
"How in Godric's name did you get in here?" asked George belligerently.
Zabini did not deign to answer. He surveyed them all coolly, a slight grimace marring his features when he looked at Hermione. She knew him by reputation as one of the Ministry's more insubordinate Unspeakables, but she also knew that he had not fought in the battle at Hogwarts. It threw her for a loop to see him here at their table.
"Let's hear it for the Thestral Collective!" an announcer bellowed into the microphone, and the crowd exploded into raucous applause. The band members swaggered off stage and settled at the table nearest Hermione's party.
"Hang on," she said, eyeing the offensive messages spray-painted across their outfits in disbelief. "Is... Is that Dennis Creevey? And Demelza Robins?"
"He goes by Darius Robins now," George informed her. "The pair of them were there when Colin..." He drew a finger significantly across his throat. "They saw the whole thing. Went through a dark phase, turned a bit reactionary. Notice the sleeves."
Hermione sniffed. It had come into great vogue immediately after the war to cut one's left sleeve off at the elbow in order to demonstrate the absence of a dark mark. Twilfit & Tatting's had even released a line of haute couture three-quarter sleeve dress robes, which had been all the rage at Ministry parties until Harry, Ron, and Hermione had walked into the annual Aurors' ball with their heads held high, the only three persons in the room determinedly wearing full sleeves. The fashion had died out then in all but the most extreme of circles.
A cough alerted her to a new arrival at the table. Hermione looked up and nearly fell out of her chair.
Taking a seat to her left, and looking more uncomfortable than any human being she had ever seen in her life, was Dudley Dursley.
Zabini's eyes narrowed. Viktor and George immediately drew their wands.
"Diagon's open to everyone nowadays," George hissed with startling venom. "Or don't you remember which side won the war?" He clapped Dudley on the shoulder and the latter flinched, no doubt remembering an incident involving a toffee and his parents' sitting room blown apart. "How'd you get in, mate?"
"It must have been Vane's book," Hermione supplied, because Dudley did not look in any fit state to speak. She could not help thinking on the biography of herself, Ron, and Harry with some satisfaction, as vile as it had been. It had quite knocked the wind out of Rita Skeeter. Unfortunately the whole thing had been such a flimsy concoction of gossip and lies that it had risen to number one on the Prophet bestselling list in under a fortnight. The Dursleys—and anyone else associated with Harry—were a household name now.
"This has got to be everyone," George observed. "How many bloody people can you summon on a day's notice?" He raised his arm to hail a waitress. The girl had more piercings than Hermione could count in one go. Hermione saw George slide an obscene mound of gold into her apron as she deposited a round of shots on their table.
"This is, er, what, exactly?" asked Dudley in a very thin voice.
George's eyes twinkled. "Viper's brew. Ogden's best firewhiskey, diluted snake venom, and powdered Billywig sting. It's mental, you'll see. But if you really want the good stuff you've got to go to the back room. They give you the stings fresh. Mix that with a Patented Daydream Charm and some of that white stuff the Muggles swear on and the high'll last you hours—"
"Yes, well," said Hermione pointedly. But it was too late. George had already knocked back his shot and, seeing that Hermione had pushed hers away firmly, taken hers as well.
"This," said a rasping voice, "is an ill-fated beginning."
He was wearing a hood. It hid his face from view and gave the lugubrious impression that they were being addressed by a disembodied entity. Hermione's hand clenched around her wand in her pocket. It was a habit she still could not shake after five years.
"I presume each of you knows why I have called you here," said their host. Male or female, it was hard to tell. Hermione launched immediately into an analysis of all the reasons their particular mismatched group could have been assembled, certain she could work out the answer. But to her amazement, it was Dudley who spoke first.
"We all play," he said, staring down at his hands as though fearful of his own voice.
What in Merlin's name? The others were all nodding.
"Correct," said their host.
Impossible. Could they really be talking about that ridiculous game? It was Quidditch all over again. And here Hermione was, a lone dissenter among initiates in what amounted to little more than a bloody boys' club. She could not believe she had wasted her time in coming here.
"Don't tell me you're talking about Order of Merlin?" she said, half scornful, half pleading.
