Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Merlin’s been keeping a close eye on the Riddle boy. He’s been playing with Life and Death, and not even for good reason. It makes Merlin sick to watch. But there have always been sick people. One more hardly registers. It’s the flirting with the Balance that sets Riddle apart, makes him Merlin’s business. Still, people have tried that before too. Merlin’s never gone out of his way to involve himself. Both he and the world are far too used to cruelty.

When Riddle drags a baby boy into his mess, though, it’s too far. It’s a little too close to that life-for-a-life business. A little too close to Queen Ygraine’s death. Arthur agrees.

They’re not the only ones watching. Albus Dumbledore has inserted himself and is already deconstructing the situation, putting measures into place and making plans. The boy is taken care of. Merlin and Arthur make some plans of their own. 

On July 31st of 1991 Merlin drags Arthur off to Diagon Alley. He complains the entire way.

“Do you know how many books are in our library? It would qualify as a state in America, there’s no way we don’t have these books.”

“If we spend our whole lives in the library we’ll never find anything new and exciting, will we? Besides, it’s an experience. We are young, excited eleven year olds off to school for the very first time in our very short lives.”

“I haven’t been eleven since the dark ages.”

Merlin rolls his eyes hard. “Look, people don’t just get their books here. They meet other students, discover new things, buy supplies and gifts and a thousand other things. And for first time students, it’s very exciting. It’s an opportunity.”

“You didn’t drag me here the last few times we went to Hogwarts.”

“No, well, this time’s different.”

Arthur argues because that’s not a reason, but at this point he’s just being difficult for the hell of it. He’s not unhappy to be here and Merlin knows it. He always liked going to school, and everything that came with it. The orders and regiment, while chafing to a king (ex-king? He’s still Merlin’s king, always will be) are familiar, and Arthur likes to have a mission. He likes making friends and screwing with people, guiding kids who are a little lost and acting like the toddler he is. He’s not a fan of being talked down to or detentions, but you can’t have it all. 

Merlin looks over the new list of supplies.

• Uniform
• Three Sets of Plain work robes (Black).
• One Plain Pointed Hat (Black) for day wear.
• One Pair of Protective Gloves (dragon hide or similar).
• One Winter Cloak (Black, silver fastenings).
• Please note that all student's clothes should carry name-tags at all times.
• Books
• The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 1 by Miranda Goshawk
• A History of Magic by Bathilda Bagshot
• Magical Theory by Adalbert Waffling
• A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration by Emeric Switch
• One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi by Phyllida Spore
• Magical Drafts and Potions by Arsenius Jigger
• Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them by Newt Scamander
• The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection by Quentin Trimble
• Other Equipment
• 1 Wand
• 1 Cauldron (pewter, standard size 2)
• 1 set of glass or crystal phials
• 1 telescope
• 1 set of brass scales
• Students may also bring an Owl OR a Cat OR a Toad.
• PARENTS ARE REMINDED THAT FIRST YEARS ARE NOT ALLOWED THEIR OWN BROOMSTICKS.

Well, they have most of that. Merlin’s had more glass and crystal phials than he’s known what to do with since Gaius died, he keeps amassing more and he has no idea how. They have their own scales, about a dozen pairs lying around somewhere, but for the purposes of portable school supplies they’ll want to get some standard student ones. The books, Merlin notes, are mostly familiar. He’s delighted to see Newt’s book in there.  He was one of a kind, that kid.

Merlin’s quite proud of their wands. It took him quite a lot of research, experimenting, and splinters to fashion ones that would suit them. He studied the art of wands long and hard, and eventually managed to build something for each of them. He needed one that would withstand his magic and be a little more lenient with him should he slip into the Old ways. With a blend of the oldest woods he could find (mostly blessed or sacred to the old religion in some way), scale shavings from both Kilgarrah and Aithusa at the core, unicorn hair and a Phoenix feather, he finally managed it. It even has part of the Sidhe staff in there. He needed a bit of everything, and then he had to learn to work with it and get to know the wand and all that. It’s actually been quite the exercise, learning to function within the parameters of his very special stick. It’s quite like learning a new (and much more primitive) language. 

Arthur’s is almost tame in comparison- it was certainly much easier to make. There was no Old Magic to factor into Arthur’s abilities, so he could just have a regular wand. Merlin may have went a little overboard with the carving, but Arthur never complained. It’s got a dragon heartstring core. It’s an almost marble twist of gold and white delicately carved into a mini excalibur.

It took Merlin longer to figure out how to get it to turn into the sword itself than it did to make it. A tall order, what with the wand and the sword already existing as two separate objects. Merlin realized this, helpfully, after he made the wand. It all paid off though, and Arthur can keep his stupid sword and his stupid stick in his pocket, and there’s only half the chance he’ll lose either of them because they’re the same thing. Or… would that double the chance of him losing both? Would it double the chances of him losing both, but half the chances of him losing either? No, that’s not right, if he loses both he’s still losing either. 

Either way, Arthur likes his stick, and Merlin likes his stick, so it’s fine. They have their sticks.

As for the familiar, they’ve got that covered. Pandora, while not an owl, is perfectly capable of carrying mail and more well-mannered to boot. If anyone has any arguments about them having a Merlin with a princess complex rather than a flea-bitten old owl then the boy-who-lived will just have to fend for himself, because they’re not going without her. He doubts anyone will object, though. Who could say no to that face?

(Merlin would ask Kilgarrah to come, but he wouldn’t find it funny. Aithusa probably would, but they haven’t seen her in a few decades. She’s going through her rebellious teen phase.)

In the end they have a grand time at Diagon Alley. It’s been a while since they went out together with the sole intention of going out together. Arthur has to drag Merlin away from Flourish & Blotts because he’s right about their completely ridiculous library back home. The last thing they need is more bloody books. 

They get ice cream from Florian Fortescue’s, easily one of Arthur’s favourite inventions. Merlin gets earl grey & lavender flavour. Arthur makes fun of him for his tea obsession between bites of his salted caramel blondie monstrosity. Joke’s on him though, it’s delicious.

While they’re there they stock up on some ingredients from the Apothecary. Both of them note the students milling about, wondering whether they’ll get to know them. They play a game in which they guess their houses just by looking, and then one of them will go up and ask who’s right. All in good fun of course.

Really the only new things they need to actually get here are the robes. Funnily enough, with all the hoarding one can accomplish in upwards of 1400 years, they don’t have size eleven kid’s robes lying around from this century. Madame Malkin is a helpful, plump young witch that Merlin immediately gets on with. Arthur is used to the fussing from servants, but Merlin never did do well with attention. 

Halfway through, though, any thoughts of Merlin’s go out the window when an absent looking girl with wispy platinum blonde hair walks in and says:

“Oh, Emrys! Hello.”

Merlin freezes. Arthur chokes.

“…Hello,” he tries, when he can bring himself to breathe again.

The girl skips happily up to her post, taking over for a stunned Arthur where Madame Malkin’s finished with him. She stares openly at Merlin, but not in a way he’s been stared at before. It’s altogether different. Merlin suspects he’s as fascinated with her as she is with him.

“How did you… that, is…” 

“Do you two know each other?”, Arthur asks more bluntly, knowing full well they don’t. The girl turns to look at him before returning her gaze to Merlin.

“I’m Luna. There, now we do.”

“Nice to meet you,” Merlin says automatically. Arthur shoots him a look and he shakes himself a little. “Um, where did you hear about my name?”

“My father. I know all about the druids. We’re descendants, I think. It doesn’t really matter. But I recognized your earring. I saw another man with a triskellion necklace once and asked if he was Emrys. He looked at me strangely and said he was John. But I know it’s you, you feel different,” she says mildly. 

Merlin’s hand goes up to his earring unconsciously. No one’s recognized it in a long time. Muggles seem to think it’s Celtic. The druids gave him a lot of gifts, jewellery especially, but Merlin took particularly to this one. It‘s a reminder and a comfort.

“Luna, would you do me a favour and not tell anybody?”, he asks, returning her friendly tone with a hopeful grin. 

“Of course. Are you getting fitted for your robes?”

Arthur clears his throat. “Yes.”

“Right, um, sorry, Luna, this is Arthur.”

Where the girl’s abstractness put Merlin quite at ease, it makes Arthur downright uneasy. She turns her whole body to address him, eyes far away. 

“Pleasure,” she sing-songs. He nods politely. 

Madame Malkin chooses that moment to bustle out of the backroom with Merlin’s finished robes.

“There you are, deary, should do you nicely, you wear them well. The elves know how to dry clean them, so don’t worry about that. Shake a leg!”

Merlin gives Luna a friendly wave on his way out. For some reason he rather likes her. 

“See?”, he huffs triumphantly, elbowing Arthur on their way out. “We’re already making friends.”

“Is that what that was?”

Merlin hits him.

Chapter Text

“You taking this?”

Merlin turns. Arthur’s twirling the Sidhe staff around like the overgrown toddler he is. He honestly hasn’t thought about it, kind of forgot about the Sidhe staff. Shit, would that have made a better wand?

Wait...

Merlin digs out the wand he’s been teaching himself to keep in his back pocket. He looks between it and the staff.

“ Godsibb abiron i - epoximise.”

Arthur yelps as the staff rumbles in his hands and smacks him in the face. Merlin wasn’t even going for that but he’ll take it. An answering hum lights up his wand and he focusses desperately, keeping a lid on the strange mix of new and old magic that he’s only attempted in this context one time before. But it worked for Excalibur, so...

When the hum dies Merlin cracks open one eye. He’s holding the Sidhe staff, but it’s the same size as his wand was a moment ago, and the full sized one is gone. He twirls it experimentally between his fingers.

“ Bewlátung apa sóþcyning. ”

It springs up to full size again.

“What the hell! Warn me!”, Arthur yelps indignantly. “What’d you do, anyway?”

“I bonded them,” Merlin shrugs, tucking it back into place. “Like yours and Excalibur.”

“But you just have a tiny staff now.”

Merlin gives him a funny look. “...What did you think a wand was?”

“No, like, it looks exactly the same, but smaller. What about the one you carved?”

Merlin frowns a little. “I did it in a different order than when I made yours. I guess it just looks like that now.”

“But you spent ages carving that thing.”

“Not as long as I did carving yours,” he throws back, trying to cover up the fact that he’s actually a little put-out. He did spend a lot of time on it. Well, he really only has himself to blame there. He should’ve thought about that before he cast the spell.

Arthur shrugs. “Now you have a pretty blue rock in your stick. Aren’t you special?”

Merlin snorts and gives him a pointed look. Arthur gets the message loud and clear. His own wand is a tiny white gold marble sword, he has no leg to stand on. But in his defence, Merlin made it.

In the end, as always, Merlin makes such a fuss about packing that Arthur convinces him to just take the house. They’ve taken to carting around an entrance to the home they’ve carved out for themselves in the form of a nondescript suitcase. Merlin makes Arthur carry it as payback for the servant thing, which Arthur swears he’s made up for in the 1300 odd years since. Merlin says he’s supposed to be the big strong knight, he should carry it, and of course Arthur can’t take the slight to his pride even when he sees right through it, so Arthur carries the trunk.

Anyway, Merlin insists, as he does every time, that they shouldn’t need the whole house. The King of Camelot and Emrys himself, and they can’t pack for school?

And Arthur wears him down, as he does every time, until they give up and just take the stupid trunk.

It’s not just the stuff in their house they can’t quite leave.

“Packing again?”, Lancelot calls from his current post leaning against the edge of his stained glass window. He tilts his two-dimensional head, making the polygons of his face shift and catch the light.

“No, I like shoving his majesty’s small clothes into boxes for fun,” Merlin returns.

“I thought we agreed not to talk to him when he’s packing,” Gwaine says by way of greeting, strutting into Lancelot’s window. His hair always does the strangest things to the cuts of glass. It’s a little too fluid for the sharp angles he’s made of now.

“It’s alright, won’t be long now. He’s in stage four,” Lancelot replies.

“Oh yeah, and what’s stage four?”, Merlin demands, breathless from his assault on the suitcase.

“Depression.”

“I’m not depressed.”

“Give it five minutes.”

Maybe Lancelot is a seer. In four minutes Merlin has thrown himself over the trunk that’s sprung open again dramatically, head thunking against a tea kettle he was trying to shove in there.

“What’s the point?”

“It’s okay. By stage five you’ll feel better, and by stage six you’ll just take us with you,” Gwaine says, leaning forward as if to pat Merlin on the back as he used to in life.

“What does it say about us if we can’t even live normally? Everyone else is packing a few clothes and books and off they go. Why do we have to be different?”, Merlin moans. He knows he sounds pathetic. He doesn’t care.

“You aren’t normal,” Gwaine chokes in an offended tone at the same moment Lance says “You are different.” He glares at them, but Lance just shakes his head.

“Merlin, you and Arthur aren’t eleven year old wizards off to Hogwarts for the first time. You know that. It’s alright. You’re allowed to be yourselves. We like you better that way.”

“You were never really gonna leave us,” Gwaine agrees. “I’m too handsome.”

Gwen pokes her head around the corner of the doorway. Her hair also wreaks havoc on the physical limitations of stained glass, but she’s not as obnoxious about it as Gwaine, so Merlin forgives her.

“Is he over it yet?”

“Stage five,” Gwaine replies.

“Oh, good, come and have dinner then, we have a guest.”

Merlin arrives and everyone’s there. The knights have all taken up positions around the room in the same order they sat at the round table- that’s why the room is round and small, so they can be a part of dinner too. Morgana sits with Gwen. Merlin is thankful he found a way to breathe life into her in the way she was before, and it hits him again every time he sees her, royal purple robes flowing and hair neatly brushed. Gwen is brighter for it, and so is Arthur. So is he.

Arthur’s deep in conversation with their guest, an ancient worn to shit rag of a hat that’s sunk into itself until features have developed. Gaius is listening intently to the exchange. Ixorix, the maned wolf Arthur brought back from Brazil, is snuffling around the Sorting Hat’s brim. Merlin intervenes before that can escalate. Ix might have made peace with the other members of their strange little family (with some magical prodding from Merlin), but this newcomer is fair game.

He has backup soon enough. Nala pads onto the scene and that’s all the encouragement Ix needs to scuttle off. He knew he was being bad, but he’s much more scared of Nala than Merlin.

“Thank you, Nala,” he breathes politely. She blinks at him, unimpressed. She has all the air of royal dignity that Morgana had and more. Merlin wonders, sometimes, how in the hell they managed to collect the weirdest pets ever. They didn’t mean to. Merlin supposes it does get lonely being immortal, but it doesn’t explain how they ended up with a prissy Merlin falcon, a red maned wolf with legs like stilts, a white-blonde main coon about the size of a fucking leopard, and a Burmese python. And the glow bugs have been around the house so long they might as well count too. How did they get here?

“Merlin, would you get the dog-“

“He’s not a dog, he’s a wolf, you brought a bloody wolf home, Arthur- Festus, it’s been far too long!”, Merlin greets, finally addressing their guest. He returns the hat’s tattered smile.

“Merlin. Your life is no less hectic than last I saw you. A few things never change, though.”

Merlin grins as he takes his seat beside Arthur and starts on his dumplings. He wonders briefly where Arthur ordered them from.

“I suppose you’ve heard we’re going back, then?”

“Indeed. It is much the same at Hogwarts- some things never change.”

“I should hope not. I might get lost.”

Festus chuckles.

“Has anyone guessed your name yet?”, Arthur asks.

“Only Dumbledore suspects I have one.”

“Really,” Merlin shakes his head disapprovingly. “It’s just good manners to ask someone’s name.”

“What would you know about manners, Merls?” Gwaine crows.

“More than you,” Elyan returns from across the room.

“You’re right, Festus, some things never change, including this lot,” Arthur grumbles, jerking his chopsticks behind him at the ensuing scuffle. The hat chuckles again.

“And which house would you like to be in this time?”

Merlin hums thoughtfully. “Whichever one Harry Potter’s in.”

“You’ve taken an interest in the boy?”

“Riddle was playing with the balance. He doesn’t even know what he did that night, but I don’t think it’ll be without consequence,” Merlin returns. “Not by a long shot.”

“We’re keeping an eye on him,” Arthur agrees.

“Mm. And what are your names to be?”

Merlin scrunches his face up, holds up a finger to excuse himself and gets up. He must’ve left those papers somewhere. He can’t quite remember the name he’s using now. He tries to keep them similar so he doesn’t get caught out, but it’s hard to keep them all straight.

“Arthur Penn,” Arthur says while Merlin rifles through drawers for his ID. The warlock rolls his eyes. So creative. He’s all uppity that he gets to use his real first name. Prat.

“Penn will be called before Potter,” Leon notes.

Arthur shrugs. “Just put him where you put us. You can take a guess, right?”

“It doesn’t work like that,” Morgana refutes, rolling her eyes at her brother.

“The sorting’s not just based on who you are though, is it?” Merlin pipes up, still rifling. “Everyone’s a little bit of everything. It’s more based on what they need to develop, right? Something like that?”

Festus nods with an agreeable hum; well, as agreeable as he gets. He’s a very old hat, you know.

“We’ll look after him. AHA!”, Merlin clutches his papers triumphantly, waving them at Arthur like he’s won something. He flips them over and reads the name. “Myrridian Emrys, at your service.”

“Ooh, I like that one,” Gwen calls.

“ Myrridian Emrys? God, you get more pretentious every year,” Arthur whines.

“It kind of sounds like a precious gem,” Percival notes. Gwaine frowns as though picturing it.

“For heaven’s sake, Merlin, would you give the cat your dumplings?”, Morgana begs, having been watching said cat salivate at them for the entire conversation.

“Hey, I bought those for Merlin!”

Merlin gives the cat the dumplings. Arthur makes an indignant noise.

“Look, it’s your fault he’s skin and bones. You’d think it was still the dark ages, look at him!”

“He’s not half as bad as he was when he arrived at Camelot. He’s filled out,” Leon disagrees.

“All that lugging around armour,” Gwaine nods.

“Yeah, well, you might not leave the house, but these days it’s not socially acceptable to have the same meat to bone ratio as a corpse.”

“Oh, put a sock in it, I was full anyway. Festus, do you need a ride back?”

The hat sees right through him and the thinly veiled hope in his voice.

“Fawkes is on his way.”

Merlin’s grin doubles in strength. He’s missed his old friend.

“Oh, before you go, is there anything we should know about Dumbledore?”, Arthur asks, ever the strategist.

“Hmph. He received your notes, if that’s what you mean. He’s unaware of your identity, and it bothers him, but he trusts in me and Fawkes, so he’s accepted the help of his mysterious benefactor, as his predecessor did before him. He has put it to good use, too. I expect that you’ll have more straightforward dealings with him before you graduate. He’s intelligent and influential- he could be of as much use to you as you are to him.”

This is when a curl of flame blooms over the table, unfurling into another old friend.

“Fawkes!”, cries most of the room at once. The Phoenix does his customary loop of the room, passing by each of the residents of the windows and settling between Arthur and Merlin with a happy sing-song that makes the room brighter and warmer. Merlin strokes his feathers as Fawkes snuggles his face into Arthur’s. Arthur coos (and he will deny it until the day he dies).

“You’re my favourite part of going back, Fawkes,” Arthur assures the bird. Merlin and Festus share an eye roll.

“Yes, they’ll be seeing a lot more of you, my friend,” Lancelot smiles. Fawkes caws at him and he smiles a little wider.

“Such a beautiful bird,” Gwen hums. Fawkes gives her a happy snap of his beak.

He turns in place and flaps over to Festus, who dips the tip of himself in goodbye. Fawkes gives them one last caw.

“See you soon,” Merlin winks as they both go up in flames, leaving a softly glowing Phoenix feather behind. Merlin tucks it behind Arthur’s ear and snorts. He just had a sudden flashback to those awful court robes Arthur made him wear to the banquet all those years ago. Figures he got that crap while Arthur gets a Phoenix feather in his hair.

“What?”

“Nothing, you look adorable, Princess,” Gwaine calls.

“I know that,” he huffs, stuffing a dumpling into his mouth.

Chapter Text

Arthur insists they get there early, and Merlin insists they stay unseen until the last possible chance to board, so they can turn up to Harry Potter’s compartment and say “Everywhere else is full, hope you don’t mind.” Word shouldn’t have spread yet, so he’s confident they’re ahead of the groupies.

“Honestly, why don’t we just ask to sit with him?”, Arthur asks.

“Because he could say no. Just shut up.”

Sure enough, the train is almost moving before they hop on. Someone else has had the same idea, though. 

“Anyone sitting here? Everywhere else is full,” Arthur hears as they approach. A boy with flame red hair ducks into the carriage. He makes his move.

“What he said,” Arthur chimes by way of greeting, sticking his head into the compartment. 

The redhead’s plopped down opposite a boy Arthur knows to be Harry. Black, absolutely wild hair sticks out in all directions like tropical vegetation, vying for space. The boy’s great round glasses are duct taped to hell and far too big for his face, he keeps having to slide them up his nose. There’s a rather damning pale scar slicing down his face from his forehead, standing out against his coffee coloured skin. His eyes are striking- very green. Arthur commits his face to memory. 

The other boy has his red hair cropped short and sticking up at the front. Thousands of freckles cover his face and hands and all the other skin Arthur can see. His eyes are bright blue. He’s got a smudge of something on his nose. His clothes don’t quite fit him, but at least they don’t hang off of him like they do Harry, who has the frame and presence of a coat hanger. Honestly, the kid looks as bad as Merlin, who’s reverted back to how he looked at eleven and might as well be a walking skeleton. Arthur had no idea how much his life changed when he became the prince’s servant, but it’s painfully evident now. Looking at him makes Arthur want to shove a sandwich down his throat.

The boys both scoot over. Arthur sits beside Freckles and Merlin by Harry. Arthur’s feet don’t touch the floor. He grits his teeth and shoves the trunk under his feet and pointedly does not look at Merlin, who is definitely laughing at him.

The door to the compartment slides open yet again, and two identical heads pop in with hair to match Freckles’.

“Hey, Ron,” says one.

“Listen, we’re going down the middle of the train — Lee Jordan’s got a giant tarantula down there,” says the other.

“Right,” mumbles Freckles- Ron.

“Hey guys,” one of them acknowledges Merlin and Arthur while the other talks to the reason they’re all here. 

“Harry, did we introduce ourselves? Fred and George Weasley. And this is Ron, our brother. See you later, then.”

“Bye,” say Harry and Ron. The twins slide the compartment door shut behind them.

“Are you really Harry Potter?” Ron blurts out. Arthur almost wants to roll his eyes and groan. Tact, Ron. Can you spell ‘subtlety’? Maybe it’s the best approach, though- wisdom from the mouths of babes and all that- because Harry nods.

“Oh — well, I thought it might be one of Fred and George’s jokes,” says Ron.

“I’m Arthur, Arthur Penn,” Arthur offers, elbowing Merlin rather hard. 

“Ow! I was going to introduce myself, there’s no need for that! Thick… I’m Myrridian Emrys.”

“You better just call him Em, or I’ll get confused,” Arthur adds. It’ll be a good cover if he straight up forgets Merlin’s name- or if Merlin does.

“Why?”, Ron asks bluntly. Arthur shrugs. 

“‘S what I call him.”

“And everyone must abide by you,” Merlin hums knowingly. “Of course, Sire.”

“Sire?”, Harry echoes.

Arthur rolls his eyes. “Because of my name. Like King Arthur.”

“No, it’s ‘cause he thinks he’s the king of bloody Camelot, the way he carries on.”

Ron snorts. Harry looks like he might want to laugh but he’s not sure he’s allowed to. Merlin gives him a wink.

 “Harry, have you really got — you know...”

Ron points at Harry’s forehead.

Harry pulls back his untameable bangs to show the lightning scar. It goes down his whole face, so the hair shouldn’t hide it, but hair like that strives to try. Ron stares. “So that’s where You-Know-Who —?”

“Yes,” says Harry, rather graciously, if you ask Arthur, “but I can’t remember it.”

“Nothing?” says Ron eagerly.

“Well — I remember a lot of green light, but nothing else.”

He remembers? That probably means something. Eh, Merlin can take note of it.

