Orphic: Mysterious and enchanting
The week has passed quickly, filled to the brim with meetings, lunches at Whitehall with the Prime Minister, and sightings of the Loch Ness monster, again. The days have been murky, dark clouds hiding the sun that was shining so bright and hot just the previous week, and even though the days are starting to get longer, Hermione still struggles not to succumb to the hopelessness of SAD.
Lips pursed together, jaw clenched, and a forgotten coffee hidden behind a stack of paperwork, Hermione is trying to work out the rota for the following week. She has nowhere near enough case workers to assign to the Loch Ness sightings, Dominic McClivert turning into a boar in the middle of a Central Line carriage during peak time, dementors flying over West Sussex, a hyppogriff escaping the Sunderland Sanctuary... Her small team will have to work with only one day off, and she will have to cover for Demelza's holidays. With a swift movement of her wand, the rota is approved and sent out. Her wand moves again, an this time an internal memo addressed to the Central Department is flying through the door, requesting ten more job positions to be filled. As if that's gonna happen.
There is a faint shimmer in the air, when suddenly a shell appears in front of her. Hermione checks her watch, it's five o' clock.
At first there is darkness. She breathes in deeply, her hand looking for a surface to lean on, heart beating furiously, head spinning and stomach churning. This was definitely a terrible decision. She should be used to Portkey travel by now, but the sensation of being pulled into nothingness - her world reduced to the item she's holding onto for dear life - will never stop giving her tachycardia.
Immediately her nose is assaulted by the sweet scent of jasmine. As her eyes are slowly adjusting, Hermione is starting to make out a set of double doors just a few feet ahead. The wood is cool to the touch, her fingers mapping the hills and ridges of the carvings, circling back to the shapes that feel the most familiar. Oh. It's flowers and blooms and vines and leaves and stems.
Then there is light. Hurting her eyes, reflecting on what she can now see is mother of pearl and gold leaf covering some of the blooms carved on the doors. A woman in a flowing gown is standing on her right, her features hidden by the faint glimmering that reminds Hermione of when the Portkey first appeared.
"Welcome to L'Énigme, Miss Granger. My name is Marina and I will be your chaperone until the party begins."
"Thank you, Marina." Hermione can't help but stare at the statuesque woman in front of her. Maybe she is part veela? "A mask was mentioned in the letters I received, but it wasn't clear if I should get my own or if one would be provided for me. The owls I sent all returned without having delivered my message."
"When you touch your wand to the doors, a glamour hiding your features will be donned. Once that is on, you will be allowed to enter the club, and it won't be removed until you have left." Marina explains in her soft voice, "It will look exactly like mine."
Hermione proceeds as instructed, a light ticklish sensation spreading on her face. "Will this conceal my hair, as well as my face?" The club promises complete anonymity, but how can she stay unrecognised when her hair is such a prominent feature of hers?
"Kind of," giggles Marina, "The glamour works in two ways: hiding your face, and ensuring that others, patrons and staff alike, won't be able to recognise you from your eyes or your hair for example. While they may remember your features from previous encounters in the club, they won't be able to associate them to someone they know outside of here."
"That's quite intriguing." Hermione can't help but wonder who came up with such a spell. Surely a lot of research must have gone into it, and well, everyone knows research needs money, and a lot of it. "But having seen me without the glamour, and therefore having recognised me, how will my anonymity be protected?"
"Once we go through the doors, I will only remember you as the name you have chosen to be known as. Hermione Granger will never cross the threshold to L'Énigme, only Morrígan will."
"Understood, thank you."
"So, Miss Morrígan, are you ready to loose yourself in the enigma?"
"Oh."
The cacophony hits her as soon as they come out of the corridor. The immense ballroom in front of her is lit by thousands of candles, reflecting brightly in the chandeliers crystals, and in the many tumblers, flutes, and wine glasses. Did the Portkey just bring her to Versailles? Is she standing in the Hall of Mirrors?
Hermione follows Marina's brisk steps and her gaze is lost in the multitude of glimmering masks that are moving around the room. There is so much to take in, that she wishes she had another set of eyes. Oh, man. This is just incredible. The most beautiful thing she has ever seen, better than Hogwarts' Great Hall at Christmas even.