"Right again," said the host. "The cutting edge in cross-amplification technology. A triumphant marriage of magic and virtual reality. Played by more than twenty-three million people worldwide. You are all aware of the scope of this venture."
"Wait just a moment," Hermione interrupted. "I don't play."
Four pairs of eyes turned to gaze at her in astonishment.
"You've never played once?" said George. "You've never logged on?"
"No. And I can't say that I appreciate being lured here under false pretenses—"
"Hermione, it's a whole other world in the game. It's better than you can even imagine. There are no limits. Muggles can do magic. Wizards have made their careers as guides or slayers... Christ, legends have been born in the game. This one user, Tyson5058, they say he's undefeated; they say he's built himself an entire city."
"Why don't you ask him?" their host said smoothly, turning to face Dudley.
George's jaw dropped.
"You're Tyson5058?" he exclaimed. "You—You—"
Dudley's eyes darted between George and the door. He looked terrified.
Their host chuckled. The sound raised the hairs on the nape of Hermione's neck.
"If we might return to the matter at hand... Miss Granger, it is true that you do not play. However your knowledge of the Muggle world, along with your work in conjunction with the Auror Office and your near-perfect test scores—"
"How did you get a hold of my test scores?"
"—make you uniquely qualified for the venture I am proposing today."
"Top of the class again," said George, winking at her.
"Vot is this venture you speak of?" snapped Viktor, who did not appear to be taking to George very well.
"A problem has arisen inside the game."
Viktor and Blaise stiffened. Hermione, however, looked beyond them to a table at the other end of the room. An absurdly famous Muggle actor had just taken a seat under a cut glass chandelier, affecting a lack of concern at his surroundings. Hermione saw a pair of middle-aged wizards in Werewolf and Proud t-shirts elbowing one another and snickering.
She did not want to be here.
"I don't see what any of this has to do with solving the Riddle," she said, attempting to inject some sense back into the proceedings.
She was met with blank stares.
"Riddle!" Hermione exploded. "Tom Riddle! The message implied something to do with him. I thought that was clear!"
The tables nearest them had gone oddly quiet.
"You don't want to go using that name here," said Zabini.
"Oh, let's not start on that again," said Hermione angrily. "I think we've all learned how far fear of a name can go."
But the Werewolf and Proud wizards were glaring her way now. Hermione forced her hands to stop trembling.
"The Riddle," said their host, "is a matter of concern within the game. Its creator wrote a particular program intended to challenge its most experienced players. Unfortunately the program shows signs of having gained sentience. It must be subdued. It is my aim to put together an expert team capable of entering the game and subduing the program—nicknamed Riddle, a rather tasteless joke I'll admit—by covert means."
"Why are you not approaching Aurors for this?" asked Viktor.
"Nine out of ten Aurors tested as dreadfully inept in matters of virtual reality. Harry Potter himself did not even know how to log on..."
Hermione opened her mouth to protest the slight on Harry, but was distracted as several things happened at once. First, the Werewolf and Proud wizards made a beeline for her in earnest. Second, the door to the glass-fronted booth above the stage opened and a tall, familiar looking man emerged, drawing gasps all around. Third, Hermione jumped to her feet and pulled out her wand.
Viktor stood at once behind her. Dudley let out a frightened little yelp.
"Would you look at that," slurred George. "The bastard himself."
"He's running this place?" said Hermione, stunned.
"Figures. It's his only way in. He'd never get to hang around our lot otherwise. Who'd have him in their flat or at their parties? I'll give it to the Malfoys, they always did know how to buy their way in."
Draco Malfoy descended from the booth and strode across the room, taking as little notice of the whispers and stares as if he were alone. As he strode past, the men advancing on Hermione retreated into the shadows.
He came to a halt at their table with his face an inscrutable blank.
"M—Malfoy," said Hermione numbly. She did not quite know whether she was infuriated or merely amazed by his appearance.
"You can't be here," he drawled, looking directly at her. Hermione noticed that he and Zabini avoided looking at one another very carefully.
"Excuse me," said Hermione, drawing herself up to full height. "I fought in a war to be able to step foot wherever I please, and I have the scars to prove it—"
"No, you can't be here. This place isn't what it used to be. It's only those looking for trouble who come here now, and they always find it. You're conspicuous."
Hermione was drawn up short by the warning.