“Wow,” says Ron. He sits and stares at Harry for a few moments, then, as though he’s suddenly realised what he’s doing, he looks quickly out of the window again.

“Do you guys know about the Sorting?”, Merlin breaks the silence. “I’m a little nervous. I don’t know how they decide the houses. You heard about the houses, right? Any one you have your eyes on?”

Oh, brilliant, Merlin. If Harry has one in mind they can request that one.

“The houses. Like Hufflepuff?”, Harry asks hesitantly. 

Merlin nods. “Don’t worry if you don’t know. I think I heard you grew up with muggles, right? I was just wondering since I’ve been told it’s sort of a big deal.”

“There’s Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, Gryffindor, and Slytherin,” Ron informs them, finally on a topic he sounds sure of himself on. “My entire family’s been Gryffindor. Every single one. I think I’d die on the spot if I got Slytherin.”

“Nothing wrong with a bit of friendly competition,” Arthur smiles, leaning back. 

“Oh, there’s nothing friendly about your competitions, Arthur, don’t pretend otherwise,” Merlin jabs. “It’s completely brainless antagonism. I didn’t mean to get everybody all worried, I’m pretty sure there’s no house that’s better than another. It’s more like a personality quiz, or so I’ve heard.”

“You hear a lot of things,” Harry notes.

“He’d have to, wouldn’t he? Look at his ears. You could land a plane on them,” Arthur returns, playing with Merlin’s ears. Merlin shakes him off with a glare.

“Are you two brothers or something?”, Ron blurts all of a sudden. Arthur looks back over. He must’ve tuned back in at some point.

“Brothers?”, Arthur asks flatly, raising an eyebrow. His whole immortal life people have told him that he and Merlin look about as similar as day and night, and act it too.

“Adoption’s a thing, clotpole,” Merlin reminds him. “We’re not brothers. We are just stuck with each other.”

“I wouldn’t wish it on anyone,” Arthur agrees.

“Because you’re such delightful company, Sire.”

“You’re making me blush.”

Harry cracks a grin at the exchange and Ron snorts. Good start. 

Arthur feels more than sees Merlin stiffen. They’re so attuned to each other from year after year after year of constancy that it’s as notable to Arthur as it would be if he’d stiffened. He looks up and follows his other half’s gaze to the fat grey rat Ron’s produced from his jacket pocket.

“Who’s that?”, Merlin asks casually. To Arthur, though, it sounds careful.

Ron hums a little despondently. 

“His name’s Scabbers and he’s useless, he hardly ever wakes up. Percy got an owl from my dad for being made a prefect, but they couldn’t aff — I mean, I got Scabbers instead.” 

Ron’s ears go pink. He seems to think he’s said too much, because he goes back to staring out of the window. 

Harry says there’s nothing wrong with not being able to afford an owl, and goes on to mention his own lack of wealth until a month ago. 

Arthur is more focussed on the pattern Merlin’s tapping out with his foot. Morse code has come in quite handy since they learned it for that stint in the British airforce. Arthur tries to make it look like he’s listening while he translates the tapping. 

-I-M-A-G-U-S

He’s missed a little bit, so Merlin taps it out again.

A-N-I-M-A-G-U-S

Arthur’s eyes snap to the rat.

“...and until Hagrid told me, I didn’t know anything about being a wizard or about my parents or Voldemort —” 

Ron gasps and Arthur tunes back in. It won’t do to tip off their target.

“What?” Harry’s saying. 

“You said You-Know-Who’s name!” exclaims Ron, sounding both shocked and impressed. “I’d have thought you, of all people —” 

“I’m not trying to be brave or anything, saying the name,” says Harry, “I just never knew you shouldn’t. See what I mean? I’ve got loads to learn....I bet,” he adds glumly, “I bet I’m the worst in the class.” 

“You won’t be. There’s loads of people who come from Muggle families and they learn quick enough,” Arthur assures him. 

“That’s right, we’re all in the same boat. It’s just that some of them are yachts,” Merlin agrees. Arthur turns to look at him with a completely unimpressed look. 

“What?”, he has the audacity to ask.

“Yachts? That’ll make him feel better.”

“Oh, because you’re so considerate.”

“I am!”

While they’ve been talking, the train has carried them out of London. The scenery shifts to unending fields of grass and cows. They’re quiet for a time (aside from the customary bickering between the warlock and his king), watching the fields and lanes flick past. 

Around half past twelve there’s a great clattering outside in the corridor and a smiling, dimpled woman slides back their door and says, “Anything off the cart, dears?” 

Harry leaps to his feet and Ron’s ears go pink as he sinks a little into his seat. Arthur cuts Merlin off where he’s about to say he’s not hungry and follows Harry out into the corridor. 

Arthur doesn’t recognise much on the cart. The baked goods are familiar, but the candy is all new. The Licorice Wands look right up Merlin’s alley, though, so he gets a bunch of those and a few tarts to share. Harry, who looks like he’s just been offered the moon with no interest, literally gets everything. Arthur finds himself thinking ‘good for him’. 

Arthur busies himself with throwing pumpkin pasties at Merlin too quickly for him to catch them while Harry loads his arms full of sweets and drops them on the seats between them. It takes two trips. By the time they’re all sorted, Merlin’s taken to juggling cauldron cakes while Ron applauds. Arthur rolls his eyes as Merlin bows with a pleased grin.

While they all busy themselves with tucking into their purchases, Ron takes out a lumpy package and unwraps it. There are four homemade sandwiches inside. The soft part of Arthur warms a little at them, because it’s the kind of thing someone would pack for someone they love. But Ron pulls one of them apart somewhat miserably and says, “She always forgets I don’t like corned beef..” 

“Swap you for one of these,” Harry holds up a pasty to him and Merlin throws a cauldron cake his way. 

“Go on,” Arthur agrees.

“You don’t want this, it’s all dry,” says Ron. “She hasn’t got much time, you know, with five of us.” 

Caring for five children and packing them each four sandwiches? Even in this day and age, where life is that much easier, Arthur’s got to commend her. If Ron doesn’t eat those, he will out of solidarity. He loves corned beef.

“Go on, have a pasty,” encourages Harry. 

Ron gives in and they all just end up sharing. Arthur does get the sandwiches.

Merlin squints at a package Arthur’s shaking suspiciously.

“Bertie flott’s… what?”

Ron scrunches his face up at him weirdly. 

“For wizards, you guys don’t know a lot.”

Merlin supposes that’s true. He’s found himself caught in the same habits of distancing as he had with the Druids more than once. He’s made it his business to keep up with the wizarding world and Hogwarts in theory, but he’s lost the plot in practice. He’s probably lost touch with the culture since he last actively sought it out. 

“Yeah, Em, don’t you know anything?”, Arthur throws a jelly bean at Merlin, who blinks, nonplussed. Arthur, who asked him how to use a typewriter the other day, smirks like he’s won some imaginary argument.

“What are these?” Harry asks Ron, holding up a pack of Chocolate Frogs. “They’re not really frogs, are they?” 

“No,” says Ron. At least he doesn’t laugh. Merlin thinks it was a fair question. “But see what the card is. I’m missing Agrippa.” 

“What?” Arthur asks.

“Oh, of course, you wouldn’t know — Chocolate Frogs have cards inside them, you know, to collect — famous witches and wizards. I’ve got about five hundred, but I haven’t got Agrippa or Ptolemy.” 

Harry unwraps his Chocolate Frog and picks up the card. Arthur leans over to have a look and chokes on his licorice wand. 

A man bearing an alarming resemblance to Dragoon the Great winks up at him from behind half-moon glasses.

“Albus Dumbledore,” Merlin reads with a smirk. “No need to get yourself in a tizzy Arthur, you shouldn’t recognise him.” 

Arthur glares.

“So this is Dumbledore!” Harry exclaims excitedly. 

“Don’t tell me you’ve never heard of Dumbledore!” Ron gasps. “Can I have a frog? I might get Agrippa — thanks —” 

Harry turns over his card and reads: 

“Albus Dumbledore, currently headmaster of Hogwarts. Considered by many the greatest wizard of modern times, Dumbledore is particularly famous for his defeat of the dark wizard Grindelwald in 1945, for the discovery of the twelve uses of dragon’s blood, and his work on alchemy with his partner, Nicolas Flamel. Professor Dumbledore enjoys chamber music and tenpin bowling.” 

Harry turns the card back over, but the Headmaster’s made himself scarce.

“He’s gone!”
“Well, you can’t expect him to hang around all day,” Ron says. “He’ll be back. No, I’ve got Morgana again-“

Arthur’s head snaps up, heart stuttering. Ron’s still talking, but Merlin’s frozen too, just for a second. It’s just been so long…

Arthur feels a very familiar hand stroke his arm once and the world flickers back into motion, his heart regaining its rhythm and Ron’s voice filtering back in. 

Arthur opens his mouth to ask if he can see the card, but he barely gets a syllable out before Merlin’s casually thrown it out the window.

The countryside starts looking older. Well, maybe not older, but that’s how Arthur thinks of it- more like the tangled brambles and knotted bark he used to trip over when he was actually eleven, in the woods around Camelot, where the trees seemed to have a mind of their own. Back before the wild had reason to fear. With urbanization and deforestation, pollution, global warming, and thousands of other things, the earth as Arthur knew it dwindled. More was lost than just surface area. There is no life and pride to the land (what’s left of it) as there was when Arthur grew up. As they go on the dark green hills get darker, the rivers babble a little more happily, and Arthur contents himself with looking out the window. For a while he almost feels like a king again.

Knock knock.

A boy with a remarkably round and possibly wet face appears at the door to the compartment looking like he’s attending his own execution. Arthur would know.

“Sorry, but have you seen a toad at all?”

A toad?, Arthur mouths in Merlin’s direction but the great gazelle of a boy-man has his face scrunched up in thought. He’s taking this quite seriously. Of course he is. Harry and Ron shake their heads.

You’d think they’d just informed him his dog died or something. They can’t be the first person he’s asked. Arthur wonders if all his quarries got the hysterics or if they’re just the lucky last.

“I’ve lost him!”, he wails, bottom lip trembling. “He keeps getting away from me!”

“He’ll turn up,” Harry says kindly.

“A toad… where would I hide if I were a toad…?”, Merlin ponders out loud, tapping a long finger to his chin. Arthur worries for a minute that Merlin might try to bring the toad home. He has no idea how Merlin convinced him to keep the snake, but he draws the line at toads.

“I’m gonna check,” Merlin says quickly and is out the door before anyone can reply.

“Don’t know why he’s so bothered,” says Ron. “If I’d brought a toad I’d lose it as quick as I could. Mind you, I brought Scabbers, so I can’t talk.” 

The rat is still snoozing on Ron’s lap. Arthur squints at him. An animagus. Ron doesn’t know, that much is obvious. The question is who and why? 

“He might have died and you wouldn’t know the difference,” Ron grunts in disgust. Arthur’s fairly disgusted too, but not for the same reasons. There’s a full grown man sleeping in Ron’s lap right now. “I tried to turn him yellow yesterday to make him more interesting, but the spell didn’t work. I’ll show you, look...” 

He what? Oh, that’s funny. Whoever it is has gotta have a good reason to keep up the act under that treatment. Maybe he’s on the run or something. There isn’t much that Arthur would put up with a teenage boy for. If the poor bastard has good intentions, he has Arthur’s condolences.

“You know I ate a rat once,” Arthur hums absently. Ron stills where he’s raised his wand and both he and Harry look at him very strangely. 

“Ew,” Harry grunts.

“Why did you eat a rat?”, Ron asks, looking a little ill. 

Arthur opens his mouth to reply, but before he can a familiar set of gazelle legs sprint by their compartment, slamming open the door for just long enough to yell “You deserved it!”, and Merlin’s gone again. 

“I did not,” Arthur assures them. “I made him eat it too.”

Ron is just getting over his queasiness when the toadless boy returns, this time with a girl. She’s already in her Hogwarts robes. Her hair is- good gods, it’s wilder than Harry’s. She herself isn’t particularly big or small, but her hair takes up most of the corridor on its own. She has rather large front teeth and skin a couple of shades darker than Harry’s. 

“Has anyone seen a toad? Neville’s lost one,” she proclaims. 

“We’ve already told him we haven’t seen it,” Ron informs her, but her eyes are already on his horribly abused wand, half raised. 

“Oh, are you doing magic? Let’s see it, then.” She sits herself down in Merlin’s seat, back straight and chin jutted out expectantly. Ron blinks.
“Er — all right.”
He clears his throat. 

“Sunshine, daisies, butter mellow, Turn this stupid, fat rat yellow.” 

Nothing happens of course. Arthur draws on all of his diplomatic training and conditioning to not lose his cool. Merlin wouldn’t have stood a chance. That is a full grown man. That spell wasn’t even anything. Goddamnit, he already loves Ron.

“Are you sure that’s a real spell?” The girl sniffs. Arthur bites his tongue, because all the eleven year olds are taking this very seriously and so should he. 

“Well, it’s not very good, is it? I’ve tried a few simple spells just for practice and it’s all worked for me. Nobody in my family’s magic at all, it was ever such a surprise when I got my letter, but I was ever so pleased, of course, I mean, it’s the very best school of witchcraft there is, I’ve heard — I’ve learned all our course books by heart, of course, I just hope it will be enough — I’m Hermione Granger, by the way, who are you?” 

Harry and Ron share a bewildered and slightly panicked look that most council members often wore in the face of Morgana on a mission, so he starts.

“Arthur Penn.”

“I’m Ron Weasley.”

“Harry Potter.”

“Are you really?” asks Hermione in a tone that doesn’t beg an answer. “I know all about you, of course — I got a few extra books, for background reading, and you’re in Modern Magical History and The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts and Great Wizarding Events of the Twentieth Century.” 

“Am I?” Harry asks dazedly. Goddess, girl, give the boy a break.
“Goodness, didn’t you know, I’d have found out everything I could if it was me,” she prattles on. “Do either of you know what house you’ll be in? I’ve been asking around, and I hope I’m in Gryffindor, it sounds by far the best; I hear Dumbledore himself was in it, but I suppose Ravenclaw wouldn’t be too bad....Anyway, we’d better go and look for Neville’s toad. You two had better change, you know, I expect we’ll be there soon.” 

She bumps right into Merlin as she’s going, almost dislodging the mutinous looking toad he’s got a vice grip on.

“Trevor!”, Toad boy cries in delight, scooping him up.  “You found him! Oh, thank you!”

“Sure thing. It wasn’t hard, Arthur’s a toad, I just had to think like him.”

“And who are you?”, Hermione asks expectantly. 

“Myrridian Emrys, ma’am.”

Hermione gasps, eyes alighting in wonder, impressed for the first time since she walked in. 

“Are you related to Merryn Emrys?! His work in the 1860s was revolutionary for women, completely ahead of his time!”

The corners of Merlin’s mouth pull up slightly and his head cocks in that startled way it does when he’s quietly preening. For once, Arthur doesn’t begrudge him it. Those essays were a big deal to him. Somewhere around the 1800s Merlin snapped. He’d had just about e-fucking-nough of the way women were treated. The straw broke the camel’s back when a friend of theirs couldn’t publish her writing- absolutely phenomenal writing- because she was a woman. She refused to write under a pseudonym because she shouldn’t have to, and she died unknown and uncelebrated by all but them. The next ten years or so after that Merlin wrote up a storm. He wrote like he could single-handedly rebuild the world’s understanding of the sexes from the ground up, even with Arthur beside him telling him no one would listen, he needed to break into the political sphere to make any major changes. But that was Arthur’s game- Merlin wanted nothing to do with it. So he wrote, and Arthur edited, and listened while Merlin bounced ideas off of him, and read, and re-read, and wrote some himself. And wouldn’t you know it, it did make a difference. It was a decade well spent.

“I’m named after him. He was my ancestor,” Merlin informs her. 

“Really, oh, that’s fantastic! I can’t believe that. Do you have any heirlooms of his? You must know about him, I’m sure, you must have heard all about him from your family-“

Arthur clears his throat. 

“Ahh, Hermione? I’d love to talk about it later. Someone’s got to keep this toad in line,” Merlin grins, jabbing a thumb in Arthur’s direction.

“Oh, right! Well. Well. Yes. Goodbye,” she stammers. She makes an abrupt about turn and marches off. Merlin slips back into the compartment, sliding the door shut softly behind him and taking up his seat.
“Whatever house I’m in, I hope she’s not in it,” Ron says, throwing his wand back in his trunk. “Stupid spell — George gave it to me, bet he knew it was a dud.” 

“Spell?”, Merlin asks.

“Ron tried to turn his rat yellow,” Arthur delivers with a deadpan expression. As predicted, Merlin folds in on himself trying not to laugh. Hopeless.

“What house are your brothers in, Ron?” asks Harry with wide eyes.
“Gryffindor,” says Ron. Gloom seems to be settling on him again. 

“Mom and Dad were in it, too. I don’t know what they’ll say if I’m not. I don’t suppose Ravenclaw would be too bad, but imagine if they put me in Slytherin.” 

“That’s the house Vol-, I mean, You-Know-Who was in?”
“Yeah.” He flopped back into his seat, looking depressed. 

“I’m telling you, one’s not better than the other. It’s a matter of values, that’s all,” Merlin says diplomatically.

“You know, I think the ends of Scabbers’ whiskers are a bit lighter,” says Harry, trying to take Ron’s mind off of houses. Smart move. He’s got some diplomacy to him. He’d make quite the Slytherin.

“So what do your oldest brothers do now that they’ve left, anyway?”, Merlin asks. “Anything you’re interested in?”

“Charlie’s in Romania studying dragons, and Bill’s in Africa doing something for Gringotts,” Ron replies. “Did you hear about Gringotts? It’s been all over the Daily Prophet, but I don’t suppose you get that with the Muggles — someone tried to rob a high security vault.” 

Mm, someone. Just in time, too. Dumbledore took his time after Merlin sent him the note advising him to move the Philosopher’s Stone. He was almost too late.

“What are your Quidditch teams?” Ron asks, leaning forward all at once.

“Er — I don’t know any.” Harry confesses. Arthur claps him on the shoulder- lightly. He remembers Merlin’s lessons about encouraging people who aren’t knights or particularly thick.

The conversation flows on after that, steady as the scenery outside the window. Arthur loses himself in the displaced familiarity of going back to school.

They’re almost there when the peace is broken again. It isn’t Hermione Granger or Toad Boy. It’s not one new face- it’s three. 

The first boy might give even Merlin’s pallidness a run for its money, but where Merlin’s dark hair and features sharpen him this boy’s platinum blonde curtains and eyelashes wash him out until he’s ghostly. He looks more like a marble statue than a boy, and Arthur guesses that will only increase with time. He’s too pointy, too angular, even with the softness of a child’s face. He’s flanked on either side by two boys that are probably supposed to look intimidating. They could have potential, but the way they hold themselves makes it clear they’re there for show, and they move stupidly back and forth as if to remind everyone they’re there. Arthur’s seen that before, always in people whose only purpose was to look a certain way.

“Is it true?”, the ghost boy asks Harry in a voice as sharp and cold as the marble he resembles. “They’re saying all down the train that Harry Potter’s in this compartment. So it’s you, is it?” 

“Yes,” Harry says, looking him up and down. His eyes move habitually, deconstructing the boy before him, picking out exits and weaknesses. Arthur takes note of it. 

“Oh, this is Crabbe and this is Goyle,” drawls the pale boy carelessly, noticing Harry’s gaze raking over them next. “And my name’s Malfoy, Draco Malfoy.” 

Merlin coughs to hide his snigger. It’s a familiar sound that usually precedes them pissing someone big and angry off and getting flung into a tavern brawl. Draco Malfoy’s eyes, pale and colourless as the rest of him, snap to Merlin.

“Think my name’s funny, do you? This one must be a Weasley,” he sniffs, waving dismissively at Ron. “My father told me all the Weasleys have red hair, freckles, and more children than they can afford. You two I don’t recognise. Your names probably aren’t even worth remembering,” he continues in Merlin and Arthur’s directions. He zeroes back in on Harry. “You’ll soon find out some wizarding families are much better than others, Potter. You don’t want to go making friends with the wrong sort. I can help you there.” 

He holds out one pale hand to shake Harry’s, but Harry doesn’t even look at it.
“I think I can tell who the wrong sort are for myself, thanks,” he returns coolly.

Ron’s eyes widen. Merlin stuffs his fist in his mouth. Arthur puffs up a little in pride at Harry for standing his ground, never taking his steady gaze from Malfoy. 

“I’d be careful if I were you, Potter,” Malfoy annunciates slowly, eyes narrowing even as a tinge of pink paints his porcelain cheeks. “Unless you’re a bit politer you’ll go the same way as your parents. They didn’t know what was good for them, either. You hang around with riffraff like the Weasleys and that Hagrid, and it’ll rub off on you.” 

Both Harry and Ron stand up, all full of bluster. Arthur does as well, placing himself in front of the others and letting a little bit of annoyance bleed into his expression. Teenagers. So rude.
“Say that again,” Ron spits, his face as red as his hair. 

“It would be in your best interest not to,” Arthur says steadily.

“Oh, you’re going to fight us, are you?” Malfoy sneers. Stupid but not hopeless- Arthur catches the moment he registers that Arthur might be a real threat. A flicker of uncertainty dances through his eyes, expertly covered up. 

“Unless you get out now,” Harry growls. Arthur internally raises an eyebrow. Harry looks to be about ten pounds soaking wet.

Malfoy sneers again and locks eyes with Arthur for a second. He must find something. He jerks his head for Crabbe and Goyle to follow him out, shooting them all a haughty glare as he goes. 

“You’ve met Malfoy before?”, Merlin asks Harry as their hackles settle back down.
Harry explains about their meeting in Diagon Alley. It doesn’t endear Malfoy to them any more.

“I’ve heard of his family,” Ron mumbles darkly. “They were some of the first to come back to our side after You-Know-Who disappeared. Said they’d been bewitched. My dad doesn’t believe it. He says Malfoy’s father didn’t need an excuse to go over to the Dark Side.” He turns to Hermione. When did she get here? “Can we help you with something?” 

“You’d better hurry up and put your robes on, I’ve just been up to the front to ask the conductor, and he says we’re nearly there. You haven’t been fighting, have you? You’ll be in trouble before we even get there!” 

“Fighting? Us?”, Arthur asks innocently. Merlin shakes his head at her as if the notion itself is absurd.

“We’re much too civilised,” he assures her. Arthur wonders how high the tally Gwaine has at home titled “times Merlin has been punched in the face” is. He wonders if it’s overtaken Lancelot’s “times Merlin has punched someone in the face”.

“All right — I only came in here because people outside are behaving very childishly, racing up and down the corridors,” said Hermione in a sniffy voice. “Not you, Myrridian, you had a reason at least. And you’ve got dirt on your nose, by the way, did you know?”, she adds to Ron, who glares at her back as she goes.

The train slows. The sky outside has turned a deep purple, melting the mountains into navy blues and the lakes into black and silver. They all take the time to change in the low light. Ron’s robes are a little short, you can see his beat-up old converse poking out underneath them. They could do with some repairing. Arthur must really like Ron, because he nudges Merlin and shoots a look at the shoes. Merlin doesn’t say anything, but his eyes go down to hide their flash of gold. A couple of patches mend themselves slowly, the sole sticking itself back where it’s supposed to go.

A pleasant voice echoes through the train:

“We will be reaching Hogwarts in five minutes’ time. Please leave your luggage on the train, it will be taken to the school separately.” 

Harry and Ron spend the time cramming their pockets full of leftover sweets. Merlin stuffs his last licorice wand into his face as the train chugs to a serene stop.

They’ve arrived.

Chapter Text

The entrance is more or less uneventful, aside from Arthur asking (read: ordering) Merlin to stoop down so Arthur can climb on his shoulders to see better. Merlin tells him to fuck off and ask Hagrid. Hermione Granger, who they’re sharing a boat with, gasps.

There’s also the minor scuffle which almost sends Merlin flailing out of the boat, and Hagrid has to catch him. Other than that, nothing happens. They’ve seen it before. 

