Chapter 100: The Candidates
Even Ron, still under observation in the hospital wing, received a rare and long-overdue gift from his family. He thought the sun must have risen in the west. The financially strapped Weasley family, sending an expensive gift? He asked repeatedly if they had won the lottery. It was only after learning that the twins had landed a high-paying management job at the new Tower of Wonders that he understood. It would be no exaggeration to say that Ron's eyes turned green with a very understandable, brotherly form of envy.
The news spread even further. Charlie, off wrangling dragons, and Bill, busy at Gringotts, both received "status update" letters from their prankster younger brothers. The letters, which could also be described as a "masterclass in flexing," included complimentary communicators and a very friendly inquiry into how much their two older brothers were earning at their respectable, high-pressure jobs. The twins then "casually" mentioned their own new venture in the gaming industry and how they had "accidentally" earned a bit of extra gold—so much, in fact, that they didn't know what to do with it and hoped their dear older brothers could help them spend it.
What expressions Charlie and Bill wore upon reading these letters, no one knows. But for the past few days, George and Fred had been walking on air, practically glowing with success.
"And with the news that Ryan has won the Order of Merlin, the communicator business is going to explode!" George typed in the group chat. "Which means the revenue from the game will go through the roof!"
The chat was a flurry of activity. Even students who were supposed to be in class were furtively tapping away on their communicators.
Someone, clearly tired of the twins' boasting, chimed in: "I've been hearing from some friends outside of school that Hogwarts: The Betrayal is a predatory, soulless cash grab. They're planning to find the people in charge and string them up."
A flood of similar comments followed. Someone posted a screenshot of a chat with an unlucky soul who had poured a fortune into the game and gotten nothing, the rage in his words almost palpable. Another user helpfully began to list all the prominent wizards who had publicly sworn vengeance on the game's creators. The chat room filled with a joyous atmosphere, a shared delight in the anticipated downfall of the heartless developers.
Ryan smiled to himself. This was only the beginning. He had faith that George and Fred, armed with the spiritual wealth he had bestowed upon them, would take things to the next level and create a truly world-class (and outrageously profitable) game. The only downside was that Mr. and Mrs. Weasley might have to make regular trips to various rivers around the globe to fish out their two sons.
He scrolled through the chat, a thoughtful expression on his face. He needed to find three people to take Polyjuice Potion and stand in for Dumbledore, Flitwick, and himself at the award ceremony. They had to be reliable. The younger students were out; they lacked the experience to handle the high-pressure environment of wizarding high society. That left the upper years. The Weasley twins were, of course, out of the question. Pablo and Vaisey were strong candidates; both were calm, meticulous, and capable of handling unexpected situations.
But the third person... should he ask Percy? Ryan wasn't sure. Percy's thirst for status and a position at the Ministry was almost pathological. Ryan worried that, surrounded by the wizarding elite, Percy might do something out of character, something that would blow their cover and lead to a major scandal.
I'm just a student, Ryan reasoned. My stand-in can't be seen as weak or subservient to the old guard. I need someone who understands my way of thinking, who can project the right kind of confidence. With the roles of Dumbledore and Flitwick filled, he thought of the perfect candidate for himself: one of Professor Flitwick's star pupils, a brilliant student who was also one of his staunchest supporters.
He sent a group message to his chosen candidates, asking them to come to the Adventurers' Club as soon as possible.
At MACUSA, Benjamin Wilkinson sat behind his desk, his face a mask of disbelief. "So you're telling me you didn't find Julia, but you did find that the protective wards your Aurors spent days setting up were broken through with brute force?" he demanded. "And you followed the trail of this powerful wizard to a rocky island with a strong smell of blood?"
"How is that possible?! You are MACUSA's elite Aurors! How could someone so easily accomplish what you could not?!" He was shouting, but his real anger was directed at the idea that there was a wizard operating on his turf who was so far beyond the capabilities of his own forces.
"That is the situation, sir," the reporting Auror said, carefully omitting the most damning detail: that the wards had likely been broken in a matter of seconds. The Aurors, a proud bunch, refused to believe such a thing was possible. They had even consulted with their counterparts in other countries, including an Auror from the British Ministry, who had written back: With all due respect, not even Dumbledore, who is widely considered to be the most powerful wizard in the world, could break through the combined wards of several dozen Aurors in such a short time. If that were true, it would mean he could take on a hundred Aurors at once, which is clearly impossible. (It should be noted that this particular Auror was a recent graduate who had not lived through the era of Voldemort single-handedly taking on the Ministry, and thus had a somewhat skewed perception of the power gap between ordinary wizards and the true masters.)
"I'm going to recommend a full, nationwide census of all magical persons to the President," Wilkinson fumed. "Mandatory registration. No one casts a spell without a permit." His greatest desire was to bring all of wizarding kind under the absolute control of MACUSA, to turn them into docile sheep who would tremble at the thought of even drawing their wands.
"Is there anything else?" he snapped, his patience worn thin.
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