The Fandom Games

Hermione

The rainforest should be beautiful. It’s buzzing with the humming of insects and the chittering of birds and the whooping of monkeys. Thick clumps of gnarled trees yearn towards the sky. Thirty metres above, a green umbrella of leaves stretches over them. Slithers of golden light sneak through the canopy, and illuminate patches of the mulchy ground. But the whole thing is incredibly underwhelming, as if she were looking at an oil painting in an art gallery. The painting might be very lovely and the artist very skilled, but instead of Hermione’s life and soul being enriched by the joys and meanings of aestheticism or something, she feels absolutely nothing beyond ‘oh, those are some more nice trees’. A hundred dappled leopards and grizzled monkeys and rainbow parrots could dive out of the trees and sing acapella to her, but she wouldn’t care. It’s funny how learning about the world’s imminent doom makes even the most beautiful things seem meaningless.

A different noise cuts about the chanting of the birds. Hermione looks upwards. The noise is Spider-Man, screaming, as he tumbles through the forest canopy, crashing through branch after branch, and tumbling onto the ground. He jumps onto his feet like an acrobat, and brushes down his red bodysuit. A garden of leaves flies off. ‘Where are we? What’s happening?’

Arya is perched next to a tree. Just inches away from her face, a sapphire bird is ruffling its downy feathers. She doesn’t turn to look at Peter, but remains as still as the branch. ‘Do not move,’ she whispers.

‘I’m sorry if you were waiting or anything. I was eating Coco Pops,’ Peter says loudly, as he bounds towards Arya. ‘Hey, what’s that bird doing, up there?’

‘Sh!’ Arya hisses. Too late. The bird flaps away. Arya sighs. Hermione bites her lip to stop herself from laughing.

The branches above rustle. Birds squawk and scatter. Legolas is falling from the sky, through the layers of trees. He lands on both his feet, like a cat jumping down from a table. Soil and leaves puff up from the impact. ‘Many apologies for the delay. The Spider-Man and I had some… matters to discuss.’

Spider-Man is suddenly very interested in the patch of earth in front of him. What exactly happened between Legolas and Spider-Man and Deadpool? ‘Where even is Deadpool?’ Hermione asks, ‘Why isn’t he here?’

Spider-Man glances up at Legolas, who simply says, ‘Deadpool never intended to accompany us.’ He frowns slightly, bighting back on his jaw. Hermione recognises that look from when her professors can’t face being pestered by any more questions.

And as she glances around the group, she realises: this is it. These four people are all they have to save every storyworld from ruin. An elf who seems to give more attention to his hair than to other people, a hyperactive man-child in a spandex bodysuit, a sulky teenager whose solution to everything is to run a sword through it, and Hermione, who is far more qualified to write Potions essays on her own than she is to save the world. Whoever the other three heroes Deadpool mentioned are, Hermione really hopes they show up soon.

Then Legolas forces his face to brighten up. ‘But come now! We have but three days to find the Library before the Villain in the Dark. We must hurry if we are to find this Stephen Spielberg. A great quest like this requires stamina, strength, unity and a strong command. So lead the way, Spider-Man! We will follow on.’

‘Um…’ Spider-Man stutters.

‘You are the leader of this quest, are you not?’

‘What?’ Hermione yelps.

‘What?’ Arya shrieks.

‘What?’ Spider-Man echoes, although he sounds more confused than anything else.

‘I thought you were the leader of the quest.’ Arya gestures toward Legolas.

‘Yes,’ Hermione agrees, ‘you just seem a bit more… er…’ She searches for the right word. Skilled? Brave? Sensitive to bird-watching? Tall? Haircare-proficient? ‘Experienced,’ she decides.

‘You just seem a bit inherently better,’ Arya says.

Hermione sighs. That girl really isn’t one for words, or, you know, people.

Legolas adjusts the bow strapped to his back. ‘Did you not hear the mighty Deadpool? He said that he knows things about the future, and that Spider-Man will be the one to lead the quest. I would assume that you adventurers all know better than to resist fate.’

Hermione pictures the Hall of Prophecy she saw two years ago: the cathedral-like chamber of vaulted darkness, row upon row of misty glass orbs, and the coldly-burning blue flame in the one that had bound Harry Potter to the Dark Lord. She shudders. No, she does not want to resist fate.