The novelties only start once they’ve made their way inside. They’re greeted at the grand intimidating oaken doors by a tall, severe looking witch with the posture of a queen and all the regality of one too. Her robes are sharp and conservative, as no-nonsense as her herself. She peers down at them from behind a set of understated glasses, lips thin and gaze assessing. If Uther had looked at him like that, Merlin would’ve been more inclined to at least pretend to be professional. 

“The firs’ years, Professor McGonagall,” Hagrid booms.
“Thank you, Hagrid. I will take them from here.”

And so she does. She opens the next set of equally intimidating doors and ushers them in. The first years huddle together not unlike penguins. Merlin and Arthur never had much patience for crowds, so they let themselves stray a bit.

“Have you picked a house yet?”, Arthur mutters out of the corner of his mouth. 

“I’m not sure why, but the first years seem to have this notion that Gryffindor’s better than the other houses. And you know Festus will listen to requests if he likes a kid. Might be best.”

Arthur nods. He has noticed that. It might be to do with that pure-blood/muggle-born crap. If that’s already affecting the first years before they even step foot in Hogwarts or know what they’re talking about, this’ll be an interesting and trying year. Sorry, six years.

Fuuuuck, what if they don’t like the kids? What if Harry turns out to be a berk? He seems nice enough so far. Arthur will just have to make sure he doesn’t become a berk. 

Arthur frowns at the kid, stuffed between Neville and Ron, looking twelve shades of anxious. The light’s much better here. Arthur can’t believe he didn’t notice how horribly cracked his glasses are. Arthur elbows Merlin and nods at them.

Merlin follows his gaze but shakes his head. Arthur makes a questioning face at him.

“We’re trying to make friends with him. If I do him a favour, I’ll make sure he knows it.”

“Wh- they’re his glasses. Just fix ‘em up now.”

“Then he won’t know I did. That’s free brownie points, Arthur.”

“What’s a brownie point?”

“Favouritism points, I don’t know.”

“You are such a Slytherin.”

“Fuck you, I’m a Hufflepuff.”

“You wish you were a-“

“Do you know how loyal-“

“Guys!”, Ron hisses. Arthur turns to look at him, and then realises that everyone has gone alarmingly quiet. He freezes when he sees McGonagall staring at them over her glasses.

Ah.

“Sorry, my lady. Ma’am,” Merlin stammers beside him, much more practiced at being told off. Arthur nods stupidly. She pierces right through them with her eyes for a moment longer. 

“Count yourselves lucky that you haven’t been sorted yet, or you would already have lost your house points. It’s a poor way to start your career here.”

Arthur and Merlin gulp and mumble something apologetic. 

“The Sorting Ceremony will take place in a few minutes in front of the rest of the school. I suggest you all smarten yourselves up as much as you can while you are waiting. I shall return when we are ready for you,” she shoots the two of them a final pointed look. “Please wait- quietly.”

Finally she lets up and disappears out a side door, letting Arthur regain the ability to breathe. Harry is staring at them with wide eyes while he desperately tries to flatten his hair (a lost battle). Merlin tries to un-smudge Ron’s nose. Hermione reprimands Neville for managing to clasp his cloak under his left ear… somehow. 

“Blimey, mate… good start that is,” Ron breathes. 

“His fault,” Arthur says.

“Really wasn’t.”

“How exactly do they sort us into houses?” Harry wisely interrupts.

“Some sort of test, I think. Fred said it hurts a lot, but I think he was joking,” Ron replies.

“I don’t even know your brothers, Ron,” Merlin informs him, “but I think I’m fond of them.”

Ron scoots away from Merlin a little warily. Arthur focusses back on Harry, who looks- oh, dear. He looks like he’s going to war. Actually, that’s not quite true- Arthur’s knights were always strong and fierce and proud in the face of the enemy. Harry looks like he’s been conscripted as canon fodder in a war against live crocodiles. To be fair, McGonagall did hold herself like a soldier. Arthur wouldn’t be shocked to find she’s served. 

“Don’t look so green, Harry. If Merlin can do it, you can.”

“Yeah,” Merlin agrees, ignoring the jab. “It won’t be so bad. Have a licorice wand.” 

Harry politely declines the candy Merlin pulls out of his pocket, but Ron takes one. 

He chokes on it not a moment later when several of the kids scream. Arthur himself jumps into a defensive position. Merlin’s hand goes up the way he holds it when he’s directing strong magic. 

He heaves an annoyed sigh and loosens when it becomes clear that it’s just the ghosts being dramatic again. As if the muggle-born kids- or all of them, actually- aren’t having a stressful enough day as it is.

 “Forgive and forget, I say, we ought to give him a second chance —”, Simon's saying. 

“My dear Friar, haven’t we given Peeves all the chances he deserves? He gives us all a bad name and you know, he’s not really even a ghost — I say, what are you all doing here?” 

Nick, the tallest of the ghosts (speaking relatively, they hover at different heights) peers over the crowd as though surprised. He’s not. He never is. They know full well the Sorting is happening, and they’ve rehearsed this completely candid conversation every year since they got their heads out of their asses and started getting along. Longevity will do that to people.

“New students!”, exclaims Simon cheerily. He smiles around at the students in true Hufflepuff fashion. “About to be Sorted, I suppose?” 

A few people nod mutely. Merlin wonders what the kids are calling him this decade.

“Hope to see you in Hufflepuff!” he chuffs. “My old house, you know.”

“Move along now,” says a sharp voice. McGonagall’s returned to shoo them out, thank Magic. “The Sorting Ceremony’s about to start.”

The ghosts all filter through the opposite wall, but not before Helena sends a knowing look Merlin’s way. She must have heard they were coming, she doesn’t usually suffer these ridiculous traditions.

“Now, form a line,” McGonagall orders, “and follow me.” 

The Great Hall only gets greater every passing year. The ceiling looks the same as ever, modelled after Merlin’s own in his room at home. Their house, when they built it, was based off of Camelot, and the least changed room in the whole building (if you can still call it that) is the room that would be Gaius’ chambers. It’s almost a carbon copy of just how it was in Camelot, but Merlin’s made his changes over the years. There’s stained glass lining the walls, of course, so the knights and ladies can get in. The bookshelves and walkways and desks are littered with strange things Merlin’s collected over the years, the workbenches strewn with all manner of paraphernalia, whatever Merlin’s captured with this week. You’d think he would get bored of it after all this time, but he always finds something new to be excited about. 

Anyway, the biggest change to the physician’s chambers is the ceiling, which Merlin enchanted to look and feel open to the heavens. He draws strength from nature, even more than Arthur. Something about his magic- he gets sick without exposure to the elements. He's always liked the Great Hall.

The goblets and plates at the tables are gold instead of silver this year. Merlin wonders what that’s about, but it clicks in a moment- they must’ve had a werewolf student, or changed the procedure in case they did. With that in mind it’s surprising it took so long. 

The professors stare empirically down from their own table at the head of the room. Merlin never liked how seperate they were from the students. His eyes rake over this year’s roster: A vulture-man (that’s the only way to describe him) a lady with goggles- no, not goggles, she just looks like that, poor woman- a dapper little man half Arthur’s size who’s cruelly sat next to Hagrid, and a hawk-like woman with a different brand of sharpness than McGonagall, and a dumpy witch who just looks happy to be there. The most alarming of these is a wobbly-looking bloke in a purple turban that makes Merlin's magic rush into his fingers, roiling under his skin as though in outrage, incensed. Merlin doesn't know what's wrong about him exactly, just that he's very, very wrong. The minute the first years enter, he leaps up as though he's heard something extremely sudden and distressing and quickly excuses himself, hurrying out of the hall through the side door.

It seems Merlin's found the first threat. And judging by that little display, it's possible it's found him too.

Merlin would guess he's the last of the teachers. There’s no reason for him to be sure of that, it’s just the impression he gets. It’s easy to pick out the matron- he’s found the best physicians all have the same practical down-to-earth strictness she holds in her shoulders. The man off to the side has the same nose as Janus Filch used to, so maybe he’s taken over the family charge of caretaker. He looks mean enough. Merlin's thumbs still ache from that man, and he swears they're longer than they used to be. 

At the very head of the entire hall, the centre around which everyone else in the hall revolves around, sits Albus Dumbledore. The man seems to project his own field of gravity. He gives off the impression of the sun at the centre of the solar system, the heart of Hogwarts, pumping life out through the tables and keeping the torches lit just by beating. His robes are a rich purple. Merlin identifies the pattern along the hem as Malaysian. The detail matches the half-moon glasses perched across his nose, glinting like the golden plates.

Merlin snaps back to attention as Festus is brought out on his stool. Merlin smirks at his stillness- that old hat always got a kick out of spooking the first years when he moved. Sure enough, he comes to life all at once, and Arthur snickers as a few of the kids jump.

“Oh, you may not think I’m pretty,

But don’t judge on what you see,

I’ll eat myself if you can find

A smarter hat than me. 

You can keep your bowlers black,

Your top hats sleek and tall,

For I’m the Hogwarts Sorting Hat

And I can cap them all. 

There’s nothing hidden in your head 

The Sorting Hat can’t see,

So try me on and I will tell you

Where you ought to be.

You might belong in Gryffindor,

Where dwell the brave at heart,

Their daring, nerve, and chivalry

Set Gryffindors apart;

You might belong in Hufflepuff,

Where they are just and loyal,

Those patient Hufflepuffs are true

And unafraid of toil;

Or yet in wise old Ravenclaw,

if you’ve a ready mind,

Where those of wit and learning,

Will always find their kind;

Or perhaps in Slytherin

You’ll make your real friends,

Those cunning folk use any means

To achieve their ends.

So put me on! Don’t be afraid!

And don’t get in a flap!

You’re in safe hands (though I have none)

For I’m a Thinking Cap!” 

Merlin and Arthur burst into applause with the rest of the school as Festus finishes his song, though they’re the only first years to do so. They beam at their friend, who gives them a wink.

“So we’ve just got to try on the hat!” Ron hisses. “I’ll kill Fred, he was going on about wrestling a troll.” 

Merlin snorts ungraciously. Arthur covers his laugh with a cough.

“When I call your name, you will put on the hat and sit on the stool to be sorted,” McGonagall proclaims. “Abbott, Hannah!” 

A pink-faced girl with blonde pigtails stumbles out of line, shoves Festus down over her ears, and sits down, nearly missing the stool. She’s a quick read. 

“HUFFLEPUFF!”  

Hannah bounces off to the Hufflepuff table to happy applause. 

“Bones, Susan!”

“HUFFLEPUFF!” 

“Boot, Terry!” 

“RAVENCLAW!”

And so it goes. Name after name in alphabetical order. The first name Merlin recognises is his own.

“Myrridian, Emrys!”

“I hope we get picked together!”, Arthur whispers in an uncanny impression of an eager first year. Merlin pulls his hair as he goes. 

“Ow!”

Merlin takes his seat with a smile, putting his old friend on (that’s a weird sentence) again. 

“The Warlock returns. Where’s your other half?”, Festus asks him.

“Um, right there. Your eyesight going in your age?”

“What eyesight? I’m a hat.”

“That’s… fair. Gryffindor, if you would please, old friend.”

“Are you sure? You could be great, you know-“, the old hat teases.

“Are you saying I’m not? Festus!”

“I know better than to answer that. GRYFFINDOR!”

Merlin chuckles and hands Festus over to the next person in line, an eager brunette with a pink hairband. Then he jogs off to the Gryffindor table and settles himself in beside the Weasley twins.

“Granger, Hermione!”

Hermione takes a run at the stool and jams the hat eagerly on her head. Merlin absently wonders if Festus is sick of being manhandled by grabby children.

“GRYFFINDOR!” shouts the hat. Merlin makes room for her. What a happy coincidence, he already knows half his class.

Poor old Neville falls over on his way to the stool and doesn’t seem to notice when Trevor takes the opportunity to hop off. Neville might be ADHD. He might also just be really, really nervous. Whatever the case, he must be a hard nut to crack. Festus stews on him for a long few minutes.

“GRYFFINDOR!” 

Neville runs off still wearing the hat and has to jog back sheepishly amid gales of laughter to give it to “MacDougal, Morag.” Merlin slaps him on the back encouragingly as he sinks down opposite him. He decides not to mention Trevor just yet.

The Malfoy boy struts forward at his name like it’s an accomplishment to have it, and Festus barely grazes his head before he calls, “SLYTHERIN!” 

Well, seems they have their work cut out for them dispelling this prejudice business. Malfoy doesn’t make Slytherin look good.

There aren’t many people left now. “Moon”..., “Nott”..., “Parkinson”..., then a pair of twin girls, “Patil” and “Patil”..., then finally- 

“Penn, Arthur!”

Arthur slaps Ron on the back as he goes- a little hard, judging by Ron’s wince. Merlin sighs. He knows he’s trying, that’s all he can ask.

“GRYFFINDOR!”

Arthur slides in next to Neville among the applause, giving everybody a nod. 

“Potter, Harry!”

As Harry steps forward, hissed whispers break out like a drizzle over the hall. Merlin feels for the kid. 

“Potter, did she say?” 

“The Harry Potter?”

People start craning their necks over heads and half-rising out of their seats. Merlin casually drags someone back down, face blank. 

Festus takes his sweet time with Harry. Either the boy’s actually that interesting or he’s messing with them. 

“Better be GRYFFINDOR!” 

The noise is deafening. Merlin throws his arms over his head and slams his face into the table like he’s diving for a bomb. Arthur screams himself hoarse. A red-headed prefect gets up and shakes an unsteady Harry’s hand vigorously, while the Weasley twins yell, “We got Potter! We got Potter!” Harry sits down opposite Nicolas and beside Neville. 

Ron’s the last to be sorted. Merlin catches Harry crossing his fingers. Arthur looks pretty hopeful too. 

“GRYFFINDOR!”

Ron joins them at the table with a received sigh. There's only one name left after that, and then it's over.

Dumbledore gets to his feet and beams delightedly at them all, pleased beyond measure, as if he doesn’t go through this tedious routine each and every year to more or less the same results. He spreads his arms widely and the effect is tangible. The room hushes faster than any room as large or as full of teenagers as this one has any right to.

“Welcome,” he calls. “Welcome to a new year at Hogwarts! Before we begin our banquet, I would like to say a few words. And here they are: Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak! Thank you!” He sits back down to mixed reactions and the hall chatter starts up again.

“Dare you to turn that into a real speech,” Arthur challenges Merlin.

Merlin furrows his brow for a minute and licks his bottom lip. 

“We are four proud houses, each with differences to spare, differences that sometimes blind us to our similarities. Ravenclaw sees in the other houses air-headed nitwits. Gryffindor sees blubbering cowards. Slytherin sees the oddness of others, and Hufflepuff sees what they could tweak to make everyone a little better. Do not forget to recognise what we have in common, for we all have the potential to be brave, loyal, brilliant leaders, and we learn how to be these things from each other. Thank you.”

He gives his stupid bow as Arthur shakes his head. It really is no wonder he made Merlin write his speeches, he always was a wordsmith. 

The Weasley twins are staring wide-eyed and open-mouthed at him. They look at each other for a second and then back at Merlin. 

“We want you on our side,” they say together.

“Oh, that’s good, because from what I hear, you’re my kind of people,” he returns with a cheeky grin. It fades as he notices Harry piling his plate up and snaps his hand out to stop him. The boy looks at him in surprise with a tiny flinch. Merlin immediately feels terrible, but it doesn't change the need to intervene.

“Harry… don’t eat so much. Not because you can’t,” he continues immediately at Harry’s worried face, “but because… look, you can tell me to shut up and go away, but am I right in saying you haven’t been eating very well at home?”

It’s something Merlin’s put together over the train ride. Before today Harry wasn’t his concern aside from his relation to Riddle, and Dumbledore insisted on making arrangements, so Merlin and Arthur never saw fit to check in on him. He’s obviously gotten a very short straw, though. The boy clearly (to Merlin, at least) has anxiety and a bad self-image. His hands shake slightly but constantly. He’s thin as a rail, and not healthily so- he’s too small for someone his age with his frame. Merlin saw him light up in a disbelieving way at the sight of the candy earlier and the food a moment ago, as if he couldn’t believe he could have it. Sure enough, he only really had a pasty or two before he looked a little ill and stuffed the rest of his food in his pockets or gave it to Ron. He’s also been squinting near non-stop even with those horrid glasses, which might be a sign of a Vitamin A deficiency.

Harry’s eyes go wide and a flicker of fear shoots through them. Merlin puts on his best ‘you’re safe with me’ face and softens his voice, making sure they won’t be overheard. 

“You can put whatever you want on your plate, of course. Hell, you can eat it all if you want, I’m not your guardian-“ Harry draws in a sharp breath that Merlin doesn’t miss, “-but your body won’t be able to handle all of it. Maybe stash it for later, in your pockets? I’ll save some too.”

Harry doesn’t seem able to say anything, just trying to catch his breath. Merlin leaves him to it, it’s always easier without someone’s eyes on you. 

“Oop, someone’s found you,” Arthur murmurs under his breath as Merlin straightens. Merlin follows his gaze to where Hermione Granger is trying to squish herself in beside a boy named Seamus to get to a seat where she can lean over Arthur to get to Merlin. She’s practically sprawled across him, eyes wide and eagerly set on her target. Arthur blinks, nonplussed, and just balances his plate on her back and eats from there.

“Myrridian. Quite a name. Our conversation from earlier was cut-off, but you did say we could talk later. So about your ancestor, did you grow up knowing about him? I suppose you must have, right?”

“What exactly about his work interests you, Miss Granger?”, asks Merlin, who would much rather talk about the subject than the author.

Hermione goes pink at ‘Miss Granger’, but quickly buries herself in an enthusiastic conversation about Meryn Emrys’ essays. 

“Ouch!” 

Arthur looks sharply at Harry, who’s clapped a hand to his forehead, right over his scar.

“What is it?”, he asks lowly.
“N-nothing.” 

Arthur frowns and follows his eyes to the greasy vulture man at the far left of the high table, who’s staring right back. 

“Who’s that teacher talking to Professor Quirrell?” he asks the table at large.

“Oh, you know Quirrell already, do you?”, Percy asks. “No wonder he’s looking so nervous, that’s Professor Snape. He teaches Potions, but he doesn’t want to — everyone knows he’s after Quirrell’s job. Knows an awful lot about the Dark 

Arts, Snape.”

Harry watches Snape cautiously for a while. Arthur doesn’t like how wary Harry is of- well, everything, but it might come in handy. It might just keep him alive. And to be fair, it's probably reasonable to be wary of someone who looks like an overgrown bat and keeps staring at you.

As the desserts are cleared from the tables, Dumbledore rises, once again eliciting that incredible silence from the room.

“Ahem — just a few more words now that we are all fed and watered. I have a few start-of-term notices to give you. 

“First years should note that the forest on the grounds is forbidden to all pupils. And a few of our older students would do well to remember that as well.” Dumbledore’s twinkling eyes flash in the direction of the Weasley twins. They exchange a cheeky look with Merlin. 

“I have also been asked by Mr. Filch, the caretaker, to remind you all that no magic should be used between classes in the corridors. Quidditch trials will be held in the second week of the term. Anyone interested in playing for their house teams should contact Madam Hooch. And finally, I must tell you that this year, the third-floor corridor on the right-hand side is out of bounds to everyone who does not wish to die a very painful death.” 

Well, why the hell would you tell the students that? Now they’re gonna get curious! Just say it’s closed for maintenance or something! 

At least Arthur knows where the stone is likely being kept now. Might come in handy, seeing how prone to oversights the headmaster’s proven to be from time to time. Hogwarts certainly is the safest place on earth for the stone or anything else to be this year, but not because Dumbledore’s here. Then again, if he announced it, it could be a diversion or a false lead- they’ll have to check it out.

“And now, before we go to bed, let us sing the school song!” cries Dumbledore. Arthur almost laughs at the mixed reactions to this announcement. The teachers, in particular, don’t look thrilled. Dumbledore gives his wand a little flick and a long golden ribbon flies out of it, folding itself in loops to form the lyrics.

“Everyone pick their favorite tune,” says Dumbledore, “and off we go!” 

“Hogwarts, Hogwarts, Hoggy Warty Hogwarts, Teach us something please,

Whether we be old and bald

Or young with scabby knees,

Our heads could do with filling

With some interesting stuff,

For now they’re bare and full of air,

Dead flies and bits of fluff,

So teach us things worth knowing,

Bring back what we’ve forgot,

just do your best, we’ll do the rest,

And learn until our brains all rot.” 

Merlin and Arthur, in particular, sing as loudly as they can. Godric was so proud of those lyrics, belting them out at any given opportunity, and louder each time any of the others begged him to stop. Helga joined him happily at first, but it got old for her after the first hundred repetitions, all in different tunes. The best part is that Rowena wrote the first school song, and the lyrics were beautiful and meaningful and everything a school song should be, the melody expertly composed. She had it all figured out. Godric therefore took it upon himself to make a better one. He spent all of five minutes on it and when asked about a tune just told them to sing whatever. So naturally, that one stuck. Neither of them remember a word of Rowena's masterpiece.

True to form, everybody finishes the song at different times, on account of them all singing wildly different tunes. The Weasley twins are the last to finish their funeral dirge, Merlin making backup trumpet noises. Dumbledore conducts their last few lines with his wand and claps the loudest when they finish. The twins bow solemnly, dragging Merlin up beside them.

“Ah, music,” Dumbledore hums, wiping his eyes. “A magic beyond all we do here! And now, bedtime. Off you trot!”

Percy the prefect, the haughtiest Weasley brother, leads the first years (and Merlin, and Arthur- do they count?) through the castle. Arthur swears it gets more complicated every time they attend. He leans heavily on his sense of direction and his bearings, but he can’t imagine how the directionally challenged make it through. They run into a slight delay with Peeves, who throws a bundle of walking sticks at Percy as they go. 

“Peeves,” Percy whispers to the first years. “A poltergeist.” He raises his voice, “Peeves — show yourself.” 

A loud, rude sound, like the air being let out of a balloon, answers. 

“Do you want me to go to the Bloody Baron?” 

There’s a pop and Peeves appears, hair sticking out in all directions and grin as nasty as ever.

“Oooooooh!” he cheers with an evil cackle. “Ickle Firsties! What fun!” He swoops suddenly at them, most of the faster ones ducking. It’s then he catches sight of Merlin and Arthur, a flash of recognition gleaming in his frozen eyes.

“Ohhhh, is it that time again?”, he asks, rather quietly for it coming from him. Percy frowns, taken off guard. 

“Go away, Peeves, or the Baron’ll hear about this, I mean it!”, he barks to cover up his uncertainty. 

Peeves sticks out his tongue (at Percy only, making sure not to piss off the immortals present) and vanishes, dropping his walking sticks on Neville’s head. They hear him zoom away, rattling coats of armor as he goes.

“You want to watch out for Peeves,” declares Percy as they set off again. “The Bloody Baron’s the only one who can control him, he won’t even listen to us prefects. Here we are.” 

Ah yes, Elizabeth. Still in her pink-white silk dress- she’s been trying to figure out a way to change for as long as Arthur’s known her, but that's what she was painted in. She’s quite happy with the wreath of grapes woven into her hair, though. She’s been partial to both of them since they stopped Wallace Diggson from the third floor eating her headdress. She likes to call them “true Gryffindors.” Funny, Gryffindor might be the house they’ve frequented the least.

“Password?” she asks disinterestedly. 

“Caput Draconis,” Percy annunciates importantly, and the portrait swings forward to reveal a round hole in the wall. It still surprises Arthur, he always thinks of it as how it was when he first came, and the door had been much smaller then. People are much taller these days.

While the kiddies scramble through it, Merlin and Arthur hang back to say hello to Elizabeth. She gives a great gasp, thankfully after the others are far enough in not to notice.

“My boys!”, she cries shrilly, “You’re back! I told Violet, I told her, I said you’d be back with me soon enough- just can’t stay away, can you?”

“From you? Why should we ever want to?”, Merlin asks with a hand on his chest. She giggles delightedly, bringing Arthur in for 2D cheek kisses. Merlin gets the same treatment. 

“Did you hear Harry Potter’s in the group this year? You should have an interesting class. Oh, but I suppose that’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”, she realises out loud. “Everything’s alright, though, right?”