"This is La Salle Des Étoiles, where the celebration will begin. Straight down that corridor," Marina indicates one of the arches at the far end of the room, "You will find Les Jardins. You are welcome to explore them as much as you'd like, but I'm afraid I won't be able to accompany you."
"Where do the other arches lead to?" Hermione's gaze is fixed on the two arches on either side of the one Marina just pointed out. Both open onto complete darkness: no light enters the dark corridors, no candles illuminate the long shadows. The absolute nothingness reminds her of something, but she just can't connect the dots.
Her guide beckons her nearer, and moves a lock of curls away from Hermione's ear. "They give access to Les Chambres Cachées and Le Trésor," her whisper almost lost in the noise of the ballroom, "Entrance to both can only be granted by the Emperor or Pan."
Her French is basic at best, but she is pretty sure the chambers are called The Hidden Rooms and The Treasure. The rooms names hold a cloying suggestion of intrigue that slowly loops and knots around her belly. "Who are they?"
Marina has led her to a tall stool in front of the bar, and gestures for her to take a seat. "The information is classified. Even if I tried to explain, I wouldn't be able to. The mask prohibits it."
She raises an eyebrow in disbelief. The glamour - or the mask, as her guide calls it - is way more potent than she was led to believe in the beginning. How can it impede free will? Surely that's not legal. She should definitely discuss it with Harry.
"Anyway, our path splits here for the evening. Pan will be over to see you shortly." Marina's mask glimmers strongly as it moves with her lips, in what Hermione thinks is the outline of a smile. "Do enjoy yourself, Morrígan. The mirage is not as far as it seems."
The orchestra is tuning in their instrument, the sound of violins filling the air, reminding her of when her grandma and great-aunt used to take her to the opera. She has now been nursing her champagne for what feels like a lifetime, the mysterious Pan nowhere to be seen. It's not like she'd be able to recognise him anyway.
Nose twitching, leg bouncing, fingernails clicking on the flute, Hermione has had enough.
Ginny gave her the impression that L'Énigme would be a fun place to be, where she could push herself out of her comfort zone, meet new people, maybe even discover a new side of herself. But it's been nothing like she imagined. People are chatting and mingling like they've known each other forever, keeping to their cliques and circles and groups. Boisterous laughs are ringing in her ears, and her feet are already hurting. She's tired. Why did she even bother?
She downs the last few drops of champagne and she stands, ready to leave. What a disappointment.
"And where exactly do you think you're going?"
She turns around in surprise, her wide smile hurting her cheeks. She knows him. She has heard his voice so often over the past seventeen years. She knows the pale hands dusted with freckles, and the red hair, and the mismatched socks. And yet -
His name dies on her lips, as if she suddenly forgot how to pronounce it, and even her brain is stuck on the individual letters, swimming around and creating new words. And then his glamour disappears, allowing her to contemplate the familiar smirk and bright eyes for just a moment.
"Of course you would be Pan!" She laughs, so she does know someone in this gargantuan ballroom. He's hugging her, laughing with her, leading her in a happy dance and stepping on her feet. She can't believe it. Her evening has just improved tenfold.
"Surprised, Morrígan?" His singsong voice is music to her ears, and she laughs again, unable to stop herself.
"Oh, George, you have no idea!" She quickly covers her mouth, realising what's just happened. "How did I do that?"
"Ah, classic Morrígan, always seeking knowledge. Why and how and who and what are not important here. The only thing that matters is you and how far you are willing to go to get what you want." He's stopped dancing now, and he's looking at her in a serious manner that doesn't befit him. "Will you try, please?"
"Yes, G-" His name is unpronounceable again. "Pan. Yes, Pan, I will."
"Good. So many good things can happen if you just let them." George glances at his watch and scratches his neck hastily. "I need to get the Emperor now. I'll come get you after the speech, and I'll show you around. Don't leave, okay?"
But he doesn't wait for her answer. He's already hurrying away from her, towards the stage at the back of the ballroom, soon lost among the sea of people.
The lights are dimming around her, voices quietening down, faces turning towards the stage.
It's starting.