‘Besides,’ Legolas adds, ‘although I am certainly much better than the general population at leadership, it is perhaps not the most practiced of my many skills.’ Modesty clearly wasn’t the most practices of his many skills, either. ‘This is not a time for experimentation. Every fictional character to ever exist depends on us. We must all play to our strengths. Am I an exceptional warrior? Yes. Esteemed advisor? Yes. Gifted sage, endowed with ancient knowledge of the natural world passed down from generation to generation since the First Age? Yes. But in previous quests I have been better suited to these things, while other, greater heroes lead us to victory.’ Hermione really wishes that these other, greater heroes were here right now to lead them to victory. Legolas clamps his hands down on Spider-Man’s shoulders so hard that Spider-Man shudders. ‘This man may seem puny, and short, and overly anxious, and more preoccupied with making sarcastic comments then he is with actually saving the world.’

‘Thanks,’ Spider-Man mumbles.

‘Exactly like that! But beneath this foolish-looking red costume and feeble physique, this man has a mind that is somewhat above average, and a heart that is of a true hero.’ He beams down at Spider-Man, as if he’d just handed him an Oscar.

Spider-Man does not seem happy. His limbs are as tense as broomsticks. Without a word, he turns into the trees. Legolas marches in the same direction. Hermione quickens her pace to catch up with them both. Will Spider-Man be offended if Hermione asks him how he knows where they’re going?

Arya jogs up next to him and asks, ‘how do you know where you’re going?’

Hermione wants to pinch her. But then Spider-Man points into the trees. ‘Deadpool said we need to find the street with the big pyramid, and I saw buildings that way when I was... you know…?’

‘Falling through the sky from one dimension to the next?’ Hermione suggests.

‘Yup, that,’ Spider-Man agrees. If only Hermione could see if he was smiling at all underneath that red mask. Why do he and Deadpool wear those full-body costumes, anyway?

Legolas’s stride is so much bigger than theirs is, that he’s already several paces ahead of them, gliding through the bristling leaves and knotted roots of the forest floor as if they were made of air. Hermione, Arya and Spider-Man trudge along behind him in a huddle. Hermione realises that it’s been several minutes since any of them have spoken, and now that she’s noticed that, the silence is increasingly visible, as if they were each trapped in a block of ice that they have no idea how to thaw. Should Hermione ask them what their plan is once they find the street with the pyramid? Can they even plan anything, when they’re all aliens stranded in whichever world this is? Is it better to say nothing it all, and not even pretend that they have anything in common beyond the unfortunateness of their situation?

Then Spider-Man says, ‘I’m hungry.’

And maybe it’s relief, or awkwardness, or just the general panic about their situation, but Hermione can’t help but laugh.

‘It’s true!’ Spider-Man protests. ‘I haven’t had anything since cheerios at 8. And that was like hours and hours ago! Like’ – he hesitates – ‘what time is it, anyway? Like…’

‘About two-thirds through the afternoon,’ Arya interrupts.

Hermione gapes. ‘How…?’

Arya simply points upwards. The sun is mostly obscured by the treetops, but, sure enough, it seems to have sunk about two-thirds of the way through the sky. It won’t be long before the sky darkens into night, and their first day to find the Library has slipped away.

Hermione decides to change the subject. ‘I’d love some food too,’ she lies. In truth, she feels far more nauseous than she does hungry. ‘They never do mention that in books about glorious and noble quests, do they? That however important the mission is or however serious the challenge is, most of the day will still be spent thinking about food.’ She said it to make Spider-Man like her, but as the words come out of her, she realises that they’re true. She, Ron and Harry had spent months in hiding as they searched for the Horcruxes, and Hermione spent more time worrying each day what to feed them both and where to do a shit than she did about Lord Voldemort.

‘Yes!’ Spider-Man exclaims. ‘I’ve watched like every Star Wars film way too many times, and every time I think, what do one of those pilots in tiny one-man star fighters do when they need to pee? I’ve had to pee in really weird parts of spaceships, and they were all big spaceships.’