“‘Course it is, maybe we just missed you,” Arthur lies. Well, it is alright- for now. But they didn’t come because they think it’ll stay that way.

“Oh, stop.”

“We’d better nip up before anyone notices, we just had to say hello. Good to see you, Liz,” Merlin twinkles. She flaps her pudgy hands about.

“Of course, get in there- and don’t you dare be strangers while you’re here! And watch the PDA boys, I’ll know!”

“Oh, you’d be so lucky,” Merlin cheeks as he ducks in after Arthur. 

The room’s updated from the last time they’ve been here, of course, but some things haven’t changed, and probably never will. Some things have charms on them to make sure they can’t be changed- Godric was very protective of what was his, especially in a place he called home. He wanted it to feel that way for everyone else, too. 

The fire crackles merrily along. It hasn’t gone out since Godric set it when he made the place. It throws a golden glow over everything, and makes the room warmer than a fire rightly should. The deep red curtains cover the ridiculously tall windows with nooks in the ledges to curl up and read in. The cushy armchairs have been replaced and look to be even cushier than they used to be. No one’s around, the first years are always the first to turn in.

Merlin and Arthur climb the spiral staircase on the right. The upstairs looks much the same as it had last they saw it. It must have been a stressful day for the kids, because they’re all already passed out. There are two beds left for them. Their trunk is leaning against the wall under a window. 

“Which one do you want?”, Merlin asks. Arthur always picks. He always takes his sweet time, too, and tonight’s no exception. Merlin rolls his eyes and sets about opening the trunk, climbing in, and grabbing a set of pyjamas for them both. 

When he comes back Arthur’s leaned back in the bed, hands resting behind his head. Right in the middle, either because he’s naturally annoying enough to take up that much space by default or because he’s being a bastard. Merlin throws his jammies at him and puts his own on, tossing their robes in a pile on the floor. He empties his robe pockets of the food he stashed in them for Harry and leaves them beside the boy's bed before he hops into the one Arthur picked.

He waits until Arthur’s changed and scooched over enough for them both to fit before drawing the curtains around the bed and whispering a muffling spell. This is habit for them, whether they’re fucking or not, for a multitude of reasons: one, if they do it every night they won’t be questioned when they actually need to do it; two, they can speak candidly, and three, it would just be kind of rude to sleep with each other every night when these poor kids sharing their dorm just want to get through high school in peace. It shouldn’t make a difference, and mostly it doesn’t, but there’s no need to shout it from the rooftops. Merlin doesn’t particularly want to, either- they might be something like 1400 years old, but they don’t look it, and he doesn’t want to encourage immortal-destined-soulmate behaviour in the kids.

Arthur almost throws it all out the window when he jumps on the bed hard enough to make it squeak horribly, throwing Merlin up in the air a little as he goes. He’s lucky Merlin already cast the spell, but he gets a cuff around the head anyway.

“Why do they creak like that? They can’t be that old, they weren’t here last time we were,” Arthur protests.

“Last time we were here seatbelts hadn’t been invented yet. Not everything ages like we do.”

“Like fine wine,” Arthur hums.

“Or old milk.”

“In your case.”

“Fuck off.”

“Maybe fuck off can be our forever.”

“Forever is our forever. We're immortal."

"Fuck off."

Chapter Text

Ixorix:

Nala:

Goldie:

Pandora:

Chapter Text

For all yesterday was the most exhausting, incredible day of his life, Harry doesn’t sleep through the night. Perhaps Harry did eat a bit too much, like Myrridian warned him, because he has a very strange dream. He’s wearing Professor Quirrell’s turban, which keeps telling him he must transfer to Slytherin at once, because it’s his destiny. Harry tells the turban he doesn’t want to be in Slytherin; it gets heavier and heavier; he tries to pull it off but it tightens painfully — and there is Malfoy, laughing at him as he struggles with it — then Malfoy turns into the hook- nosed teacher, Snape, whose laugh becomes high and cold — there’s a burst of green light and Harry wakes, sweating and shaking. 

Bodes well.

Harry gathers his blankets around him, but there’s no familiarity in them. He’s never had blankets this soft before. He’s never had more than one to begin with. He’s never had a bed this big- hell, he’s never had a bed, only a mattress on the floor. The walls- where are they? Where’s the floor? Where’s the corner? He’s far too exposed out here in the open. He’d considered closing his curtains last night but wasn’t sure he was allowed to, and also didn’t like the idea of not seeing what was going on around him. 

Shakily, he swings his legs down off the bed- his bed- and centres himself. He’s on the far end, closest to the wall, the least visible. The Gryffindor dorms are set up openly on purpose, so that’s the best he can do. He has his own little desk just under the window. There are a few sausages and a treacle tart sitting innocently on the top. Harry frowns at them before remembering Myrridian’s offer to save him some food and adds them to the stashes he has peppered around his drawers- just in case. He wishes Hedwig was here to keep them safe. He trusts her.

Harry looks around. He’s the only one awake. Most of the boys haven’t bothered to close their curtains, so he can see them- that’s good. He takes note of them. Ron there, long limbs sprawling off the bed, drooling slightly. Neville, curled up around his pillow and mumbling. Seamus snoring something awful, Dean the wrong way around on his sheets. That’s it for the first year’s quarters, except for two beds. One has the curtains drawn completely and the other is untouched and empty. 

Harry looks around. Recounts. No, they’re missing two- Arthur and Myrridian. They’re missing. Missing, and one of the cots is empty, and one of them Harry can’t see.

A thrill of worry shoots through him. Those are his friends. They’re two of the only people, next to Ron and Hagrid, who have ever treated him like he matters. Myrridian stashed him food- hell, Arthur even asked him what was wrong. 

Harry grabs his wand, not sure what he could do with it but knowing it’s better than nothing. Eleven years of making yourself as unnoticeable as possible does not go amiss as he creeps over to the drawn curtains. 

Harry inches forward, poking his wand through the slit in the curtains and drawing them carefully back. It’s too dark to make anything out. Harry will have to pull the curtains back more and hope whoever or whatever’s inside doesn’t notice. He takes a deep breath, but he can’t hear anything. There’s only one thing for it.

Harry pulls the curtains apart with extreme caution. The moonlight streaming in does help clarify things; he can now make out a tangled lump of sheets. Someone’s in the bed. 

He goes to draw it back further, but it catches on something. 

There’s no warning, but suddenly there’s a hand with a vice grip on Harry’s wrist and someone’s looking back at him. His heart stops.

“H’rry?”

Harry stills and blinks, heart cautiously starting to beat again. 

“Arthur?”

Harry hears a huge sigh leave the boy before he sits up properly and lets him go. Harry snatches his arm back. 

“Sorry, you surprised me. What’s wrong? Are you alright?”

All of a sudden Harry remembers what he got up for. 

“Myrridian’s gone!”

Arthur blinks once and then turns in place, craning his neck to look behind him in the bed.

“No he’s not.”

“The bed’s empty!”

“The…? Oh, the extra cot. Yeah. He’s right here.”

Arthur leans to one side so Harry gets a proper view of what Arthur was looking back at before. A head of messy black curls pokes out from under the covers. A thin, pale, heavily calloused hand that nearly glows in the moonlight rests haphazardly against the sheets. The sliver of silver light from the window that lets Harry see this, however, has its own effects on the sleeping boy, and the covers shift as he sluggishly starts moving. 

“‘Rthurr? Mm...?”

The shadow and light play with Myrridian’s eyes as he blinks owlishly at Harry. One is almost black in the dark slicing over it from the curtains, the other a startling silver in the moonlight. Harry stares stupidly back.

“Harry? What’s wrong, are you alright?”, he asks, immediately moving himself to sit up. 

Is he alright? Why do people keep asking that? He should be asking them! Maybe he’s just not used to the question.

“I… you’re not in your bed,” he says stupidly. 

“What? Yes I- oh. The extra- yeah, no.”

Harry’s not sure what to say to this. Clearly they’re both alright. Myrridian is not in his bed on purpose. 

“Um… why, are you not…”

All of a sudden they both resemble deer in the headlights. 

“Hm?”, Myrridian hums.

“In your own bed.”

“Ah. Yes.”

There’s a silent moment. Then another.

“He gets nightmares if we sleep apart,” Arthur finally says, sounding a little exasperated with the way the conversation’s unfolding.

“We both do.”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah.”

Oh. They get nightmares too? They must be bad if they would rather sleep together than have them. 

“Oh,” is what he says. Another moment passes. Harry doesn’t mean to open his mouth again, but-

“Does it work?”

They exchange a look.

“…Sometimes,” Arthur admits.

“It’s not really about stopping them. But it’s… it makes a difference having someone to wake up to,” Myrridian says. 

Harry nods thoughtfully, looking down. He doesn’t understand. He's never really felt better with anyone else before. Maybe that will change now. Ron seems to like him. These two have been so nice he’s starting to wonder why. Harry can’t imagine waking up like he just did, sweaty and shaking and scared, with someone else there. Myrridian and Arthur must be really close. 

“Didn’t mean to scare you,” Myrridian says. He sounds genuinely sorry. 

“That’s- that’s alright. Sorry for waking you.”

“’S fine, I usually get up around now anyway,” the taller boy admits, throwing his legs over the side of the bed and pulling himself up. Arthur groans.

“Mmm, noooo, come baaack.”

“Nope. I’m up now.”

“It’s coooold.”

“Then perish.”

Myrridian stretches, almost touching the top of the bed post, joints popping, before shuffling off toward his trunk. Come to think of it, they share that too. Harry wonders again how on earth they got that close. 

“Em,” Arthur suddenly says sharply from under the blankets. The lack of sleep clinging to the word grabs both their attentions. Myrridian understands, his hand going up to his neck, and that’s when Harry notices.

The skin there is discoloured, angry red and purple blooming, faded, around a number of concentrated scar lines that circle his neck. A pattern of splotches, like the imprints from rope, criss crosses the scars. It’s not new by any means- Harry knows his scars- but it’s permanent and obvious. 

He breathes in sharply, going still as his eyes widen, goggling at the marred skin that won’t ever heal right. Myrridian’s hand wraps over it uncertainly, prompting Harry’s eyes to snap back up to his.

“I’m sorry,” Harry stammers. “I didn’t mean to look.”

“I should’ve thought- it’s not your fault,” Myrridian sighs. “Harry, could you… not tell the others?”

Harry nods. “Of course.”

Myrridian nods, relieved, giving him a grateful smile, and turns away again. Harry heads back to his own bed, head spinning. There’s no way he’s going to sleep now.

He can’t ask. It’s none of his business. The second Myrridian asked him if he was eating well at home at the feast, he locked up. He doesn’t want to make Myrridian scared like that if he can, not if… not if he understands. If the Dursleys gave him a scar like that he’d be terrified of someone seeing it. No, Harry can’t ask. And of course he won’t tell.

Harry hopes beyond hope that Myrridian’s alright now. He hopes that he doesn’t have to go back to his own Dursleys. He has a feeling Arthur wouldn’t stand for that, and he clearly knows. Maybe that’s why they’re so close. 

Harry shakes his head. None of his business. Just because he has his own home that’s not a home doesn’t mean he knows about Myrridian’s, and it doesn’t mean that he should think of himself the same way. Myrridian has Arthur. Harry doesn’t. And he won’t. He won’t. So stop thinking about it. 

Harry has some things to figure out first. And why should he feel sorry for himself? He’s going to Hogwarts!

Feeling a little cheered by this, hesets about getting ready for his first day of classes.

“There, look.” “Where?” 

“Next to the tall kid with the red hair.” 

“Wearing the glasses?”

“Did you see his face?”

“Did you see his scar?” 

“If they don’t shut up, I’ll show them a scar,” Arthur growls not particularly quietly. 

They do stop, particularly after Merlin snaps at a Hufflepuff boy speculating about Harry’s class schedule “I know it must be difficult with how big your nose is, but try to keep it out of other people’s business.”

Peeves does not bother them. It would be eerie if Ron and Harry had been here before and knew what he was normally like, but they haven't and they don’t, so it’s just a relief. Peeves avoids any mention of them rather than outright fearing them, exorcizing a caution no one knew he had, so they’re not really worried of his outing them either. He hasn’t thus far.

Mrs. Norris has no such qualms. She loves Merlin- love love loves him. It’s only her loyalty to Filch that keeps her from dogging his heels night and day (pardon the pun). And Merlin has a special glare for anyone who grumbles about kicking her within earshot of him.

Merlin sucks at Astrology. Always has. He complains at length to Arthur, who unhelpfully informs him that muggles and wizards alike have been using the stars to chart their courses for centuries. As if Merlin does not know that.

Herbology is maybe his favourite course. The plants, like Mrs. Norris, love Merlin, and he loves them right back. Arthur’s affinity for nature is a result of his upbringing, but Merlin’s is a direct connection to the magic that flows through the natural world the same as it does his own veins. It greets him as family, and he breathes easier, shines brighter. Professor Sprout is ready to adopt him by week two. 

History of Magic is by all means the dullest class in the history of education, and Merlin and Arthur are the authorities on that. It’s not even the first time they’ve had the old coot, but he doesn’t even notice. In fact, the only thing of any interest at all in the course is how offended Arthur gets by the incorrect history being spewed in a steady stream as though it were fact. Merlin is much more used to shutting up when he needs to, although he only deems to do so some of the time, and so just tunes Binns out like everyone else. Arthur seems determined to avenge the memory of everyone he’s ever known, whether it matters or not. 

“That’s not true,” Arthur mutters mutinously under his breath, sunk down in his seat with his arms crossed.

“We weren’t even in Germany at the time, Arthur, we wouldn’t know.”

“I know it’s not true ‘cause he said it.”

Merlin rolls his eyes and catches Ron’s head before it slips out of his hand and slams into the table into his steadily growing puddle of drool.

Charms is the first class they have to use actual magic for. For the longest time Merlin was worried Arthur didn’t have it and would never know the wonders of the thing. It was a near unbearable thought. By some grace, though- maybe on account of the circumstances of his birth, maybe thanks to his exposure to the Old Religion, or any other combination of things- Arthur is capable. In fact, his magic is remarkable, enough that the gap between his and Merlin’s abilities is much smaller than most can claim. Merlin's leading theory is that it was part of the deal when they sort of fused their souls together. In simple terms, that's what they did, and Merlin's soul is made of magic, so it was sort of unavoidable that if they were gonna share that would be inherent. Which would mean that every time Arthur uses his magic, he's really using Merlin's- no, their magic. It's his now too. It’s enough to make Merlin thankful for this cursed life they’ll never escape. Thankful because for every friend dead, he still has Arthur, and they will never be as separate as they were before Arthur knew who Merlin was. Merlin is magic, and Arthur loves him, and every time his king flicks his wand, it feels like a blessing. Merlin feels full and loved. And secretly, if he's right about them sharing, then every spark from the tip of Arthur's wand is born of them, unequivocal proof that they are one.

So really, who can blame Merlin if he spends Charms class mostly staring dreamily at Arthur tapping his wand to his fingernails to change their colour?

“Y’know, if you like the colours that much, you can just paint your own,” Ron suggests.

“Hmm?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Harry dismisses, not sure how to break it to Ron that it’s not the colours he’s staring at.

Professor McGonagall is ‘late’ to their first Transfiguration class. She is not, of course, late. But the students haven’t quite put together that the bespectacled cat sitting to the right of the desk is their teacher. Merlin has to respect the tactic- kids don’t watch their mouths or their opinions when they don’t think they’ll be overheard. It’s a good way to learn the class.

“Where’s the Professor? It’s McGonagall, right?”, Ron asks. Merlin nods at the cat, who blinks at him. Harry, who missed the exchange, speaks up. 

“Do you think she’ll be as strict as she seems?”

“Not on you. Snape treats his Slytherins like angels, they could blow up the class and they wouldn’t lose any points. McGonagall’s gotta be easy on her own house,” claims a Ravenclaw who’s already had Potions.

“No shot, Benny. She’s too stuck up. She’s got a broomstick somewhere it shouldn’t be, we’ll be lucky to pass at all.”, Seamus replies.

Merlin’s eyebrows are climbing up his forehead. He bites his lip.

“Go on, tell us how you really feel,” he chokes.

This is when McGonagall decides to leap lithely off the desk, shifting fluidly between forms without pausing in her strides.

“I assure you, Mr. James, that any house points you lose or win in this class will by rightly earned. Likewise, Mr. Finnigan, if you work hard enough, you will most certainly pass this course.”

She doesn’t even wait for them to recover. Merlin still can’t hide his amusement, snickering into his hand. Arthur is grinning. He likes McGonagall. She snaps her head to them, though, and all four of them sober up rather quickly. 

“You’d do well to remember the lesson you learned at the Sorting, Mr. Emrys, Mr. Penn. I will not tolerate thoughtless interruptions or petty squabbles, and I will not hesitate to deduct points, Gryffindor or not.”

They nod, sufficiently chastised.

She has them take notes and then change a match into a needle. Only Hermione gets close to accomplishing this. Arthur and Merlin can, of course, but they spend the class debating the theory to each other, having reached a disagreement. The argument goes over the rest of the class’ heads, but McGonagall is astounded by the level at which they’re working- if only they could shut up and direct it at the actual instructions, they’d have done it in the first five minutes of class. She hasn’t had a student impress her like that since James Potter. Now, it seems, she has two.

“Mr. Emrys,” she calls as the class is packing up. “A moment, please.”

Arthur stays back for a moment, but Myrridian says something to him quietly and he nods and accompanies Harry and Ron out. 

“Professor?”, he asks brightly, falling into a parade rest before her desk.

“Scarves are not permitted in class, school-issued or otherwise, Mr. Emrys,” she says with a pointed glance at the thick red scarf nestled around his collar. Rather than making to remove it, though, the boy shuffles uncomfortably in place.

“Is there a reason you called me out after class and not when I walked in? Ma’am?”, he adds quickly. Sharp, this one.

“There was a case a while ago in which a student had a perfectly good reason for requesting an exception to be made. She had a nasty condition she preferred to cover up the effects of. If you have a similar circumstance, it wouldn’t do to call you out in front of your classmates. Unless you meet that criteria, though, I’m afraid you’ll have to leave the accessories at home.”

It doesn’t take all of Minerva McGonagall’s wit to confirm this suspicion. Myrridian stills, head going down to look at the floor, or, alternatively, to tuck his face deeper into his scarf.

“Ummm… I do have… something like that…”, he stammers. Minerva meets his eyes levelly as best she can with how much he’s avoiding her eye contact. 

“Would you prefer to confirm this with me or Madame Pomfrey?”, she asks gently.

“Confirm…” he repeats, as if hoping the word will change. 

“I would be happy to grant you an exception if you are in need of one, but I need a reason to.”

He looks at her carefully, and suddenly Minerva feels seen. Like she’s being deconstructed carefully, her pieces taken apart and analysed. With a start she places where she’s felt it before. Dumbledore looks at her this way when he’s considering imparting information to her. He must come to some conclusion, because he finally takes his scarf off, watching her closely.

If possible, her posture straightens at the sight of his scars. Her brows pull together severely, mouth thinning. Myrridian immediately wraps his neck back up. 

There’s quiet for a moment. Then another. Merlin won’t give, no matter how jumpy his nerves are. Finally, McGonagall breaks the silence.

“Mr. Emrys, I will ask you this once. I want you to think about your answer.” She looks at him with gravity until he nods.

“Are you in any danger?”

Merlin supposes that’s a bit up in the air, but he draws on all of his experience and skill to make sure she believes the half-truth anyway. He wants there to be no doubt. 

“No.”

Then there’s Quirrell, the man with the turban that sends all kinds of bad vibes Merlin’s way. 

The thing about that is, he’s far from the first. Magic is an abstract creature and not always rational. Merlin’s magic reacting the way it does around Quirrell could mean any number of things, and they might not even be helpful- it’s more of a gut feeling than anything.

That said, the most obvious reason it would respond so violently to someone is if that someone had committed a cardinal sin against Magic, knowingly broken the ancient laws and not paid the cost. These people do exist, but they are as few and far between as purple sunflowers. The likelihood that it’s a coincidence isn’t worth examining.

So then, supposing Quirrell is one of Riddle’s boys, it would track that he committed one such sin in service of his- eugh- ‘master’. It’s fair to assume, then, that the law that was broken was that of equivalent exchange, or some version of it. That was- is- Riddle’s crime, taking without giving. Is, because the crime and punishment is not satisfied by death. It persists, looming and crushing the persecutor wholly and without limit. The human mind can’t comprehend the degree of offence committed in breaking a natural law. You do not fuck with the Balance. It boggles Merlin’s mind that people are still stupid enough to try. 

But that’s Merlin’s job, isn’t it? Magic made him the most qualified to deal with such matters, as far out of his and everyone else’s depths they are. Technically, it’s not his job, not officially. Magic needs no ambassador to do its bidding. But Magic is ruled by its own unbreakable laws, and it doesn’t have to consider pesky little things like morality or collateral damage. Merlin does not interfere with judgments made beyond earthly courts, but should he neglect to interfere in the subsequent executions, he will be a bystander to a tragedy that only one person earned and everybody paid for. Magic will collect its due, and it will go through innocents, cause natural disasters, set into motion things that lead to global-scale catastrophes to do it.

So it’s kind of Merlin’s job.

Which is, incidentally, how he finds himself here, eleven years old, in Defense Against the Dark Arts class with Harry Potter and Quentin Quirrell. 

Whatever Quirrell exchanged for Riddle is currently inconsequential. Merlin doesn’t need to know the crime unless it’ll help him minimise the damage. Right now his priority is keeping Harry and the other kids safe. 

Even now, Riddle is seeking more ways to offend nature, the fool. His most recent interest has been the Philosopher’s Stone, although he’s deeply misread its function and fine print. If he knew the price it asked he might not be so enamoured, but then again, maybe he would. Quirrell’s most likely been placed here to go after the stone after it was moved from Gringotts. So Merlin will just have to make sure he doesn’t succeed in that. Currently there’s no reason to make a move. They can watch Quirrell, possibly gain information or access to Riddle through him. At the very least it will stall him while Harry gets through school. There’s no need to interrupt your enemy when they’re making a mistake.

Anyway, Quirrell’s class sucks and Merlin sleeps through it.

“What have we got today?” Harry asks Ron over toast on Friday. 

“Double Potions with the Slytherins. Snape’s Head of Slytherin House. They say he always favors them — we’ll be able to see if it’s true.” 

“Wish McGonagall favored us,” Harry moans, no doubt thinking of the mound of Transfiguration homework he’s drowning in at the moment.

“I told you I’d help you with that, didn’t I?”, Merlin reminds him. “Arthur will too.”

“Oh, I will, will I?”

“Yeah.”

The mail arrives. As usual, there’s a notable streak of blue in amongst the stream of brown and black owls pouring in, smaller than the rest and a sight quicker. This bird wastes no time on circling, diving straight for her owners in a determined blur. Pandora dutifully drops a truly astonishing number of letters, having to almost unhinge her jaw to do so. The stack, about as thick as Harry’s arm, sits neatly between Merlin and Arthur. Merlin immediately starts lauding her with praise and strokes. She looks at him patronisingly even as she leans up into his hand. Arthur starts to go through the mail. 

Hedwig isn’t far behind her, flapping into a graceful landing before Harry’s marmalade toast. Harry blinks in surprise as he takes a letter from her beak, absently stroking her head as he flips it over. Merlin, who grew up reading Arthur’s chicken scratch, pities him. Whoever wrote that letter might be blind.

“It’s from Hagrid,” he tells the table. “He invited me over for tea. “‘Bring Em and his boy, and you can bring Ron too, if you like,’” he reads out. 

“Em’s boy? I resent that.”

“Mmkay, don’t care,” Merlin shoots back. “That’ll be fun!”

And it’s a good thing, too, because Potions is a train wreck. If his magic didn’t disagree, Merlin would think Snape wanted Harry dead, not Quirrell. Good goddess, what a sneer. The man has chronic tunnel vision à la Potter.