"I don't want my bar closed down because of some brawl over Potter's pet," Malfoy added. It was an afterthought, not nearly snide enough.
"I—Thank you," she muttered.
Malfoy rolled his eyes and began to walk away. Hermione hurried after him and caught his sleeve, spinning him back around.
"Wait! I have a favor to ask."
"Are you out of your damn mind?"
"Malfoy."
Something in her tone must have actually given him pause. He crossed his arms and watched her with ill-concealed irritation.
"Don't let George in here anymore," said Hermione.
Malfoy's lips thinned, but after a moment he gave a curt nod and strode back up to his booth.
When Hermione returned to her table George and Viktor were engaged in a heated debate over whether to trust their host.
"... do not know vot he really wants or even who he is—"
"Who gives a leprechaun's tit? This is a chance to—"
"If I might be allowed to interject," said the host patiently. "My reason for desiring to correct the error within the game is simple."
He drew back his hood. Hermione gasped.
"Celsus Macmillan!" she said. "You created Order of Merlin."
"I thought you didn't play?" mumbled George.
It took some effort not to roll her eyes. Honestly. Everyone knew Celsus Macmillan for the most famous Squib in Britain. He had risen to notoriety at an astronomical speed after the war thanks to the success of the game. He seemed to find some amusement in her irritation. He had fair, almost translucent skin, and shrewd eyes. Hermione saw a wand holstered at his belt, ornate and polished and utterly useless to him. She felt a pang of sympathy.
"As you have been advised to leave the establishment," he said, "I shall wrap up the proceedings. You all have one week to decide whether you wish to be involved in this venture. I shall rely on your discretion in the meantime. Think carefully on my offer. The risks are minimal. Payment will be in the realm of five figures, which you may consider, Miss Granger, is a sum that could seriously help that foundering elf organization of yours."
He rose and nodded politely to each of them in turn. Then he was gone in a swish of cloak, leaving behind five very perturbed companions.
oOo
"No way," said Ron. "You met Celsus Macmillan?"
Hermione clicked her tongue, exasperated.
"That's hardly the salient point," she said.
"But he's—he's the richest bloke in Europe."
"So they say."
"This cloak and dagger business," said Harry pensively, "with the cards and the secret meetings... I don't like it."
"I can't believe you didn't tell us you'd been summoned in the first place," Ron added.
"I told you, I thought I might miss my chance to participate if I told anyone."
"This is just like the thing with the time turner..."
Hermione threw a Chocolate Frog at him. The three of them were lounging on the floor of Harry's new, unfurnished manor in Godric's Hollow. For some reason, Harry had invited them over to enlist their help in blasting apart the cupboard under the stairs with as violent a series of spells as possible.
"But saying I did join this group and go inside the game," said Hermione more seriously. "What are the rules? How does it work?"
"I've only played once," said Harry. "It's a dangerous sort of thing. Like the Mirror of Erised. You can do anything in there and it doesn't matter. If you die in the game, you just wake up. It's like a drug."
"It's brilliant, though," Ron interjected. "But Harry's right. Why all the secrecy?"
"I suppose he's got his eccentricities," said Hermione dubiously. "This is the same Celsus Macmillan who had a fifty foot portrait of himself commissioned by house elves in 1985..."
"I dunno. First hint of anything dodgy and you'll let us know, yeah?"
Hermione smiled affectionately at Ron. "Of course. But I'm not quite sure I even ought to do it. Computer games really aren't my thing."
"I still can't believe Dudley was there," said Harry, shaking his head.
"You've got to do it," said Ron. "Five figures, Hermione. Hell, you could stop working late hours planning all those SPEW galas."
"It's not SPEW, it's S.P.E.W."
"Nine years on and you really think I'm ever going to get it right?"
"I'll do it," Hermione decided. "What's the worst that can happen?"
oOo
They stood in a plain Muggle hangar, Hermione anxious, George hangdog, Dudley rather green. Viktor and Zabini were unreadable. Hermione went over again in her head the many pages of instructions on how to play. She had bought enough user's manuals to fill an entire bookshelf. It all seemed to amount to creativity and rapid reflexes. The game had a way of channeling magic into electrical impulses, which gave wizards and witches a distinct edge. And yet through sheer strength of numbers, Muggles had banded together and formed alliances. They had found ways of hacking into the source code of the game to program their own magic of a sort. Of course, the game was designed to allow them to do this. Still, it was yet another example of the ingenuity fostered by a lack of magical ability.