Arya rolls her eyes. Hermione waits for her to be rude to them, but instead she groans, ‘and books are the same! I read every forbidden manuscript at the House of Black and White. I have learned all the mystical secrets of the Faceless Men. And not in a single scroll did I find advice on what to do if you get menstrual cramps when you need to swordfight.’

A tree branch smacks into Hermione’s forehead. She giggles, and brushes powdery bark out of her hair. ‘The heroes you see in history books are always so physically perfect. They never get out of breath. They never get blisters from walking for miles. They get seriously injured, or a terrible head injury, or go through something really traumatic, and just walk it off ready for the next battle.’

‘And explosions!’ Spider-Man’s voice is somewhat too high and excited for explosions. ‘I’ve seen so many movies where people just strut away after something blows up in their face. Like, have you ever been that near something exploding? There’s never as much flame or sparks or colour. There’s one quick bang and you’re left with thundering in your ears and so much heat your face feels like it’s on fire.’

Hermione laughs. He’s entirely right. ‘If something big exploded next to me I’d run away screaming.’

‘I do run away screaming,’ Spider-Man admits, ‘Hawkeye said it contributed more to his hearing loss than the actual explosion.’ Then he pinches the fabric on his forehead, and pulls off his mask. Brown curls spring back into shape, and Hermione finally gets to look at him properly. Spider-Man is a very stupid name for him, because he’s really not a man, but just a boy. There’s nothing remotely spidery or creepy or subtle about him. His eyes are the soft brown of Cadbury’s chocolate, and now laughter has lit up his face he looks more like a waggy golden retriever than some insect scuttling in the dark. He should be called Puppy-Boy. ‘I’m Peter Parker,’ he says. Hermione smiles. Peter is an infinitely better name for him.

‘Are you older than twelve?’ Arya asks.

‘I’m twenty-one,’ Peter replies, ‘but also sixteen, because I was dust for five years.’

Arya nods, as if that were a perfectly ordinary answer.

And as Hermione steps over a log, her foot strikes the ground at the same moment as Peter’s and Arya’s, and she realises that the three of them are walking in sync, in the same way that she, Ron and Harry have done for so many years.

Peter jerks backwards, scuffing up mulch. ‘Did you guys see that?’

Arya reaches for her sword. ‘See what?’

Peter points vaguely ahead of them. ‘There was something moving in the distance… something big and dark. Mr Legolas!’ He bounds ahead to catch up with him. ‘Did you see that? Like a huge animal!’

A group of squawking birds flap up into the air.

‘Peter,’ Legolas says slowly, ‘is there a reason why you are especially afraid of winged creatures?’

Arya sniggers. Hermione elbows her.

‘There was something else,’ Peter protests, ‘I swear, it was a really big animal, like an elephant or something!’

‘What, an ostrich?’ Arya asks.

Peter’s face crumples. Legolas starts walking again. Hermione steps forward, but her foot crunches through a fallen branch, that’s brittle and shrivelled like bone. As she bends down to brush the bark away, she hears a faint whimper. ‘Wait,’ she calls, ‘I hear something too.’

Arya groans. ‘Must we stop any time someone hears a bird? Are you two aware that we have a time limit before the world, ooh, I don’t know, overrun by all-powerful villains?’

Something whines again, like a kneazle whose tail has been trodden on. (Hermione won’t admit how she knows what that sounds like.) She follows the sound into a thicket, brushes away branches, and screams. The others rush up behind her, and peer over the bush, their shoulders pressed against each other.

Curled up in a ditch is a girl, crying. Her skin is as white as snow, her lips as red as blood, and her hair as black as ebony. She’s definitely pretty, although considering that she can’t be much older than thirteen, it feels strange to call her pretty. Her clothes are almost otherworldly than Legolas’s: a lace ruff, velvet puff sleeves, and layers of petticoats which, although once the sunshine yellow colour of buttercups, have been snagged and streaked with mud. This girl looks as out of place in the rainforest as joy does in the Slytherin Common Room. She must have noticed Hermione by now, but instead of shrieking or jumping up or anything she just rolls over and moans. ‘Scary. Forest scary. Must… sing song… with animal friends… so many split ends…’

‘This isn’t an ostrich,’ Arya notes.

Arya is clearly a very insightful person.

Hermione scans the girl for injuries. Who is she? Where did she come from? And, most importantly, what did she see?