“Ah, yes,” the great vulture of a man hums through roll call, “Harry Potter. Our new — celebrity.”
Ah, yes, Severus Snape, Merlin’s new pain in the arse. Really, how difficult are the teachers here trying to make the first year of high school?
“You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potion making,” he begins. He speaks quietly, but you can’t mistake him. “As there is little foolish wand-waving here, many of you will hardly believe this is magic. I don’t expect you will really understand the beauty of the softly simmering cauldron with its shimmering fumes, the delicate power of liquids that creep through human veins, bewitching the mind, ensnaring the senses....I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, even stopper death — if you aren’t as big a bunch of dunderheads as I usually have to teach.” 

Merlin deflates. What a bully. He sounds like Arthur. Merlin resists the urge to pull Hermione Granger back down into her seat where she’s nearly falling out of it with eagerness.

“Potter!” Snape snaps suddenly (Ooh, say that five times fast). “What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?” 

Hermione’s hand shoots into the air.

“I don’t know, sir,” Harry admits. Snape’s lips curl into a sneer. 

“Tut, tut — fame clearly isn’t everything.” He ignores Hermione’s hand and Merlin’s glare. 

“Let’s try again. Potter, where would you look if I told you to find me a bezoar?” 

Hermione stretches her hand as high into the air as it can go without her leaving her seat. Malfoy and his cronies are silently shaking in fits of laughter as Harry gulps. 

“I don’t know, sir.”

“Thought you wouldn’t open a book before coming, eh, Potter?”

Snape is still ignoring Hermione’s quivering hand.

“What is the difference, Potter, between monkshood and wolfsbane?” 

Hermione stands up. This time Merlin doesn’t stop himself from pulling her back into her seat. 

“Monkshood and Wolfsbane aren’t covered until second year,” he answers for his friend. Snape’s cold gaze snaps to him. In fact, everyone's does. “I think Hermione might know, though, why don’t you ask her?”

“Sit down,” he bites cuttingly in her direction, eyes still trained on Merlin.

“Since you know so much about the subject, Mr. Emrys, why don’t you come up and teach the class?”

Merlin pretends to think about it. He vaguely processes Arthur out of the corner of his eye slamming his head into the desk knowing there’s nothing he can do to stop Merlin from saying whatever he’s about to say, and resigning himself to their fate.

“I don’t know, sir, what’s the salary like?”

The people too startled to hide their laughter bark. A few chairs squeal as their users push them out suddenly to duck their heads out of sight and stifle their snickers. Arthur sighs. Ron and Harry stare open-mouthed and goggle-eyed at the standoff between him and Snape. Hermione is so startled she actually sits down.

"Fifteen points from Gryffindor.” Groans ring out. “And I want an essay from you about the difference between Monkshood and Wormwood on my desk by Monday. You will learn, in this classroom, to curb that cheek."

“I thought we were learning potions in this classroom.”

Arthur lets out a low exasperated groan from his position with his face smushed into the table. The class has gone silent. Merlin worries Ron’s eyes might fall out of his head.

“Headmaster’s office,” Snape grits. “Now.”

Chapter Text

Snape can’t actually send Merlin to the Headmaster’s office for something so trivial, so he goes to McGonagall, leaving Arthur with a class full of children and a teacher so childish he might be worse. The ridiculous man finds some godforsaken reason to blame Harry for his own pitiful teaching and Gryffindor loses another house point. Honestly, the man is giving Arthur flashbacks to his father. What the hell did Harry do to him? Where is the animosity coming from? Arthur usually wouldn’t bother, but with how Snape’s so happy to abuse his power it might actually be worth looking into. Or doing something. Sweet Avalon.

Harry looks pretty miserable by the end of Potions, particularly at the loss of house points. Arthur has news for him if he thinks losing a couple measly points is the worst that can happen. Ron seems to agree, telling him his twin brothers lose points all the time. Arthur takes the opportunity to fix up Harry’s glasses, which surprises them both enough to take their minds right off their gloom.

“Woah! You did real magic!”, Harry gasps.

“But- but we’re not allowed to do it in the halls!”, Ron adds. “Bloody brilliant, though.”

Arthur snorts. That rule hasn’t been enforced since it was written. It’s a surprise they even bother reminding students of it at all.

“You can’t very well run around with glasses like that, Harry, your depth perception’s fu- ah, messed up. Can’t do much about your wand, Ron, but I really suggest you get that fixed up. It’s dangerous, the core’s poking out, see? You’ll hurt somebody.”

Ron’s ears bloom pink and he ducks his head down quickly, muttering something about the expense.

“We’ll pay for it. No, shut up,” he says with finality, cutting off Ron’s attempt to refuse. He can’t be arsed with common niceties right now. “Really, don’t sweat it, we have money to spare and I’d like to make it through this year without fearing for my life from that toothpick you got there. We can go this weekend, I’m sure McGonagall will give us leave or something.”

Truly, it’s a mystery how someone hasn’t bustled him out to get it fixed already. It’s not safe taking a wand like that to school. They’ll make an exception. Harry and Ron are bouncing all the way to Hagrid’s with this promise of a new wand for him, speculating what kind he might get.

“I’ve never had me own before…”, Ron breathes reverently. Well, no wonder he’s having trouble. “You… you really don’t mind? It’s not… that’s a big deal, Arthur.”

Yeah, no it’s not. He just shrugs. 

“Call it self-preservation. Every day you wave that thing is a risk to me and my peace of mind.”

At five to three they leave the castle and make their way across the grounds. They’re absolutely stunning. Arthur always thought of castles as being the centre of a town, or a citadel, a fortress with a bustling world of commoners and nobles around it. Hogwarts is none of that. Beyond the castle walls there’s rolling fields, hills that dip and crest and that wondrous lake of course. It’s not unlike the front door to their house, the cottage he and Merlin built in the middle of that seemingly endless field. There’s no lower town or markets or anything. It’s isolating and beautiful. Arthur knows a thing or two about isolation, and he likes to think he knows about beauty too, what with living out his limitless years with Merlin. 

Hagrid’s house isn’t too unlike their little cottage entrance either, although from what Arthur can tell there’s nothing overly magical about it. The cobblestones are heaped upon each other haphazardly, seemingly held together by sheer force and moss, which grows in alarming abundance around the place, seeping through every crack it can. It’s a round thing with a roof about twice the height of the walls, and Arthur immediately warms to it, thinking of their small dining room and the original round table organised so everyone is equally present. 

A crossbow leans against the massive wooden door next to a size XXXXL pair of galoshes which might have been a discernible colour once. Harry’s the one to knock, but the door’s so thick that his timid raps barely carry, so Arthur gives it a couple of good hammers. Several booming barks respond.

“Back, Fang, back- “, comes Hagrid’s muffled voice. His big, hairy face appears in the crack as he pulls the portcullis of a door open. “Hang on,” he says. “Back, Fang.” 

He shuffles back to let them in, keeping a hold on the collar of an equally enthusiastic and enormous black boarhound. All three of them push on inside and the door slams shut behind them, a little too heavy for Harry to temper. 

There are two rooms, round as the outside suggested. The interior walls are lopsided as well, furthering the notion that the place was built with enough determination to make up for the lack of planning. The moss serving as grout doesn’t overstep inside, probably on account of the lack of sunlight and the roaring fireplace. There’s a fourth of the room that Fang’s clearly staked out as his own, purposely set as far from the pheasants and hams hanging up as possible. A copper kettle boils merrily along on the open fire. Through the only other door leading off to the second circular room Arthur can see a giant-sized bed with a patchwork quilt covering it. Merlin smiles and waves at them from his seat at the table by the window.

“Em! You’re alright?!”, Ron gasps.

“We thought you were done for!”, Harry agrees.

“Make yerselves at home,” booms Hagrid happily, letting go of Fang, who bounds straight at Ron and starts licking his ears. Like Hagrid, Fang is clearly not as fierce as he looks. “Em already go’ here before ye’s, said ye shouldn’ be long.”

“This is Ron,” Harry suddenly remembers to tell Hagrid, presenting his friend awkwardly. Hagrid gives him a nod from where he’s pouring tea and setting what look like rocks on plates. 

“Another Weasley, eh?” he notes, glancing at Ron’s freckles. “I spent half me life chasin’ yer twin brothers away from the forest.”

The rocks turn out to be ‘rock cakes’, but don’t let that fool you. They hold all of the traits of real rocks. Still, they all pretend to enjoy them. Arthur hears Ron’s tooth crunch a little once and winces in sympathy. They tell Hagrid all about their first lessons. Fang rests his head on Harry’s knee and drools all over his robes. 

“And why was ye’s split up like tha’? Never seen you twos apart before,” Hagrid asks Merlin and Arthur. 

“Yeah. Why was that, Em?”, Arthur asks pointedly.

“Snape and I had a little disagreement, that’s all.”

“Well, I can’t fault ye for tha’, but you oughtta be careful o’ yer teachers. ’Specially Snape.”

“Why?”, Harry asks suspiciously, leaning forward in his seat. 

“Gallopin’ gargoyles boy, because he’s yer teacher!”, Hagrid reminds him. Harry slumps back, disappointed. Well, he probably thinks he’s being slick about it, but he looks very huffy.

“Try to tone it down. We don’t need the attention,” Arthur says. Merlin rolls his eyes in begrudging acknowledgment. Arthur knows damn well he can’t keep his head down in the face of tyranny, and Merlin knows that Arthur sometimes finds it hard to face. They’ve often returned to that question: did Arthur let Uther push him around too long? Was Merlin too outspoken towards his superiors? Neither of them blame each other for it anymore, and at this point they swap offences as often as not, but whoever’s not pushing the envelope on any given day has to reel the other in. No one’s actually to blame except Snape. 

Harry and Ron are delighted to hear Hagrid call Filch ‘that old git.’

“An’ as fer that cat, Mrs. Norris, I’d like ter introduce her to Fang sometime. D’yeh know, every time I go up ter the school, she follows me everywhere? Can’t get rid of her — Filch puts her up to it.”

“She follows Myrridian everywhere,” Harry poses.

“Who? Oh, Em. Tha’s another matter, inn’it? Ol’ fleabag loves him.”

“You know, she’d probably be much more agreeable if people stopped threatening to kick her. And if she didn’t have a nasty old bag of bones who gets off on torture for a familiar,” Merlin allows. 

“Familiar?” Harry echoes. 

“Sure. Most witches and wizards have one- personally, I don’t think you’re much of a magic-user if you don’t. Like Hedwig, Harry.”

Ron frowns. “Well, Hedwig’s Harry’s familiar, but you said it like he’s hers as well. Like it goes both ways."

Merlin frowns right back. “It does. You are as integral to them as they are to you. It’s a two way bond. You don’t own a familiar, it’s not a pet, not really.”

Hagrid beams like Merlin’s put the sun in the sky. Arthur hides his snicker behind his hand as the giant man claps Merlin on the back, sending him all but sprawling across the table, teeth rattling in his skull. 

“Tha’s right! Couldn’ta said it better meself! They’re real intelligent, familiars, not like any ol’ critter ya find. You take care o’ tha’ bird o’ yers, Harry- and yer rat, Ron.”

Arthur frowns at the reminder. They still need to do something about him. They’ll have to get him alone somehow. Maybe they can convince Ron he pulled a Trevor.

While Ron tells Hagrid all about Charlie’s work with dragons, Merlin listening closely, Harry picks up a piece of paper that was lying on the table under the tea cozy. Arthur reads it over his shoulder. 

GRINGOTTS BREAK-IN LATEST

Investigations continue into the break-in at Gringotts on 31 July, widely believed to be the work of Dark wizards or witches unknown. Gringotts goblins today insisted that nothing had been taken. The vault that was searched had in fact been emptied the same day. 

“But we’re not telling you what was in there, so keep your noses out if you know what’s good for you,” said a Gringotts spokesgoblin this afternoon. 

“Hagrid!” Harry exclaims suddenly, “that Gringotts break-in happened on my birthday! It might’ve been happening while we were there!” 

Oh, Hagrid. As fond as Arthur already is of the great lug, he’s rubbish at subterfuge. There’s no mistaking Hagrid’s anxious shifting at the comment. 

“Wouldja like another rock cake?”, he grunts evasively. Arthur almost slaps his forehead. Harry’s a sharp kid, he doesn’t miss a tick. Arthur can already see him putting the pieces together in his head.

🪨 

Harry’s groan pulls Arthur over to him where he’s staring up at the notice board in the common room that Tuesday. He reads it over his shoulder.

FIRST YEAR FLYING LESSONS 

Thursday Sept 12 - Upper field

Mandatory Attendance

Gryffindor/Slytherin - 9:00am

Ravenclaw/Hufflepuff - 2:15pm

“Typical,” grumbles Harry darkly. “Just what I always wanted. To make a fool of myself on a broomstick in front of Malfoy.” 

“Who?”, Arthur asks. Two weeks in and he already has a crush? A Slytherin? Maybe the divide isn’t so great after all.

Ron looks at him like he’s grown an extra head. 

“Malfoy? Great blonde git, built like a bleached scarecrow?”

Arthur frowns, thinking back. 

“The… the kid from the train?”

“Don’t tell me you already forgot!”

“How did you remember? There are plenty of blonde gits, and that was weeks ago, I haven’t seen him since. Why’re we worried about him?”

“Where’ve you been the past few weeks?”, Ron demands incredulously.

“Malfoy’s always talking about how good he is with a broom already. I’ve never even seen a broom. I’ll look a complete fool,” Harry bemoans.

Arthur shakes his head. “Mate, I don’t wanna tell you who to chase, but he seems a right tosser to me. Not worth the attention.”

“Chase him? He’s chasing me!”

“I know, but you don’t have to rise to it if you’re not into him. He’s still a tosser, can’t even flirt respectably.”

Ron and Harry’s eyes nearly pop out of their skulls, jaws on the floor. Arthur looks between them in mounting confusion. 

“WH-“

“HE-“

“N-N- “

“BUH-!"

“What are we stammering about today, boys?”, Merlin asks silkily, sidling up beside Arthur, looking between them all. Clearly they’re all as confused as each other.

“Harry’s trying to impress Malfoy,” Arthur explains.

“Who?”

“Thank you!”

Merlin shakes his head. Arthur is not being helpful. 

“I’m not trying to- i-im-impress him!”, Harry cries shrilly, face about as red as Ron’s hair. Arthur didn’t know skin his shade could get that red. If that was possible he’s sure Gwen would’ve been the one to prove it.

“FLIRT?!”, Ron chokes. Harry’s eyes widen even further and he hits his friend a little hard to get him to quieten down.

“I think… I think we’re all a little confused here,” Arthur says, waving his hands around in a circle to indicate all of them with an uncertain nod. 

“I don’t understand, is this the blonde kid with the crush on Harry?”, Merlin asks, immediately sending the rest of them back into hysterics. 

“What? Is that not what-? You know what, I’m leaving,” he finishes. Arthur gives him a wide-eyed look of distress that screams ‘don’t leave me’ which he happily turns his back on, abandoning the three of them to sort their shit out.

(Here's a hint: They do not.)

“Can’t believe the first years don’t get places on the House Quidditch teams. I’d be Seeker, of course. It’s the best position, I’ve always been good at it. The best, my father says, for my age. Say, have you heard about the time I narrowly avoided that muggle helicopter? That’s when I knew I wanted to be a Seeker,” the blonde git in question denotes proudly over the next couple of days within Harry’s hearing range. His nose is stuck up in the air, and though he’s talking to a crowd, his eyes shoot across to Harry every other sentence, waiting for a reaction. Merlin snorts. 

“Goddess, if he tried any harder he’d be sniffing up his skirts,” Arthur mumbles.

“Leave him alone, he’s only a boy.”

“Can’t believe the way he sounds, though. Such a prat.”

“Mm, can’t think of anyone like that. Sound like anyone you know?”, Merlin asks innocently.

“No, no, I’d never be friends with someone who could be such an ass,” Arthur returns without missing a beat. Merlin snorts much louder this time.

“Nor I one who could be so stupid,” he giggles.

“I feel kind of bad though. Look at ‘im,” Arthur says jutting his head in Harry’s direction. The poor kid’s bright red again, head ducked down and hiding behind his hair. When Ron says something he nearly jumps a foot in the air so intent was he at listening to Malfoy’s drivel. 

“Oh, he could do much better,” Merlin assures Arthur. Arthur hits him. 

Lo and behold, it all comes to a head. Mail time is always easy pickings for Malfoy, ripping open packages of sweets and things from home while Harry pats Hedwig, who only shows up to make him feel better. With Malfoy watching the Gryffindor table so close, though, it’s not hard for him to catch Neville opening his remembrall, a token from his Gran back home.

Neville’s trying to remember what he’s forgotten when the Malfoy struts past, snatching it right out of his hands. Ron and a slightly pink Harry shoot up from their seats, glaring over at him. Malfoy practically beams at the attention. Arthur groans and buries his head in his arms. He was not that bad. He was not.

“What’s going on?”

Ah, McGonagall, an angel with a devil’s glare, swooping in at precisely the right moment. Gods bless her.

“Malfoy’s got my Remembrall, Professor,” Neville admits.

Scowling, Malfoy drops the Remembrall back on the table, rolling it around once or twice with his slender fingers.

“Just looking,” he drawls, gliding away with those cronies of his behind him.

At three-thirty that afternoon, Harry, Ron, and the other Gryffindors hurry down the front steps onto the grounds for their first flying lesson. It’s a clear, breezy day, and the grass ripples under their feet as they march down the sloping lawns toward a smooth, flat lawn on the opposite side of the grounds to the forbidden forest, whose trees sway darkly in the distance. It’s a day that makes Arthur want to forget where he is, just grab Merlin and run off and have a picnic somewhere the knights and teachers and whoever else won’t find them. But alas, children they must play.

Twenty broomsticks lined up neatly (almost worryingly so) along the ground in front of the first year Slytherins greet them. They’re nothing to write home about, these brooms- in fact, Arthur would be inclined to leave them out of the letter at all costs.

The hawk-like woman from the feast, Madame Hooch, arrives. Her eyes are sharp and yellow, her face angular and slanted with severity. Her short, grey hair sticks up in directed spikes. 

“Well, what are you all waiting for?” she barks, voice distorting with the wind and the openness. Gods, it would be so easy to ignore everything out here. Maybe they can come out here on their own later for a nap in the sun or something, or even a swim.

“Everyone stand by a broomstick. Come on, hurry up.” 

The lesson is nothing short of tedious from there. Arthur can’t help it, the sun feels too nice to be standing around- either he should be working, training, moving, or passed out in the grass. This is none of those things and it’s near impossible to pay attention.

A whistle blows, slicing through his hazy thoughts, and Arthur looks around. Is that- is that their cue to get on or something? Are they flying yet?

He doesn’t need to think about it much longer, because he’s caught sight of a quivering Neville, so spooked his broom is having fun with him. 

“Come back, boy!” Hooch shouts (Arthur thinks), but Neville rises straight up like a cork shot out of a bottle — twelve feet — twenty feet. Arthur’s face draws pale as he watches. Someone’s going to have to get him down, he could get seriously hurt. He's leaping onto his own broom to do it himself when-

WHAM!

 — a thud and a nasty crack and Neville lies facedown on the grass in a heap. His broomstick goes on its own merry way, off to become another casualty of the Forbidden Forest, but Arthur only has eyes for the boy. Hooch rushes over, her face as white as his. “Broken wrist,” she mutters. “Come on, boy — it’s all right, up you get.”

Arthur lets out a breath. The boy’s fine.

“None of you is to move while I take this boy to the hospital wing! You leave those brooms where they are or you’ll be out of Hogwarts before you can say ‘Quidditch.’ Come on, dear.” 

Neville, his face tear-streaked, clutching his wrist, hobbles off with Madam Hooch, who has her arm around him. Arthur internally groans. 

She's just left the unsupervised first years with brooms they’re forbidden to ride. Worse, she's left Harry and Malfoy with brooms they’re forbidden to ride, and they’re currently in a flirtatious(?) game of chicken where the only rule is ‘look what I can do.”

Sure enough, the second they’re out of earshot Malfoy bursts into laughter. 

“Did you see his face, the great lump?”

Some other Slytherins laugh, a couple of Gryffindors too.

“Shut up, Malfoy,” snaps Parvati Patil. 

“Ooh, sticking up for Longbottom?” calls Pansy Parkinson, a hard-faced Slytherin girl. “Never thought you’d like fat little crybabies, Parvati.” 

Dear gods, what is it, in the water? Teens and their hormones! Arthur shudders to think how he would’ve acted had Merlin shown up when he was eleven.

“Look!” jeers Malfoy, darting forward and snatching something out of the grass. “It’s that stupid thing Longbottom’s Gran sent him.” 

The Remembrall glitters in the sun as he holds it up. 

“Give that here, Malfoy,” Harry says quietly, stepping forward. Everyone stops talking to watch. 

In the name of Avalon…

Malfoy smiles nastily.

“I think I’ll leave it somewhere for Longbottom to find — how about — up a tree?”

Noooooooo.

“Give it here!” Harry yells, but Malfoy has already leapt onto his broomstick and taken off. Really, he’s only trying to bait you up there, Potter, surely Harry’s not so stupid as to-

“Come and get it, Potter!” 

Harry grabs his broom.

“No!” shout Hermione and Merlin at the same time. 

“Madam Hooch told us not to move— you’ll get us all into trouble,” she hisses. Uh, yeah, not the biggest concern at the moment, but whatever works. 

“Seriously, Harry, don’t do it,” Merlin agrees much more seriously. 

Harry ignores them, because of course he does. Arthur curses under his breath and swings his own leg around his broom, ready to shoot forward and catch them should they need it. Merlin hops onto his own, trailing under Harry as he flies parallel to the ground, so Arthur shadows Malfoy. And, alright, maybe he has a smug grin on when he watches Harry absolutely stun the audience with raw natural talent and Malfoy adopts a look like he’s been backhanded with his own broom.

“Give it here,” Harry calls, “or I’ll knock you off that broom!” 

“Oh, yeah?” says Malfoy, trying to sneer, but looking worried. Worried, or impressed, possibly faint, who even knows. Arthur himself was pretty confused when Merlin talked back to him in the market square all those years ago, and the parallels are starting to get ridiculous. 

Harry charges Malfoy, who only just gets out of the way in time, and deftly spins around to face him in the air again, face set, but with a secret grin pulling at the corners of his mouth. A few people are clapping in the crowd. Ron’s cheering like a maniac. 

“No Crabbe and Goyle up here to save your neck, Malfoy,” Harry taunts. 

“Catch it if you can, then!” The other boy challenges, throwing the glass ball high into the air and streaking back toward the ground. 

Harry’s dive is so sharp and fast Arthur almost misses it, more from surprise than anything else. The kid’s as fast as a bullet, and by the time Arthur’s shot off to help Merlin should it all go terribly wrong in a moment, it’s over. People barely have time to scream.

Harry topples across the ground and up onto his knees, crystal ball glinting victoriously in his fist.

“HARRY POTTER!”

And once again, McGonagall proves her uncanny ability to show up at the best and/or worst times.

“Never — in all my time at Hogwarts— how dare you — might have broken your neck —” 

Arthur takes the opportunity to hop off of his broom before anyone notices he was sort of flying too.

“It wasn’t his fault, Professor —”

“Be quiet, Miss Patil —”

“But Malfoy —” 

“That’s enough, Mr. Weasley. Potter, follow me, now.”

He exchanges a look with Merlin. If Harry’s destined to be expelled in his first few weeks of school, they’re gonna have to leave too. They JUST got here. Arthur was starting to like it, he and Ron are close, and he knows Merlin likes Hermione. Neville and Luna too. They’ll have to figure out new names and get new papers, explain it all to Festus, and Morgana will laugh at them, and they’ll have to find an excuse to follow Harry wherever he ends up…

Ugh. Stupid Malfoy. Just ask him out like the adult you aren’t!

That doesn’t happen. In fact, Harry makes team seeker. The youngest in a century. Maybe Arthur is starting to identify with Malfoy a little too much, because the completely earned look of dumbfounded shock and horror on his face when he finds out kind of hurts a little. 

🔮 

Hermione backtracks from where she was passing the Gryffindor table, hoping against hope she didn’t just hear what she thought she did.

“Of course he has,” Ron shoots, wheeling around. “I’m his second, who’s yours?” 