"Now," said Macmillan, striding back and forth before them like a general preparing his troops for battle, "we're going to upload you straight to level ninety-four. Normally you'd start at level one and build your characters from there, but given the paucity of time, we've prepared your characters in advance. They're simply composite versions of your present selves. You'll have access to unlimited funds and weapons. We're giving you free reign. But that doesn't mean you get to make a spectacle of yourselves. No showing off. Dursley, this especially goes for you. Your alternate persona is a big name in Order of Merlin. You're not to reveal to anyone who you are."
Dudley nodded, looking increasingly ill.
"You may take your places," Macmillan announced.
Hermione sat back in an uncomfortable titanium chair. Immediately, glowing red bands like jets from a stupefaction curse encircled her wrists, shackling her down. She felt magic hum through her. Without warning a needle pierced her right arm, and she felt a numbing cold spread out from the spot of contact.
"Muscle relaxant potion," Macmillan explained. "Otherwise your body would attempt to act out every action performed by your consciousness while inside the game.
A pimply youth in a hoodie and backwards hat emerged to plug wires connected to each of their chairs into wall outlets. Then he turned to them and raised his wand. It made sense, given that Macmillan himself could not do it. Still, after all their de-briefings, their instructional sessions, it seemed a little anticlimactic to be uploaded by a boy who hardly looked old enough to drive.
"As you know, should you need to contact me for any reason while within the game, you may use the regular electronic communication channels," Macmillan told them. "I will be at your disposal night and day. Good luck."
"Cerebus obnoxiam," cried the boy in the hoodie.
Hermione's eyes snapped shut. She felt a sickening pull somewhere in the vicinity of her stomach, followed by an infernal noise that must surely pierce right through her eardrums and turn her brain to jelly. She made to scream, but found she could not open her mouth. This was worse than Apparition, a hundred times worse. She was lost, adrift, floating dizzyingly through the infinite emptiness... Until, just as suddenly, her feet were planted firmly on the ground.
She opened her eyes.
"Nice night for it," said George.
They were standing in the middle of Diagon Alley as Hermione had never seen it. It was real, so real. She could taste the air, feel the cloth of her robes beneath her fingers, hear the high whine of a thousand electronic devices blaring from every shop window. These were more advanced than anything existing in the real world. People walked past—some flew past, on broomsticks or carpets or even skateboards—holding translucent screens whose contents they dictated merely by touching their fingers to the surface. Buildings rose fifty stories high on either side of the alley, their flashing neon signs advertising potions ingredients and computer repair alike. It was every science fiction movie she had ever seen, amplified tenfold.
"God," said Hermione.
"Right," said a clear, decisive voice behind her. "Time to set up a base. And a plan of attack."
The rest of the group looked in amazement at Dudley. He was holding himself upright and smiling, in stark contrast to his attitude from their first meeting. He looked more comfortable than any of them inside the game.
Zabini did not look at all pleased at being given orders by a Muggle. But Viktor forestalled him.
"Lead the way," he told Dudley.
Hermione could only follow, mute with awe. She simply could not believe how real it all felt. Harry had been right. People could lose themselves in this.
"Welcome to Order of Merlin," George told her knowingly, waving her on down the alley.
A/N: Yo, if you're still here, all my eternal gratitude goes out to you. A couple things-
1. I'm fudging the dates a bit. 2003 might be a tad early for this sort of technology. But let's say magic allowed some pretty rapid technological progress.
2. Yes, there's some dodgy, plot-hole-ish stuff going on. Don't worry. All part of the plan. (She says, cackling madly to herself.)
3. If you don't listen to Shiny Toy Guns while reading this, you're missing out.
4. I am shackled to world lit essays and group projects. I'll update when I can. I'll do my best.
5. (Because I haven't posted anything here since the announcement...) FANTASTIC BEASTS YO! *throws confetti* Discuss...
6. Review if you liked, or didn't like, or if you have Netflix recommendations. I might be weird and answer you via tumblr.
Cheers!