‘What do we do?’ Peter whispers.

‘No idea,’ Hermione whispers back. She winds her hand through the thicket, so she can check her pulse.

The girl sobs again. ‘The birdies… the birdies said to run… and the squirrels… they said forest scary… forest really is scary… not a good place for singing… no men to rescue me… need prince… I’m just a girl… can’t do anything on own…’

Hermione snaps her hand back, as if a snake was about to bite her. ‘What did you just say?’

‘I’m just a silly little girl,’ she whines, then flops onto her side, mumbling something about dwarves and princes and needing to be rescued.

Peter nudges Hermione and whispers, ‘is this what doing the drugs looks like?’

Legolas is rifling through a pouch on the side of his quiver. ‘The girl may have no physical injuries, but she is somewhat…’

‘Insane?’ Hermione suggests.

The girl grasps at the ground, sees how muddied her hand is, and promptly bursts into tears again.

‘What do we do?’ Peter glances between them nervously. ‘We can’t just leave her here! She’ll die!’

Arya shrugs, as if that wouldn’t bother her particularly.

Legolas glides around the bush, and sweeps into a bow. ‘I am Legolas Greenleaf, son of King Thranduil of the elves of Northern Mirkwood, prince of the Woodland realm, member of the fellowship of the ring, brother-in-arms of Gimli, son of Glóin, and Aragorn, king of the reunited kingdom, and the leader of this quest. I will protect you from the… scary forest.’

The weird girl sits bolt upright, clasping her hands together and squealing with excitement. ‘You’re a prince? Are you my prince charming?’

Legolas glances back at the others, confused. ‘Er…’

The girl skips around in a circle. ‘Can you rescue me? Can you marry me? Can I live in your palace? Can I do your housework for all eternity? That’s all a girl could ever want!’

‘We should definitely leave her to die,’ Arya decides.

Legolas is sliding backwards, but the insane girl clambers towards him. ‘Don’t go away. My name is Snow White, and I’m the fairest of them all, see? Why won’t you marry me?’

‘Because, you’re like, fourteen?’ Peter points out, ‘and Legolas is three thousand years old? Isn’t that paedophilia on a whole new level?’

Snow White flutters her silky eyelashes. ‘Girls like me don’t learn long words like that.’

And Hermione doesn’t think. Hermione just slaps her.

Snow White scrunches up her face, and bawls like a baby. Hermione edges backwards, sheepish. Legolas is glaring at her like she’s a misbehaving cat. ‘Hermione, we do not hit smallish girls. Apologise at once.’

Is it Hermione’s imagination, or is Arya smirking? Hermione mumbles ‘sorry.’ She can still feel Legolas’s eyes burning into her head, so she leans over Snow White, and wipes a tear off her cheek. ‘Look, I’m sorry. It’s okay. Well, it’s not okay, because you’ve turned out like this. But you don’t need to worry about the, err, the scary forest. You can stay with us.’

‘What?’ Arya complains. ‘Are you making a joke? You want to take this simpering summerchild on a quest to save all fandom? You want to take this pathetic little pipsqueak into battle against the greatest villains of all time?’

‘No,’ Hermione helps Snow White to her feet, ‘but we can’t just leave her here to die, either. The second we find a nice-looking storyworld with some extremely patient, non-misogynist people, we’ll leave her there.’

‘There!’ Hermione turns round. Peter is pointing through the trees, arm shaking.

Legolas grits his teeth. ‘Peter, we are not leaving her in a tree.’

‘No,’ Peter flaps his hand frantically into the distance, ‘I swear I hear something over there! Something really big!’

Legolas rolls his eyes. ‘Another ostrich?’

‘Maybe it’s a pigeon this time,’ Arya suggests, ‘with blood-red eyes, and a monstrous beak, and razor sharp talons, and wings like a…’

A twig snaps. Hermione turns round to make a joke about mutant parrots. Then she shrieks. It’s not a twig that snapped. It’s a tree. Because, smashing through the undergrowth, as tall as two storey building, with scarred scales and rotting teeth and a tail like a Basilisk, is a Tyrannosaurus rex. It roars, and flocks of squawking birds scatter into the canopy. Even the boughs of ancient trees shudder.

‘That’s definitely not an ostrich,’ Arya whispers.