Malfoy looks at Crabbe and Goyle, sizing them up.
“Crabbe,” he decides. “Midnight all right? We’ll meet you in the trophy room; that’s always unlocked.” And he struts away, haughty as you please. Hermione’s heart pools into her shoes.

“What is a wizard’s duel?” Harry asks, and she nearly screams. He agreed without even knowing?! “And what do you mean, you’re my second?” 

“Well, a second’s there to take over if you die,” Ron informs him casually, getting started at last on his cold pie. Catching the look on Harry’s face, he adds quickly, “But people only die in proper duels, you know, with real wizards. The most you and Malfoy’ll be able to do is send sparks at each other. Neither of you knows enough magic to do any real damage. I bet he expected you to refuse, anyway.” 

“And what if I wave my wand and nothing happens?”

“Throw it away and punch him on the nose,” Ron suggests. 

“Excuse me,” Hermione interrupts with more self-restraint than she knew she possessed.

“Can’t a person eat in peace in this place?” Ron asks, glaring at her. Hermione ignores him and speaks to Harry. She’s already pretty much determined Ron Weasley a lost cause.

“I couldn’t help overhearing what you and Malfoy were saying —” 

“Bet you could,” Ron mutters. See? Lost cause.

“— and you mustn’t go wandering around the school at night, think of the points you’ll lose Gryffindor if you’re caught, and you’re bound to be. It’s really very selfish of you,” she says reasonably. 

“And it’s really none of your business,” Harry returns. 

“Good-bye,” Ron says politely. 

She has to stop them. She just has to. Gryffindor would never recover, that is if they survive once Filch is done with them. And all over some- some stupid rivalry with Malfoy! Honestly, he’s not even worth it! BOYS! She’s only ever met one with a lick of sense.

Wait.

Of course! If she tells Myrridian what they’re up to, maybe they’ll listen to him! Surely, they’ll have to, he has a way of getting you to listen to him, you’d have to be stupid not to, he’s obviously very clever. 

Hermione is set then, in her decision to wait for them to come back to the Gryffindor common room. They have to go through there to get to the dorms. She’s set in this plan, even as Harry and Ron give her withering glares as they go up themselves.

The only problem is, Myrridian and Arthur don’t come back. 

Maybe they’re lost, she reasons. They’re new students just like the rest of them, and no matter how clever you are, you’re sure to get lost a couple of times. She’s gotten quite turned around herself on two occasions. But surely they can ask a passing ghost or a painting? A teacher will pass them soon, they’ll help. 

But they don’t come. 

Hermione sits and watches the minutes tick down to curfew. 

Twenty minutes.

Fifteen minutes. 

Seven minutes. 

Six. 

Five. 

Four…

They can’t be that lost. Surely. Surely…

Three.

Two.

What on earth…?

One.

Hermione shoots up and starts pacing. Where in the hell are they?! They’ll be late for curfew, and then they’ll be in trouble! The Fat Lady may already have reported them!

As the last minute ticks to a close, Hermione dashes out the portrait door, whirling around the face the guardian of Gryffindor.

“I say, Miss Granger. It’s just come curfew. You’d better get back in there, lucky I caught you-“

“Did Myrridian and Arthur pass through?!”

She blinks, taken aback.

“Well- well, that’s hardly any business of yours. Now, I’d suggest you worry about missing curfew, McGonagall should be around for the report soon-“

“Oh, please don’t report them! Harry and Ron are going to- I need them to- I’ll look for them!”

“No you won’t! They can look after themselves. I’m not worried, so you shouldn’t be either. Get back inside.”

“They haven’t come through yet, have they?”

“Hermione-“

“Just tell me.”

The look she gets in return is enough for Hermione to be sure.

She returns back inside, but she doesn’t go upstairs. Instead she waits until she hears the Fat Lady give her report through the door, ear pressed against the wood.

“Good evening, my Lady.”

“Professor McGonagall. It is rather, isn’t it?”

“You’ve seemed in good spirits lately. Anything I should know about?”, McGonagall asks archly. The Fat Lady titters. 

“Oh no, deary, nothing that concerns you over in the three dimensional plane.”

“Mhm,” she hums without conviction. “Anything to note? Everyone’s inside?”

“Yes, all accounted for.”

Hermione’s so shocked she doesn’t hear McGonagall’s reply. 

Why is the Fat Lady covering for a couple of first years?

She gives it thirty minutes to the second before she sneaks out herself. It’s only an hour to midnight now, there’s no time to lose.

Hermione’s heart beats painfully hard against her ribs the entire time she searches, terrified she’s about to be caught. She checks everywhere she can think Myrridian and Arthur might be- the library first, of course, the Owlery, the med bay, the hallways, maybe stuck in a trick stair. She comes up empty.

Hagrid’s hut, maybe? She knows they went down there with Harry and Ron earlier this week, maybe they lost track of time. She’s hesitant to check, because they’ll hardly have the time to run back if she walks all the way out there, and they might not even be there at all, but there’s no use wasting time worrying about it. It’s the last place she can think of. 

Before she even reaches Hagrid’s, though, she hears splashing in the water, and something gently humming. It’s the strangest sound she’s ever heard before, and it might be the moonlight, but something in the water almost seems to be glowing. Then she catches sight of the twin Gryffindor ties discarded by the shore, among them a familiar red scarf.

🦑 

“Tell me, Potter, do you know how to walk on your knees?”, Merlin gloats under his breath. Arthur pushes him into the lake. Merlin drags him in by the ankle.

“Don’t the merfolk live in here?”, Arthur asks offhandedly.

“They’re fine with us swimming. We have an agreement.”

“And the giant squid?”

“Oh, c’mere, you can meet him!”

The giant squid isn’t a squid. Arthur’s not sure what it is, but it’s definitely magical, as glowy and huge as it is. Its tentacles stroke across Merlin’s cheeks like a loving mother, or an excited child. Merlin lights up, and not just in the glow. In the dark, with the concentrated light thrown across his pale face, streaking blue through his silky hair like lightning and inspiring something to bloom in those eyes of his, lips slightly parted- yeah, Arthur knows a thing or two about beauty. 

Arthur isn’t ready to go when they approach the surface. He wants to take his time pulling Merlin back to the shore, distracting him and letting the light work its wonders over him and maybe kissing him just a little bit. Unfortunately, he doesn’t get the choice. Someone is yelling at them.

“-IAN! ARTHUR! MYRRIDIAN! MYRR-“ the girl gasps as they break the surface. Her panicked voice is too loud, cutting through the untouchable bubble of perfect they’ve cut out for themselves here in the Black Lake. Arthur blinks the water out of his eyes. Are they late for curfew or something? Ugh. Rules.

“You’re alright! Thank Merlin!”

They both freeze just a little there. Merlin coughs, swallowing some lake water.

“What- Hermione?” Arthur asks, finally recognising the girl. 

“Get out of there! You can’t swim in the Black Lake, it’s not safe! I thought you were- and Harry and Ron- you both just- ugh! BOYS!”

Well, that’s not helpful. 

“What about Harry and Ron?”, Merlin asks wetly, still coughing.

“They agreed to a duel at midnight- will you get out of the lake!”

Arthur’s about to just go ahead and slope on out, but Merlin puts out a hand to stop him.

“Uh, can you turn around first?”

Hermione’s a little too dark to blush, but she does her darnedest, spinning around in place like a bottle cap, back rigid as a broomstick. Right, social conventions. They’re so different nowadays. It’s a wonder Merlin can keep track.

Both of them wade out of the lake more hurriedly than they would’ve liked and set about throwing their clothes on and drying themselves off with a spell. Arthur is fairly sure he’s wearing Merlin’s tie now, his was never this skinny. 

“What’s this about a duel?”, he demands, pulling his socks on.

“A duel! Right, yes, a duel!”, Hermione squeaks. “Malfoy challenged him to a duel at midnight, and Ron’s going as his second! You’ve got to talk them out of it, you’ve just got to!”, she begs, momentarily forgetting herself and turning around. They’re mostly dressed by now but she still acts like she’s got an eyeful and spins right around again. 

“Sorry!”

“It’s fine, where’s this duel happening?”, Arthur responds dismissively even though he's pretty sure she was talking to Merlin.

“The trophy room, I heard them talking about it. You know how much trouble they’ll get into, you have to stop them.”

“Nevermind how dangerous it is,” Merlin mutters. “Those two. Honestly.”

Arthur grunts in agreement.

“Come on then,” he orders, leading the group back up to the castle.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

They’ve just rounded the corner to the trophy room hallway when there comes a great crash as from one of the suits of armour around the castle. 

“RUN!” they hear Harry scream. They race after his voice. 

It isn’t hard to catch up with them, especially with the advantage of knowing the castle like the back of their hands. They all but slam right into them outside Flitwick’s classroom. Ron lets out a startled yelp, nearly pinwheeling to the floor in surprise. 

“I — told — you,” Hermione gasps, clutching at the stitch in her chest, “I — told — you.” 

“What are you— even doing here!”, Ron hisses back.

Arthur cuts them both off. “We’ve got to get back to Gryffindor tower, quickly as possible.” 

“Malfoy tricked you,” Hermione bites cuttingly, still intent on rubbing it in. “You realize that, don’t you? He was never going to meet you — Filch knew someone was going to be in the trophy room, Malfoy must have tipped him off.” 

“This way,” Merlin interrupts. They can argue about it all day tomorrow if they like, they’ve got to get back now. The last thing they need is attention.

Unfortunately, he hasn’t led them a dozen paces when Peeves shoots out of a rattling doorway, his back to Merlin, Arthur, and Hermione. 

His eyes go wide and gleeful as he lets out a squeal of delight, clasping his hands together beside his ghostly face.

 “Shut up, Peeves — please — you’ll get us thrown out,” Harry begs. Arthur whips around, dragging Merlin to a stop beside him.

“Wandering around at midnight, Ickle Firsties? Tut, tut, tut. Naughty, naughty, you’ll get caughty.” 

“Not if you don’t give us away, Peeves, please.”
“Should tell Filch, I should,” sing-songs Peeves in a saintly voice, but his eyes glitter wickedly. “It’s for your own good, you know.”
“Get out of the way,” snaps Ron, taking an unwise swipe at the ghost before Merlin can snatch his hand back.

“STUDENTS OUT OF BED!” Peeves bellows, “STUDENTS OUT OF BED DOWN THE CHARMS CORRID—“ 

Suddenly he freezes, eyes blown wide as he notices the immortal pair he overlooked. He floats back in place sharply, hand shooting to his mouth.

“Oh, deary.”

Merlin levels him with a serious look as Arthur speaks for both of them.

“You will not let him find us, Peeves,” he orders with monumental finality.

“No. No, no I won’t. Not on my watch,” he agrees, flying off to head off Filch. Filch, who’s rounded the corner down the hall and is marching dead at them.

The kids scramble in the other direction, shooting down yet another corridor and slamming into the only available door.
“This is it!” Ron moans as they throw themselves helplessly at the door, “We’re 

done for! This is the end!”
“Oh, move over,” Hermione snarls. She grabs Harry’s wand, taps

the lock, and whispers, “Alohomora!”
The lock clicks and the door swings open with a subtle creak, sending them all tumbling through it.“

“Wait, Arthur—“

“Shh!”

“Which way did they go, Peeves?” Filch’s muffled voice comes through the heavy door. The first years press their ears against it. “Quick, tell me.” 

“Say ‘please.’”

“Don’t mess with me, Peeves, now where did they go?” 

“Shan’t say nothing if you don’t say please,” gloats Peeves in his annoying singsong voice. 

“All right — please.”

“NOTHING! Ha haaa! Told you I wouldn’t say nothing if you didn’t say please! Ha ha! Haaaaaa!” 

Merlin pulls Neville behind him. They’re the only ones who’ve noticed the giant three-headed dog slowly blinking at them and sniffing the air, eyes trained on Merlin.

“He thinks this door is locked,” Harry whispers. “I think we’ll be okay — get off, Neville! What?” 

Hermione breathes in sharply as if she never will again. Ron whimpers a little. Merlin doesn’t turn, keeping his eyes focussed on the Cerberus lest it turn on the others. It’s been a long time since he’s met one, and the dragons aren’t the only creature whose genes have muddled with time. It’s possible this modern descendant of the old race won’t recognise his Magic for what it is and will attack anyway. The only thing keeping it at bay now is it’s confusion. It’s never met something like Merlin before.

Someone opens the door, sending them all sprawling out into a heap on the floor. In another heartbeat they’re tearing down the corridors, racing through halls to get back to the dorm. They see hide nor hair of Filch, right up until they screech to a panting stop in front of Elizabeth. 

“Where on earth have you all been?” she demands breathily, looking at their bathrobes hanging off their shoulders and their flushed, sweaty faces. Then her eyes catch on Merlin and Arthur. Arthur shakes his head a little at her. 

“Never mind that — pig snout, pig snout,” Harry babbles. They all pile through and fall across the floor and chairs, trembling. 

The others collecting their breath gives Merlin time to collect his thoughts. So, Dumbledore gets his warning urging him to move the Stone to Hogwarts, where it will be safer. Dumbledore and everyone else involved assumes this is because the old man himself is in the school. Dumbledore decides the best way to protect it is to stick a bloody Cerberus in the third floor corridor behind a bog-standard locked door? A Cerberus?! Hermione unlocked that door with a simple spell! Granted, it’s a spell that’s beyond most first years, but by Avalon, is he serious?! 

“What do they think they’re doing, keeping a thing like that locked up in a school?” Ron gasps finally, and Merlin concurs. There are a thousand ways to guard something, what on earth gave them the idea to pick this?!

“You don’t use your eyes, any of you, do you?” Hermione snaps vehemently. “Didn’t you see what it was standing on?”

Damn. Merlin’s really going to have to start factoring Hermione into his plans. She’s far too smart, and if they don’t watch her, it’s going to bite them in the ass. Merlin catches Arthur comforting Neville while he follows the conversation.
“The floor?” Harry suggests. “I wasn’t looking at its feet, I was too busy with its heads.”
“No, not the floor. It was standing on a trapdoor. It’s obviously guarding something.”

She pulls herself up to her full height, which isn’t much, but they’re all still lying on the floor so she towers over them. Her glare is scalding enough to make up for it, and her bushy hair almost seems to bristle with indignation, making her triple her size. 

“I hope you’re pleased with yourselves. We could all have been killed — or worse, expelled. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to bed.” 

Ron stares after her, his mouth open.
“No, we don’t mind,” he said. “You’d think we dragged her along, wouldn’t you?”

“I feel pretty dragged along,” Merlin grumbles with a sideways glare at the two boys. Arthur stands up as Neville lopes off to bed, shoulders shaking. Merlin goes after him and Arthur turns to Ron and Harry, levelling them with a disapproving frown. His face, while calm, is much scarier than Hermione’s. Suddenly they feel very small.

“A duel. You put yourselves through all that because Malfoy told you to meet him in the middle of the night,” he summarises with utmost disappointment. “Hermione might not have her priorities straight, but she’s right here.”

“What! You were there too!”

“Yes, because that’s what I wanted to be doing at midnight on a Monday, chasing you lot down in case you’re running to your deaths. Breaking rules is one thing- it’s understandable, in certain cases. But this? There are more than house points at stake here. Even if nothing had gone wrong, what are the chances you would’ve come out of an unsupervised duel unharmed? Did you think at all?!”

Arthur looks between them scathingly. It sounds, objectively, like a lecture, but it feels so much worse. Harry can’t summon any of the belligerence and indignation lectures usually incite in him. He just feels ashamed. Even Ron can’t seem to protest, and Ron is a professional protestor.

“You might want to consider, next time,” Arthur continues quietly, “that there are people who will follow you into danger because they care about you. Whether it’s your own fault or not. Maybe it doesn’t seem so bad putting yourself at risk, but it could’ve been Hermione or Neville who got hurt tonight.”

That’s what they’re left to think about. Harry and Ron can hardly look at each other after that, all they can do is slide into bed and avoid each other’s eyes. 

Even beyond that, though, they gained new information tonight. The dog was guarding something...What did Hagrid say? 

Gringotts is the safest place in the world for something you want to hide — except perhaps Hogwarts. 

It looks as though Harry’s found out where the grubby little package from vault seven hundred and thirteen went. 

🐶🐶🐶

The next day as they’re making their way to the Great Hall for breakfast, Harry fills Ron, Merlin, and Arthur (who he still can’t quite look at) in on his suspicions. Merlin retracts his earlier statement: they’re all sharp, and it wouldn’t do to underestimate any one of them. Ron too, he suspects. Ugh. Of course they had to get the smart kids.

As they’re going, though, a hand shoots out from behind a tapestry and tugs on Merlin’s sleeve. It does not let go. Merlin pulls back, but the hand comes with it. It would seem that it’s not attached to an arm. 

Harry jumps, but Ron just groans and rolls his eyes.

“You’ve been summoned, mate.”

“Summoned? By who?”

“Fred and George. That’s their hand, they enchanted it a while ago so they could get people’s attention quietly. You’d better go see what they want, it doesn’t do well to ignore a summons from them.”

Merlin looks hesitantly between the freckled hand, now pointing behind the tapestry, and his friends. Arthur exchanges a look with him. He’ll fill him in on everything later.

Right, having a partner in crime makes everything so much easier.

“Save me a sausage,” he chirps over his shoulder as he goes, disappearing behind the tapestry. 

There’s no light in this corridor. That normally wouldn’t be a problem for Merlin, but seeing as he’s expecting to meet people he probably should refrain from using any vision magic that makes his eyes glow funky colours. So, wisely, he stays put. Or he tries to. No matter how many years he lives Merlin remains as clumsy as he always was; he manages to bang his head on some kind of sloped ceiling, trip over his own ankle, knock something over and get his hair caught in something else.

“Should we help him, Georgie?”

“Nah, I’m enjoying this.”

Oh, stuff this, they should learn Lumos later this year anyway.

“Lumos.”

Merlin almost snuffs out his wand immediately as two devious faces, pale as the moon, leer up at him alarmingly close. 

“Oooh, look at that- told you he was a find, Freddie.” 

“A second year spell, hm? Nice going, Em.”

Ah. Second year, then. Whoops.

“To what do I owe the pleasure, gentlemen?”

“Oh, I like him more every second,” Fred grins.

“Well, my little apprentice, you might have noticed we’ve taken an interest in you,” George explains. 

“Mm. Smart,”

“Witty,”

“Quite a laugh,”

“Probably down for a good prank-“

“-And smart enough to pull it off, too. Reminds us of us when we were your age,” he finishes. Merlin grins. Honestly, Merlin was thinking the same about them.

“I noticed you watching me, figured you’d come forward when you felt it right,” Merlin teases. The twins look impressed.

“There’s just one little thing we wanted to clarify with you first.”

George produces a yellowed piece of parchment paper, lovingly folded against his back pocket. 

“We have here a secret weapon.”

“Not our only one, of course-“

“-But we are fond of it.”

“What’s it do?”, Merlin asks, intrigued. There’s magic running through the make of the paper, and a lot of love. He finds himself leaning forward excitedly.

“Trade secret,” Fred winks.

“But we’re willing to share— ” George adds.

“— Conditionally.”

Merlin looks between them thoughtfully. “You want me to work with you… but that’s not all, is it?”

“Knew we made a good bet on you,” George says, eyes twinkling. 

“So we have a deal?”, Fred asks.

“I don’t even know what I’m agreeing to yet.”

“You just gotta help us figure something out, nothing huge. Call it a welcome-to-the-crew assignment. We think you’ll know, anyway.”

Merlin looks between their twin devilish grins warily. He certainly feels like he’s making a pact with the devil. That said, it’s not a bad deal, and really if you’re the strongest party in a deal then you can bend the conditions a little. He is in no danger.

“I accept.”

“Excellent,” they say together, mischief bleeding into the word. Merlin should wonder what he’s gotten himself into, but maybe he’s a little devilish himself, because he feels right at home. He echoes their grins.

Fred holds the parchment up while George taps it seriously with his wand. They watch him out of the corner of their eyes for a reaction.

“I solemnly swear that I am up to no good,” George annunciates. 

Ink bleeds slowly but deliberately across the page from the point of George’s wand, adhering to invisible lines and forms. Veins of red pulse across the paper, kissing each other and running away again.

Messrs Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot and Prongs are proud to present the Marauder’s Map.

“This here map tells the location of everyone in Hogwarts. Everyone.”

“Who they are—“

“What they’re doing—“

“Every minute—“

“Of every day.”

“That’s a serious piece of magic there,” Merlin purrs appreciatively.

“Man knows art when he sees it. This is where you come in. See, there’s just been one tiny thing that’s been bothering us,” Fred says lightly. This is when the implications of what they just said begin to sink in for Merlin.

It shows everyone… who they are.

“So, chum,” George continues with that same casual air his brother broached the topic in. “Care to tell us why you’re not on it?”

Chapter Text

Help me pick a design for Merlin and Arthur's married-forever rings:

Chapter Text

Right then. What are his choices here? Also, why is every kid he comes across so smart?

No, Merlin, focus. One thing at a time. What to tell them? They won’t take just anything.

“Well, he looks quite stunned, Georgie. Think we should help him out a bit?”

“Why not. As we figure it, these names are drawn from the records—“

“Ministry records, to be exact—“

“So the only logical conclusion—“

“Is that you’re not in them,” George finishes. Both of them turn their luminous, expectant faces on him in the gloom. Merlin feels ill.

He usually finds it best, in these situations, to just tell the truth. People don’t always like it, people don’t always believe it, and it doesn’t always go well. But what’s the alternative? He is a thousand years too old to keep up with the kind of drama that brings on. He just can’t be arsed to dig himself a deeper hole with every lie- he’s gotten better at that since Arthur joined him on this side of the truth.

Having said that, it doesn’t mean he has to give them the whole truth. Not so early.

“I’m not in them,” Merlin admits, watching their faces closely. Interestingly enough, where he expects to see the familiar twinkle of triumph that lives in the eyes of those proven right, there’s just expectancy. It’s unusual for kids their age to be right so often in their observations and suspicions that it’s not a surprise anymore, but there you go. People are always underestimating kids, and these twins are an example of why you really shouldn’t.

Merlin pulls himself up seriously in that way he does when he needs people to listen to him. It took a long time for him to learn the skill, but he was always jealous of Arthur’s powerful, commanding presence, and it’s exceedingly handy in times like these.

“Everything I tell you now is a secret, and it must remain as such. That is of utmost importance. I’m going to tell you, not because of your discovery, but because I respect you and I believe you are good men who want the same things I do.”

The twins subconsciously draw themselves up to echo Merlin’s solemn posture and tone, meeting his eyes. They might have expected it to be serious, but Merlin knows they couldn’t have expected him to be that much more than he appeared. Even with the knowledge that he isn’t who he says he is, it’s a near impossible thing to conjure up anything close to the truth in relation to the goofy, bumbling first year with cauliflower ears and a penchant for tripping over air. That’s the whole idea. Merlin knows it can be very jarring when he turns around and adopts another face.

Even now, looking into their eyes with gravitas, Merlin can tell they have yet to pass judgment. No matter how much they like him, and even after all that flattering talk of their decent natures and his intimidating change of disposition, they’re not about to blindly commit to his cause. That’s exactly why he trusts them. Those are the kind of minds he wants on his side, and Arthur would agree.

“I am not a first year student here to learn. I adopted this face and body for convenience’s sake. I am here to look after Harry Potter.”

The twins exchange a glance. Merlin ploughs on.

“Through no fault of his own, he’s ended up caught in the centre of major events, and it will likely catch up to him. I’m here to prevent that, or at least, help minimise the collateral damage. Magic itself has been tampered with, and as a creature and keeper of Magic, it’s my duty to resolve that. As a student, I can be close to him without inciting suspicion. Nothing will harm him or his friends as long as I am here.”

Fred and George hold his gaze a moment, then look back at each other. Their faces change rapidly, giving credence to the myth that twins can communicate telepathically. He wouldn’t be surprised in their case.

Merlin waits out their silent conversation patiently. It’s George that finally speaks up.

“That might actually be true. Only thing is, it’s not just you.”

“That boy of yours. The blonde one,” Fred clarifies.

Merlin’s eyes flick down to the map again. He can make out Harry’s name next to Ron’s, and there’s another dot beside them that’s inexplicably blank. Arthur.

“I never said I was working alone,” Merlin says. “I rarely go anywhere without my other half. You know better than most what good a partner in crime will do you.”

“True that.”

“So is he a ‘keeper of magic’ too, then?”

Merlin considers that.

“No,” he allows finally. “It’s not his jurisdiction, really, but he’s not exactly busy. We were made to work in tandem. Where I go, he does. My mission is his. Two sides of the same coin and all that. A curse, a blessing. Either way, at least I don’t get lonely.”

“We know the feeling,” the two say together. Merlin grins. He sort of thought they would.

“Not to be rude—“

“—But what are you?”

Ah. Yes. What indeed. He shrugs.

“Not sure. Would love to know. If you find out, do share. All my theories are a little difficult to impart in the common modern tongue, though, so I’m afraid that’ll have to remain a mystery for now. Sorry boys.”

Not quite true, but close enough. Merlin is fairly certain at this stage, having met Death, that he is something much like her. A Primordial. There are a few that he can guess at- Time, Life, Death, Destiny,  Chaos, and of course, himself- Magic. He’s had minimal contact with most of them. He’s not sure if they, too, took humanoid forms. He doesn’t even know their names, if they have any, but every now and then their paths will cross and they will make themselves known to him. Riddle’s pissed off more than just Merlin with his antics, but he has no idea how the others are responding to the transgression. All he can do is his own work.

“That’s alright, in’nit, Freddie?”

“We love mysteries.”

Merlin apparently didn’t miss much except for Harry getting a new broom from McGonagall and another lovely Malfoy/Potter spat. Arthur, in contrast, missed quite a bit. Merlin pulls him aside as soon as he can.

“-and you just told them?!”

“No, no, Arthur, look, it’s fine, they’re cool.”

“You can’t just tell someone who we are because you like them, Merlin-!”

“Arthur it’s literally fine. They’re cool.”

“Stop saying that! I don’t know what it means!”

“They are.”

“They look perfectly room temperature to me, and that has nothing to do with anything!”

“It’s a slang word, Arthur. They’re, like… I don’t know, I trust them, okay?”

“No!”

“Look. Do you really think I would have done it if I thought you wouldn’t approve?”

“That’s got to be the stupidest question you’ve ever asked me.”

“Well, you would. You’ll like them. They’ve got nobility worthy of Lancelot under their Gwaine exteriors.”

Arthur sighs heavily and mimes strangling him briefly, but he’s already accepted his judgment. Merlin’s not as stupid as he was a seventeen hundred years ago, though he hides it pretty damn well.

“Why didn’t they come to me as well?”, Arthur asks.

“They…”, Merlin trails off, brown furrowing. “Yeah, why didn’t they do that?”

The next time he sees them, he asks them. George shrugs.

“We don’t know the guy. Besides, we like to have the advantage of manpower.”

“You never know how things could go,” Fred agrees.

“You’re more likely to convince one person than two.”

“Divide and conquer,” they chime together. Oh, yes, Arthur will certainly like these two.

“So, now that we’ve got you—“

“—How can we help?”

“I take it you know vaguely what you’re volunteering for?”, Merlin asks darkly. They have the right, but they need to know. They exchange a look.

“It’s You-Know-Who, right?”

Merlin hums and nods. “It’s him who’s upset the Balance, which is why I’m really here. And he’s after Harry. Hence the direct involvement.”

Their eyes widen, as if their worst fears have just been confirmed. Twice.

“It’s true, then?”, George asks quietly.

“He’s back?” Fred adds.

“Depends what you mean. He hasn’t crossed into Av- the afterlife yet. He still intends to return, and he has the means to attempt it. But he’s not aware of our presence- me and Arthur. He might think he’s making progress, but currently he’s wasting time. I’d like to keep it that way for now.”

“Blimey,” Fred breathes shakily. George blinks, rocking back on his heels, face pale. Almost in tandem, both of them run a distressed hand through their unruly red hair.

“My- Our protection, extends to you as well,” Merlin says gently. “To all of Hogwarts, really. None of the students will be harmed under our watch.”

Fred’s eyes widen.

“He’s here, isn’t he?”

George’s eyes snap to Merlin, alarm swimming in them. Merlin purses his lips and nods.

“Where?”, they ask together.

Merlin looks between them thoughtfully. They shouldn’t have any classes with Quirrell. Still, they’re children- children of a war presumed over. Maybe they would be considered men in Merlin’s time, but here and now he can call them what they are. They should not have to deal with this. He would not ask them to. They might not give him much of a choice in the matter, either. These two are not men you keep secrets from.

“I’m not the one to tell you about this,” he finally says. “Meet us both later on.”

“When?” Fred asks.

“Where?” George adds.

“You’ll know where. Just ask the castle.”

Merlin winks and ducks out of the little alcove he’s pulled them into, slipping back into the stream of students in the hall.

🦊🦊

Sam’hain rolls around, as it does each year, and as they do each year, Merlin and Arthur take the day.

Sam’hain is the day when the Veil is thinnest. For those in a position to take advantage of this, that means a few things. For Merlin, it means he can speak to Freya.

They do speak in dreams every so often, but Sam’hain is the only time they have in person. And he misses her. Oh, he misses her.

She’s not who she was back then, but neither is he. Sam’hain is a day Merlin puts aside to visit her at the lake and lie down in her lap and let her card her watery fingers through his hair and just bask in her presence. It’s a day he and Arthur take to be with their loved and lost ones, the family they have fixed into their stained-glass walls. And when the day is done, they dream, and they speak to those they’ll never see again outside October 31st.

So naturally, that’s the day a troll attacks the kids they’re supposed to be looking after.

Really, they stay with the kids every day and night all year in case of these things without catching so much as a whiff of lethal ill-intent towards them, and the one day they take off, a freaking troll attacks them in particular. What the hell and fuck?

If Destiny is indeed a sister of Merlin’s, he’d like to have a word.

The only upside to this is that Ron and Harry now seem to like Hermione Granger, who Merlin’s taken as his favourite pretty resolutely. And she’s a brilliant kid, really, if a little Gaius-y, so Arthur has no complaints. Maybe that’s why Merlin likes her.

She also proves to be an irreplaceable weapon in their battle to help Harry and Ron keep on top of their homework. Merlin’s delighted she’s officially joined their crew, kicking up his heels and leaning back and beaming at the girl pointing out what they should focus on in their Potions essays.

“We get it, you’re glad they’ve got their heads out of- uh, together. Wipe that insufferable smirk off your face,” Arthur snarks.

“She’s good for them! And, I daresay they’re good for her,” Merlin rebukes. Hermione flushes, ducking her head even closer to her page and hiding behind that immense hair of hers.

“We’re right here, you know,” Ron snaps.

“I’m gonna go ask if I can get my book back from Snape,” Harry sighs, pulling himself to his feet and puffing his chest as if to infuse some courage into it.

“I’ll go with you,” Arthur says. He wasn’t doing any work anyway, he finished it. Ron and Hermione give him very strange looks.

“Oh, he’s just a bully, the world’s full of them,” Merlin says dismissively, leaning back on two legs in his chair.

About fifteen minutes later, Arthur and Harry scurry back in in a notable rush.

“Did you get it?” Ron asks. Hermione looks up from the page. “What’s the matter?”

“Did you expect us to?”, Arthur returns flatly.

“Snape was injured. We got there and Professor Flitwick was seeing to his leg, it had a bite clean through it. He said something about getting past the three-headed mutt. You know what this means?” Harry finishes breathlessly. “He tried to get past that three-headed dog at Halloween! That’s where he was going when we saw him — he’s after whatever it’s guarding! And I’d bet my broomstick he let that troll in, to make a diversion!”

Well, it’s a good thing Harry’s not a betting man, because Merlin’s pretty sure that was Quirrell making a play for the stone, taking advantage of him and Arthur being gone. While he may not have pegged Arthur yet, Merlin’s fairly certain Quirrell sensed him himself at the opening feast somehow. It tracks that he’d be able to sense Merlin leaving on Sam’hain and he made his move then. They’ll have to be more careful moving forward.
“No — he wouldn’t, Hermione says, and Merlin once again reflects on how glad he is she joined their little crew. “I know he’s not very nice, but he wouldn’t try and steal something Dumbledore was keeping safe.”
“Honestly, Hermione, you think all teachers are saints or something,” snaps Ron. “I’m with Harry. I wouldn’t put anything past Snape. But what’s

he after? What’s that dog guarding?”

So they managed to put it all together in the right order, backwards. Everything’s correct so far except the culprit. Smart kids, but they’re still in the dark on too much to come to the right conclusion. And they’re obviously not above snooping to figure it out themselves- Harry especially.

Merlin makes a mental note to try not to outright deny these kids information in the future.

📚

“You’ve got to eat some breakfast,” Merlin insists, buttering Harry a price of bread.
“I don’t want anything.”
“Just a bit of toast,” wheedles Hermione on his other side. They’ve teamed up to soothe his nerves on the day of his first Quidditch match.

“I’m not hungry.”

“Harry, you need your strength,” offers Seamus Finnigan. “Seekers are

always the ones who get clobbered by the other team.”
“Thanks, Seamus.”

“Don’t listen to him. Listen,” Arthur says firmly, leaning forward to look straight at Harry. “This is something you can do. I’ve seen you, Harry. You know this is something you can do. It comes naturally. When you’re in the air today, you’ll completely forget everything else but the game.”

Ron, Hermione, Merlin and Arthur join Neville, Seamus, and Dean up in the top row. As a surprise for Harry, they’ve painted a large banner on one of the sheets Scabbers- they really must get on that, Merlin reminds himself- ruined. It reads POTTER FOR PRESIDENT, and Dean, resident artist, drew a lion underneath. Merlin doesn’t really get it. Presidency has nothing to do with sports. It’s a muggle political station. But Hermione performed a tricky little charm so that the paint flashes different colours, so he was happy enough to contribute by making the lion roar.
Ron and Seamus hold it up proudly, Dean in the middle, as everyone gets situated. Merlin looks even paler than usual, even with Arthur’s arm wrapped around his shoulders, pulling them snug against one another.

“Are you alright?”, Hermione asks him worriedly.

“He doesn’t like heights,” Arthur replies. “Unless it’s on the back of a flying dragon,” he mutters under his breath.

“That’s different,” Merlin bites back for the millionth time. He still doesn’t have a better argument than that, but he insists it’s not the same thing. It might have something to do with the fact that Merlin has fallen to his death before, which isn’t something Arthur can claim for himself. He’s tried his hand at a few different ways to die, but not that particular one, and with how unenthusiastic Merlin is about heights to this day, he’s happy to keep it that way.

“Oh, you should’ve said, we could’ve gotten lower seats!” Hermione frets. Merlin shakes his head stiffly.

“All good,” he says with a smile a bit like a grimace.

She might have said something else, but the players choose that moment to march out onto the field. Arthur frowns. Harry’s easily the shortest on the team. He’s the only first year, but still. Merlin said he’d spoken to Poppy Pomfrey and made sure Harry got a checkup and had the appropriate vitamin supplements and nutrition potions provided with his meals, but a few months hasn’t made up for eleven years of mistreatment. He’s still far too small.

The players get onto their brooms. Hooch blows a sharp whistle, and off they go.

“And the Quaffle is taken immediately by Angelina Johnson of Gryffindor — what an excellent Chaser that girl is, and rather attractive, too —”

“JORDAN!”

“Sorry, Professor.”

Merlin grins. The Weasley twins’ friend, Lee Jordan, is doing the commentary for the match, closely watched by Professor McGonagall. It’s helping his queasiness already.

“And she’s really belting along up there, a neat pass to Alicia Spinnet, a good find of Oliver Wood’s, last year only a reserve — back to Johnson and — no, the Slytherins have taken the Quaffle, Slytherin Captain Marcus Flint gains the Quaffle and off he goes — Flint flying like an eagle up there — he’s going to sc— no, stopped by an excellent move by Gryffindor Keeper Wood and the Gryffindors take the Quaffle — that’s Chaser Katie Bell of Gryffindor there, nice dive around Flint, off up the field and — OUCH — that must have hurt, hit in the back of the head by a Bludger — Quaffle taken by the Slytherins — that’s Adrian Pucey speeding off toward the goal posts, but he’s blocked by a second Bludger — sent his way by Fred or George Weasley, can’t tell which, love you boys— nice play by the Gryffindor Beater, anyway, and Johnson back in possession of the Quaffle, a clear field ahead and off she goes — she’s really flying — dodges a speeding Bludger — the goal posts are ahead — come on, now, Angelina — Keeper Bletchley dives — misses — GRYFFINDORS SCORE!”

Gryffindor cheers fill the cold air, with howls and moans from the Slytherins. Arthur is on his feet and screaming with extremely aggressive encouragement that is equal parts scary and heartening. Hermione presses herself up against a swaying Merlin in his stead.

“Sorry,” he mutters as he sits back down. Merlin shakes his head. He knows who he married.

“Budge up there, move along.”

“Hagrid!”

Ron and Hermione squeeze together to give Hagrid enough space to join them. Arthur looks at Merlin once for permission before he hops off to join the crew holding up the sign. Hagrid takes his place, and his massive, much less volatile presence is honestly better. Arthur’s going to spend the whole game on his feet screaming anyway.

“Bin watchin’ from me hut,” says Hagrid, patting a large pair of binoculars around his neck, “But it isn’t the same as bein’ in the crowd. No sign of the Snitch yet, eh?”

“Nope,” says Ron. “Harry hasn’t had much to do yet.”
“Kept outta trouble, though, that’s somethin’,” Hagrid says half to himself, raising his binoculars and peering skyward at the speck that Merlin knows to be Harry. He’s been doing loop-the-loops thus far, but he’s stopped now, presumably looking for the snitch.

“Slytherin in possession,” Lee Jordan calls, “Chaser Pucey ducks two Bludgers, two Weasleys, and Chaser Bell, and speeds toward the — wait a moment — was that the Snitch?”

A murmur runs through the crowd. All three of them on the bench lean forward a little, shifting in anticipation, squinting for a glance at the Snitch. Merlin always had good eyes, much like the falcon he was named for. He catches sight of it at the same time Harry does.

Harry breaks into a full-on dive straight down. The Slytherin Seeker’s right on his tail. They fall into a breakneck race for the flash of gold, and a stadium of at least a thousand holds its breath to watch.

All of a sudden Harry slams into another player, a great brute of a Slytherin with nasty teeth who’s put himself there on purpose. The Gryffindor crowd roars in outrage, and so does their lion. Harry rights himself out of a few unplanned barrel rolls.

Gryffindor gets a free shot, but they’ve lost the Snitch.
“They oughta change the rules. Flint coulda knocked Harry outta the air,” Hagrid gruffs. Merlin frowns a little. That… definitely happens sometimes, doesn’t it?

Lee Jordan, for one, is clearly finding it difficult not to take sides.
“So — after that obvious and disgusting bit of cheating —”
“Jordan!” growls Professor McGonagall. It is fortunate and amusing that the microphone picks up her indignant hissing as well.
“I mean, after that open and revolting foul...”
“Jordan, I’m warning you —”

“All right, all right. Flint nearly kills the Gryffindor Seeker, which could happen to anyone, I’m sure, so a penalty to Gryffindor, taken by Spinner, who puts it away, no trouble, and we continue play, Gryffindor still in possession.”

The game rolls on. And on. And on. Honestly, Merlin’s all for sports- he loves cheering- but he’d love it a lot better if he was not at the highest point in the stands.

Lee is still commentating when Merlin notices what’s happening to Harry.
“Slytherin in possession — Flint with the Quaffle — passes Spinnet — passes Bell — hit hard in the face by a Bludger, hope it broke his nose — only joking, Professor — Slytherins score — Ah no...”

Merlin stands up a little shakily, putting a hand on Hermione to steady himself, eyes trained hard on Harry. What’s wrong? He sends out his magic a little, feeling for the impression of the source… a curse? Someone’s cursed his broom.

“Dunno what Harry thinks he’s doing,” Hagrid mumbles. Merlin’s eyes fly across the crowd for a purple turban. “If I didn’ know better, I’d say he’d lost control of his broom...but he can’t have....”

People seem to have noticed now. Poor Harry’s doing his best to stay upright, but it’s all he can do to keep hold of his broom, which is bucking him around like a bull in a rodeo.

“Did something happen to it when Flint blocked him?” Seamus asks from his post in front of them. Arthur’s moving, but Merlin can’t focus on him now.

“Can’t have,” Hagrid’s saying, his voice shaking. “Can’t nothing interfere with a broomstick except powerful Dark magic — no kid could do that to a Nimbus Two Thousand.”

At these words, Hermione snatches Hagrid’s binoculars, but instead of looking up at Harry, she scans the crowd frantically.

“What are you doing?” Ron moans, grey-faced.

“I knew it,” Hermione gasped, “Snape —“

She cuts herself off as the man’s cloak erupts into flames, sending Professor Quirrell beside him flapping about where their robes overlap so as not to catch on himself.

Merlin manages to make it look just in time like he’s quickly putting away his wand as Hermione’s wide eyes snap to him, mouth open.

“What, what is it?!”, Ron demands, grabbing the binoculars. Merlin watches Harry even out on his broom, which has stilled now.

“Neville, you can look,” Merlin assures him. Neville’s been sobbing into Hagrid’s jacket for the last five minutes. He sinks down beside him, selfishly kind of glad he isn’t the only one having a bad time right now.

All at once, Harry’s in a hair-raising nosedive. He pulls up in time to stumble off his broom on all fours, clapping a hand to his mouth, looking about as nauseous as Merlin’s felt this entire game. But instead of vomiting, he coughs- coughs up something gold and shiny.

🧹

Hagrid makes them all tea  back at his hut, and Merlin pretends it’s entirely for Harry’s sake. Hagrid has been sending him concerned looks all evening. Either way, he’s very glad for the tea.

“It was Snape,” Ron explodes, and Merlin can’t help but roll his eyes and sink his head onto the table. “Hermione saw him. He was cursing your broomstick, muttering, he wouldn’t take his eyes off you.”

“Rubbish,” Hagrid huffs, thank you, Hagrid,“Why would Snape do somethin’ like that?”

Harry, Ron, and Hermione look at one another. Merlin can’t actually think of any way to convince them Snape isn’t the one to be concerned about, and he’s not sure he wants to, anyways. What would he tell them? Quirrell hasn’t slipped up yet. They really shouldn’t figure it out anyway- why can’t they just go to school and believe teachers are incapable of existing beyond the classroom like most students?

“I found out something about him,” Harry tells Hagrid. “He tried to get past that three-headed dog on Halloween. It bit him. We think he was trying to steal whatever it’s guarding.”

Merlin’s not sure why Snape was trying to get past the Cerberus, but there was likely a reason. Sure, there’s the potential that he wants the stone for himself, but he highly doubts Dumbledore would tell all the teachers what he’s keeping there. Snape could’ve just gotten curious. In fact, he could’ve had leave to be there for any number of reasons- maybe he was checking the guards or adding more security. If he was one of Riddle’s boys he would’ve already made a play at Harry and Merlin’s life would be a lot harder.
“How do you know about Fluffy?” Hagrid demands.

“Fluffy?”

“Yeah — he’s mine — bought him off a Greek chappie I met in the pub las’ year — I lent him to Dumbledore to guard the —”

Shut up shut up shut up shut up—

“Yes?” Harry breathes eagerly, leaning forward in his seat.

“Now, don’t ask me anymore,” Hagrid cuts off gruffly. “That’s top secret, that is.”

“But Snape’s trying to steal it.”

“Rubbish,” says Hagrid again, waving a massive paw. “Snape’s a Hogwarts teacher, he’d do nothin’ of the sort.”

Okay, well, not quite sound reasoning, but sure.

“So why did he just try and kill Harry?” cries Hermione. Merlin groans internally. She was their only ally in their Snape-is-not-a-child-murderer club.
“I know a jinx when I see one, Hagrid, I’ve read all about them! You’ve got to keep eye contact, and Snape wasn’t blinking at all, I saw him!”

“I’m tellin’ yeh, yer wrong!” Hagrid barks hotly. “I don’ know why Harry’s broom acted like that, but Snape wouldn’ try an’ kill a student! Now, listen to me, all three of yeh —“

“Wh-!”, Ron yelps in indignation, spreading a hand in the direction of Arthur and Merlin. He is largely ignored.

“—yer meddlin’ in things that don’ concern yeh. It’s dangerous. You forget that dog, an’ you forget what it’s guardin’, that’s between Professor Dumbledore an’ Nicolas Flamel —”
“Aha!” Harry cries victoriously, “so there’s someone called Nicolas Flamel involved, is there?”

This time, Merlin groans out loud.

Chapter Text

Winter is here. A few things change. Merlin and Arthur inform the Weasley twins that Riddle is working through Quirrell. On an unrelated note, they have a week’s worth of detentions for bewitching several snowballs so that they followed the man around, bouncing off the back of his turban. And if Merlin makes sure the charm is a little harder to get rid of than usual, well, no harm done.

The next thing isn’t planned. Arthur’s just home visiting everyone and feeding the animals when he remembers their Scabbers issue.

“Nala… you wouldn’t want to go to school, would you?”, Arthur asks the cat thoughtfully, keeping his voice down so Ix doesn’t hear. The wolf would be insufferable if he knew the cat was going without him.

So Arthur crawls back out of the trunk that morning before anyone else is awake (except Merlin, of course) quickly followed by an enormous mass of white-blonde fur. Come to think of it, Nala matches his wand. 

Up she hops, blinking around analytically at the Gryffindor boys’ dorm. She sniffs the air and pads around slowly as she is wont to do, unperturbed. Arthur leaves her to it. 

She follows him of her own accord when Arthur pads silently over to Merlin where he’s meditating by the window, face slack and shoulders loose, watching the snow. His face lights up as soon as he feels Nala behind him and he spins around, serenity forgotten. It’s a good job he’s not a squealer, because he’d wake up the whole damn room. 

“Hi! I missed you. Have you been keeping that mean old dog in line?”

“Mean old- she’s the mean old one, she scares him to death! Also, you saw her yesterday!”

Arthur is ignored, which is not uncommon when Merlin’s talking to Nala. Arthur suspects he is no longer the favourite member of the family. 

“I was thinking she could help us with our rat problem,” he says with an eye roll. Might as well get right into it. Merlin looks up at him, which is uncommon when he’s talking to Nala.

“I totally forgot about that,” he says. Arthur snorts derisively, as if he didn’t. “You understand that he’s not an actual rat, right? We don’t need a cat to get rid of him.”

“Just take the cat and be happy.”

That, Merlin can do. Nala, with her characteristic lack of consideration for anyone’s personal space, aligns herself over Merlin’s whole body at once and promptly drops onto him with a heavy thump.

“Oof!” 

“She wouldn’t do it if you told her not to,” Arthur tells his husband for the thousandth time. 

“Uh huh, how’s that working out for you?”

“Shut up, Em.”

As it turns out, they were not the only ones awake. The rat, normally curled up in his nest in Ron’s second drawer, is nowhere to be found. This is mildly concerning, but Merlin just looks happy for the excuse to keep his cat around. ‘Scabbers’ can’t hide forever.

Pandora also settles herself in at Hogwarts. She hates the Owlery with a passion- and Arthur doesn’t blame her- so they compromise: she can stick around the halls and Gryffindor dorms so long as she sleeps in her roost in the trunk. They’re breaking a lot of rules here: Pandora’s not technically an owl, birds have to stay in the Owlery, they have to be supervised, etc. The very notion of applying these restrictions to Dora isn’t worth considering- she’d shred them alive, for one- so there’s nothing for it. But technically Ron shouldn’t have a rat, either. All they can do is hope the boys in their dorm extend the same indifference they’ve shown Scabbers to Pandora.

The final change is expected, as it’s the weather. It’s bloody freezing.

“You’d think with this being a magic school they could keep the bloody corridors warm,” Arthur grumbles.

Hermione has taken to carrying around a little blue flame she’s perfected to keep them all warm when she notices Merlin completely unbothered by the cold. 

“Come into the huddle Em, you’ll freeze- you’re taller than the rest of us, you need more heat, surely.”

“Taller people make more body heat, actually,” Arthur says offhandedly. Merlin blinks and seems to just now realise their shivering.

“Oh, sorry, I didn’t- sorry, here.”

He flicks his stick- sorry, wand- and mutters something for show. The four of them feel something rather like an egg being broken over their heads, the yolk trickling down over them, but instead of slimy cold it’s a pleasant humming warmth encompassing them. Harry straightens up, blinking. Ron beams happily and Hermione gasps.

“Blimey, that’s better!”

“Thanks, Em.”

“How in Merlin’s name- what spell was that?” Hermione demands at once, blue flame forgotten and extinguished. She’s the main reason Merlin tries not to use magic if he can help it. “Can you show me?”

“It’s, erm…” Merlin always found it a little difficult teaching people magic without them being in on everything. He just doesn’t have the same relationship with it as anyone else does, and he can’t explain that to someone that thinks he’s a first year. “’S the same theory as disillusionment charms, or any other spell that applies to the external body, I just changed the use to temperature shifting.”

“You just changed— ? I knew it. You’re fluent, aren’t you? You understand the theory and just compose the spells yourself when you need them,” Hermione accuses with stars in her eyes. Harry and Ron perk up. 

“But surely there’s more to it than just learning the language, otherwise, we’d have a Latin class, right?”, Harry poses. Hermione whirls on him and he looks sorry he spoke.

“Of course it’s not just the language- anyone can learn Latin! Spellwork is it’s own dialect with it’s own rules- you have to be fluent, yes, but that’s hardly the half of it- you have to understand magical theory at a base level, it takes years and most people just can’t! You need to be fluent in every magical language, study the linguistics and the relationships between them, understand the underlying tenses and composition of the words to string them together yourself and guess at the right incantations- it’s the same foundational theory used to create new spells!” 

Now they’re all staring at him, wide eyed. Curse this girl and her brains. The worst part is, she’s right. It took Merlin a long fucking time to get to that point, even with his advantages, and he commends people who manage to do it in a normal person’s lifetime.

“You serious, mate? You can do that?”, Ron asks incredulously.

“N- I didn’t say that. Hermione said that.”

“But I’m right, aren’t I?”

Harry looks between Merlin and his two gobsmacked friends, then once at Arthur, whose face is carefully blank. 

“Guys, leave him alone, he obviously doesn’t want to talk about it.”

“But that’s incredible! Harry, that’s—“

“No, Hermione, stop! It doesn’t matter how impressive it is, you’re making him uncomfortable. We all know he’s a bloody genius, but he’s our friend first, same as you.”

Hermione looks a little chastised, but her brain is stalling, and she blinks in incomprehension. 

“But if you’re that smart, why wouldn’t you say so? You could be years ahead of us, you won’t know if you aren’t tested, if you don’t tell anybody! You could do so much— Why wouldn’t you use that?”, she asks, at a loss. 

“He doesn’t have to tell us that, either,” Harry says quietly. Merlin sends him a look of utmost gratitude.

“But…” 

“Believe it or not, Hermione, we don’t all strive for academic excellence,” Merlin says awkwardly.

“BUT YOU HAVE IT!”, she explodes. “You- you can’t just- not try! You are- you’re the most brilliant person I’ve ever— it’s JUST NOT POSSIBLE! How can you not care?! How can you not try?!”

She whirls around in that familiar about turn of hers, racing off without another word, but not before they catch the shining wetness of her eyes. 

“Herm— !” Merlin cuts himself off, jerking after her once, and lets out a huge sigh. 

“Only her,” Ron grunts exasperatedly. 

“Go after her, mate,” Harry suggests.

“No, she needs time to stew. I’ll talk to her, but…” Merlin shakes his head and turns back to his saviour. “Harry… thank you. Really.”

Harry nods. Merlin reads it right, though- you’d do the same for me.

“Well, that was dramatic. Pretty cool that you can do that, though,” Ron says. “You’re really somethin’ else.”

Merlin sighs. He mostly wishes he wasn’t. 

“Kind of makes sense you’re not in Ravenclaw though, even though you’re so smart, since you don’t really care about that stuff. It’s Hermione I don’t get,” he continues. 

“Things can be important to you without being the most important,” Arthur finally speaks up. He exchanges a look with Merlin and then slips off.

Arthur’s the one who goes after Hermione. Merlin won’t know what to say here, and he’s far too good at wallowing. That’s not what she needs right now. Arthur’s not even sure it will mean anything, coming from him, but he’ll make it mean something. Merlin’s his responsibility, after all.

While Hogwarts doesn’t exactly speak to him the way she does Merlin, he is still recognised as family. He can’t ask her directly, but she provides for him; a portrait falls down a hallway and he follows it, stairways move into the right position, a two dimensional breeze blows the trees in the tapestries a certain way, and Arthur dutifully follows. 

The castle leads him to an empty classroom, the torches outside the door rearing up in confirmation, the door open just slightly. Arthur ducks inside and closes it softly behind him. Hermione’s sniffles echo across the hollow stone walls, and he follows them to the very back of the classroom, where he finds her holding herself on a step, hair falling around her like a force field. It shakes with her sobs, making it seem alive, bouncing around her like a fretful pet. 

Arthur doesn’t say anything, he just takes a seat on the step beside her, far enough away not to touch but close enough to be noticed. He lets his elbows rest on his knees and waits her out.

Kids can cry. He would’ve gotten sick of it by now, exhausted himself, but she keeps at it. He sticks it out until her choked sobs peter out into miserable huffs. She props her tear-stained face onto her arm and stares unseeingly ahead without acknowledging him. Her voice is so thick when she speaks he hardly understands.

“Come to laugh at me? There’s no need, I know how stupid I am.”

What? That throws him completely for a loop. Stupid? Her? And why would he laugh?

“What?”, he blurts out, startled. 

“Just go away!”, she coughs pathetically. There’s irritation infused in it, but it wilts before it makes any headway in the words, and she just sounds sad. 

“Hermione, I wouldn’t laugh at you. That’s ridiculous. Em is worried, we all are, and if he came he would’ve put his foot in his mouth as usual. Now tell me what’s wrong.”

She looks at him sideways, seems to regret it, but doesn’t back down. She’s a Gryffindor at heart. She looks him right in the eyes without shame. 

“Why wouldn’t you laugh at me?”, she demands. “I’m pathetic. I- I work so hard, and it’s never enough. I’m not… I’m not strong like Harry, not helpful like Ron. I never know what to say, all I have is what I read in books. And no one ever wants that. I’m a terrible friend, I’m hardly even a person. All I have is my brain, so that’s what I use. But I’m not even— I can’t even— I failed in that, too! Em is brilliant. So are you. You’re well beyond me, and no matter how much I read, I can’t just do it like he does. He doesn’t even try, Arthur, he just knows. It’s like he knows everything, so… so what am I good for?”

Arthur can’t help but stare at her, mouth agape. He’s never heard Hermione be this wrong before. It’s off-putting.

“Hermione, you are so much more than your books. Than your brain, even. We value your input- Me, Harry, Ron, Em too. We all want to hear what you have to say, not because you read about it, but because you’re smart enough to understand it. You have thoughts no one else can have- not me, and not Em. You are terribly brave, frighteningly so, and that’s what landed you in Gryffindor instead of Ravenclaw. You care about your friends, about our futures, about classes, about everything, more than all the rest of us put together. You keep all our heads on straight. Without you, we’d be in shambles, Hermione, and I can’t believe you don’t see that. It’s as clear to me as the fact that Harry’s hair will never improve.”

She lets out a short bark of hysterical laughter, wiping her face. 

“Besides, honestly, I have no idea what you’re on about with Em being brilliant- he’s an idiot on a good day. Seriously, I asked him to hand me my keys once and he threw a printer at me.”

Another burst of choked giggles escapes her, and she laughs a little too long, still wiping her eyes.

“Why- why did he do that?”, she asks, shoulders shaking.

“Because he’s an idiot.”

Hermione swipes her hand across her face in an attempt to drag the hair clinging to her cheeks off. 

“Okay, your hair is as bad as Harry’s, but I think yours might actually be salvageable. At least it suits you. Here, I might have something— may I?”, he asks, scootching to sit behind her and leaning around to ask for permission to touch her hair. She nods with a curious expression- a very familiar look on her. She looks like herself again, with that inquisitiveness.

Arthur wrangles her hair with an old skill he dredges up from his time in Greece dealing with errant bulls. It’s quite as chaotic. It takes him time, but he manages to get it into something almost resembling order and sets to work French braiding it.

“You’re really close with him, huh?”, Hermione says dully. He hums assent. 

“You seem to know him better than anybody. I’ve never met anybody as close as you two. Except maybe the Weasley twins, but it’s not the same… is it?”

“…No.”

“I just don’t understand. You’re so young. You’re our age. But I can’t imagine being as close to anyone as you are to each other.”

“I’d be concerned if you could,” he replies. “Young… young is a state of mind. Sometimes we are young. Sometimes we are old. We’ve been through a lot, Hermione, and we’ve been through it all together. That’s what makes the difference. I love him, Mione, I truly do, but I would never wish it on someone your age.”

Hermione’s quiet after that, and they sit in comfortable silence while Arthur battles her hair. 

❄️

“I do feel so sorry,” sneers Draco Malfoy, one Potions class, “for all those people who have to stay at Hogwarts for Christmas because they’re not wanted at home.” 

He’s looking over at Harry with the subtlety of a water buffalo as he speaks. Crabbe and Goyle chuckle. Harry ignores them to listen to the conversation Ron and Em are having. Malfoy has been even more unpleasant than usual since the Quidditch match. Disgusted that the Slytherins lost, or perhaps inspired by Harry being fucking brilliant at something, he tried to get everyone laughing at how a wide- mouthed tree frog will be replacing Harry as Seeker next. No one really laughed, being rightfully impressed at the way Harry had managed to stay on his bucking broomstick, and being much better at showing it. He’s back on the ‘you-have-no-proper-family’ schtick now. 

“Are you staying for Christmas?”, Em asks over his lion fish spines with nothing but polite interest. Harry nods happily. It should be the best one he’s ever had.

“Me too,” Ron says. “Mum and Dad are in Romania visiting Charlie.”

“Brilliant, we’re staying too! Hey, you can come over for Christmas dinner if you like. Fred and George are free too, right? They can come.”

That’s probably not a grand idea, but Arthur isn’t here to stop him. Yeah, they’ll have to prepare and stuff, and not just for Yuletide, but these kids need a damn break. Not seeing their family? Staying at school? It might be the better option, but come on. They can offer better.

“But you just said you were staying,” Ron says confusedly.

“Yes, well, we still have the trunk with us,” Merlin reminds him.

“…So?”

Merlin looks up at them in a small amount of shock. “Did we not tell you? Do you not—?”

Now Harry’s frowning at him too.

“The trunk we brought with us is a side door to our place,” he explains apologetically. Where did you think we went every night? We have to check in on everyone.”

Both of their jaws drop. 

“You had your house in the dorm the whole time and never said anything?!”, Ron gapes. Merlin shuffles sheepishly. Okay, maybe he should’ve kept quiet, but he can’t really take it back now.

“We didn’t want you to feel like you had to come over or anything. Also, we’re not sure how legal it is, so we didn’t want to, like, incriminate you. You still don’t have to come. And if anyone finds out, you don’t know a thing.”

“Wh- of course we wanna come over! Don’t we?”, Ron asks Harry as an afterthought, turning to his shortest friend. Harry nods enthusiastically, wild curls bouncing every which way.

“Uh, your parents, or guardians- they won’t mind?”

“No, ‘course not, they never do. They’re not home much,” Merlin assures him. 

“Great!”, Ron chirps.

“Well, if it’s okay…”

“It is, trust me. Yuletide will be much more fun all together,” he assures them. “And we can come right back to the dorm whenever, so we don’t miss anything here.”

Malfoy didn’t catch all of that, but he caught enough to make his jaw snap shut and his face turn a little red. He spins around and pretends to ignore them, which he’s ever so good at. So good, in fact, that he looks rather constipated.

They run into Hagrid- or at least, they assume that’s who’s puffing along behind the giant fir tree being dragged in the direction of the Great Hall.

“Hi, Hagrid, want any help?” Ron asks, sticking his head through the 

branches.
“Nah, I’m all right, thanks, Ron.” 

“Would you mind moving out of the way?” comes Malfoy’s cold drawl from behind them. He’s never one to stay down long. “Are you trying to earn some extra money, Weasley? Hoping to be gamekeeper yourself when you leave Hogwarts, I suppose — that hut of Hagrid’s must seem like a palace compared to what your family’s used to.” 

Ron dives at Malfoy just as Snape came up the stairs. 

“WEASLEY!”
Ron lets go of the front of Malfoy’s robes. 

“He was provoked, Professor Snape,”Hagrid claims loyally, sticking his huge hairy face out from behind the tree. “Malfoy was insultin’ his family.” 

“Be that as it may, fighting is against Hogwarts rules, Hagrid,” said Snape silkily. “Five points from Gryffindor, Weasley, and be grateful it isn’t more. And you, Emrys, for failing to hold him back- five more points. Move along, all of you.” 

Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle push roughly past the tree, scattering needles everywhere and smirking. 

Snape’s liked Merlin even less since he gave in that essay he asked for. Granted, it wasn’t Shakespeare, but it was succinct and he made his point. Besides, Snape never said how long it had to be.

“You can’t give in an essay that’s just the sentence ‘wormwood and monkshood are the same thing.’” Arthur said. Well, Merlin showed him.

Getting his attention off Harry is his excuse, but really Merlin just finds it difficult to suffer bullies lying down.

“I’ll get him,” Ron bites, grinding his teeth at Malfoy’s back, “one of these days, I’ll get him —”

“I hate them both,” Harry agrees, “Malfoy and Snape.”

“Come on, cheer up, it’s nearly Christmas,” says, with an encouraging nod from Merlin. “Tell yeh what, come with me an’ see the Great Hall, looks a treat. Say, where’re Hermione and Arthur?”

“Hermione skipped Potions today, she wasn’t feeling well,” Harry lies smoothly. “Arthur’s checking up on her.

“Ahh, young love, eh? Nothin’ like it,” Hagrid grins with a wink. Merlin and Harry cringe, but Ron’s eyes widen.

“What, you really think so?!”

“No,” Merlin says at the same time as Harry blurts, “Absolutely not.”

“Just thought it might cheer her up, make her a bit more bearable,” Ron shrugs.

The three of them follow the sorely mistaken Hagrid and his tree off to the Great Hall, where Professor McGonagall and Professor Flitwick are busy with the Christmas decorations.

“Ah, Hagrid, the last tree — put it in the far corner, would you?”

The hall looks spectacular. Festoons of holly and mistletoe in gold and silver hang all around the walls, and no less than twelve towering Christmas trees stand around the room, some sparkling with tiny icicles, some glittering with hundreds of candles. Each is a different shade of marvellous. The air itself seems to glitter with festivity, making those present want to glitter themselves. The sky is snowing, but the snowflakes are a subtle mix of silver and gold to match the decorations, and rather than being cold, they feel shimmery and warm.

Merlin regrets inviting them over. There’s no way he’s topping this. Wait a minute, he can’t top the house elves’ cooking either. He may have overshot this.

“How many days you got left until yer holidays?” Hagrid asks.

“Just one,” Harry informs him. “And that reminds me — Em, Ron, we’ve got half an hour before lunch, we should be in the library.”

“The library?” echoes Hagrid, following them out of the hall. “Just before the holidays? Bit keen, aren’t yeh?”

“Oh, we’re not working,” Harry tells him brightly. “Ever since you mentioned Nicolas Flamel we’ve been trying to find out who he is.”

“You what?” Hagrid asks at the same time as Merlin. Yeah, he’s aware they’ve been to the library, but he assumed Hermione dragged them. Besides, he’s not with them all the time, sometimes he chats with Luna or Neville or the paintings or the ghosts, the house elves, the merfolk- there are lots of people to keep up with at Hogwarts.

“Listen here — I’ve told yeh — drop it. It’s nothin’ to you what that dog’s guardin’.”

“We just want to know who Nicolas Flamel is, that’s all,” Harry says lightly. “Unless you’d like to tell us and save us the trouble? We must’ve been through hundreds of books already and we can’t find him anywhere — just give us a hint — I know I’ve read his name somewhere.” 

Do not do not do not do not—

“I’m sayin’ nothin’, says Hagrid flatly. Thank you, Hagrid.

“Just have to find out for ourselves, then,” shrugs Ron, and they leave Hagrid looking disgruntled. They hurry off in the direction of the library, but Merlin stays put, face pulled into a thoughtful frown.

Maybe it’s time he has another talk with Nick.

Harry and Ron both look rather down over lunch- something Merlin would’ve deemed impossible under the glory of the Great Hall. It probably means they didn’t find anything though, so that’s something.

“Cheer up, Ron, I know he’ll turn up somewhere,” Harry is telling his friend with a pat on the shoulder. 

“Who will?”, Hermione asks. All of them look up, and Ron has to do a double take.

It’s Hermione, but you could’ve fooled them- she’s about half the size of the Hermione they know, volume-wise, on account of the blatant lack of insanely bushy hair. Arthur sits down beside Harry on the opposite end of the table as she slides in beside Ron. Merlin sends her a tentative smile, and is greatly heartened when she returns it.

“What happened to you?!”, Ron exclaims, sounding almost offended.

“Arthur did my hair. Who will turn up?”

Ron keeps up the impression of a dying goldfish, so Harry replies.

“Erm, Scabbers. It looks nice, Hermione.”

“Thank you.”

“Scabbers has gone missing?”, Arthur asks.

“I thought you hated that old rat,” Hermione says, wrinkling her nose in confusion.

“I do! Not! I don’t know! He’s mine!”

Merlin doesn’t feel that guilty. The rat sucks. Maybe Ron will like Nala. Ooh, that’s what they can get him for Christmas, a better pet! Preferably one that’s not a random guy!

“We haven’t found anything on Nicolas Flamel, either,” Ron adds miserably. Arthur chokes on his pumpkin juice.

“Ah yes, that little hobby you’ve picked up that you neglected to mention,” Merlin says with a little pointed emphasis. Harry shoots him an apologetic look.

“Sorry. We need to know who he is, though, or we’ll never find out what Snape’s trying to steal.”

Merlin huffs. He might not like it, but again, what can he tell them? He doesn’t want to lose their trust. And what could they do even if they knew? What the hell is Dumbledore even thinking with his security, anyway? Merlin can’t get past that.

“You will keep looking while I’m away, won’t you?” says Hermione. “And send me an owl if you find anything.”

“And you could ask your parents if they know who Flamel is,” adds Ron. “It’d be safe to ask them.”

“Very safe, as they’re both dentists,” Hermione says flatly.

“Oh, Em invited us over for the Christmas dinner!”, Ron remembers excitedly. Harry elbows him in the ribs. “Ow!”, he looks at him with a face of confused betrayal, probably having no idea what he did to earn it.

“You’re welcome too, Hermione, of course, but I thought you were going home to your family,” Merlin chirps, studiously ignoring Arthur’s glare.

“Oh, that’s fine. I do hope you have a good Christmas, I didn’t want to leave you here, but I’m glad you’ll be together at least.”

The students trickle out and soon the halls are mostly empty. Merlin and Arthur are happy to find that Ron and Harry are having much too good a time to even think about Flamel. They have the dormitory to themselves, which means Pandora and Nala can stalk around unimpeded. Harry is quite enamoured with her, and adopts her as his new favourite pillow. Merlin just uses Arthur, unless Arthur falls on him first. They get the good armchairs by the fire, and Pandora sits regally on the arm of Merlin’s, reigning over the room as if it were her responsibility. Nala stretches out by the fire, Harry not far behind. They sit around it eating anything they can spear on a toasting fork — bread, English muffins, marshmallows — and plotting ways of getting Malfoy expelled, which are fun to talk about even if they wouldn’t work. 

“All of your ideas so far end up in a fight. You don’t need to get so involved. If you break him down in the right ways, you can make him quit all on his own. Send him packing, and no one can trace it back to you because it was entirely his own idea,” Merlin explains calmly. There’s a silence for a moment.

“Careful, Em, your Slytherin’s showing,” Arthur teases without opening his eyes.

“Don’t even joke about that,” Ron huffs.

“This again. Look, not all Slytherins are Malfoy. You guys could all have been Slytherin if that’s what you wanted. It’s not a sin.”

“Whatever you say, mate.”

Ron also starts teaching Harry wizard chess. It’s just regular chess, really, but the figures are sort of alive so it’s all a bit more visceral. Once Ron discovers that he’s finally found a match to his skills in Arthur, however, it’s all over for Harry. Merlin promises he’ll play him sometime, because he’s not much of a military strategist either. In the meantime they watch Arthur and Ron’s intense matches that go on for hours sometimes. It’s quite something seeing the trust and respect Ron’s troops have for him, and the awed hush that falls over the ones under Arthur’s command.

On Christmas Eve, Harry goes to bed looking forward to the next day for the food and the fun, but not expecting any presents at all. When he wakes early in the morning, however, the first thing he sees is a small pile of packages at the foot of his bed.

“Merry Christmas,” Ron yawns sleepily as Harry scrambles out of bed and pulls on his bathrobe.

“Merry Chris—“

“Happy Yu- mas…. Happy Christmas. Damnit.”

“You, too,” says Harry, a massive, incredulous grin taking over his face. “Will you look at this? I’ve got some presents!” 

“What did you expect, turnips?” Ron asks, turning to his own pile. 

“Let’s see you open ‘em, then!”, Arthur challenges. 

“No, not yet! Come on, guys- you still wanna come over?”, Merlin asks, dragging the fabled trunk before them.

So they all cram their presents under their arms and pile in one after the other. Harry expects there to be a ladder or something, maybe some stairs, leading down to a front hall. Instead, he simply steps in and the world is now vertical. His feet fall jarringly onto the floor where they should fall into air, and he’s upright. His brain turns 90 degrees to compensate. 

“Woah,” Ron says, and he’s nailed it.

The rooms aren’t huge. Something about the low ceilings and great stone walls remind Harry of an old castle in the same way Hogwarts does- not needlessly grand, but ancient and sturdy. The room isn’t too different from the Gryffindor common room, all things told, but far cosier, clearly a space for fewer folks, with a much lower ceiling- the common room, being in a tower, is almost too tall to see the ceiling of. Light spills in plentifully from huge circular windows stained a thousand different colours, throwing shards of red, blue, green, and orange across the whole room. Stained-glass trees sway in the breeze that freshens up the room, sending jagged translucent ripples across the stained-glass water. Holly and pine garlands hang from the walls and ceilings, meeting above an elegant mantelpiece covered with ornaments and baubles Harry can’t begin to identify, some of. Them clicking and whirring. The room is set up openly, like Gryffindor’s, so that the centre is a clear space and you can see every part of the room from wherever you stand. Cushy red armchairs and a couch face the centre. An intricate rug with exotic designs patterns the floor, and there’s a Christmas tree dressed head to toe in red and gold in the corner, with a metric ton of presents heaped underneath it.

Music starts playing from somewhere Harry can’t identify- Christmas jingles. This one is in Spanish, he thinks. Windchimes tinkle in the breeze, making silhouettes against the windows- one is in the shape of a dragon, curling around its post, intrigued by the visitors. A horse gallops across the landscape depicted in the windows, somehow crossing from the window down onto the rug on the floor, its glass-cut mane shifting to stitching, and it starts grazing happily on a flower it finds. Harry didn’t even know they could do that.

Harry feels like he’s stepped into a dream even more amazing than Hogwarts. Not even the most optimistic, expensive postcard could dream this up. All he can do is gawk, welling up on the inside when he remembers it’s for him. He was invited here because they want him here because his presence will make this perfect dream better.

Wow.

Harry wonders if all wizard houses are this… well, magical- but Ron looks just as awestruck as he is.

They don’t get to gape for long though. The deceptively curled-up- um, fox? Dog? - that’s blending into an armchair quite smoothly shoots out of its chair and hurdles over with unleashed delight at the visitors. It only takes it a couple of strides on account of its legs, which are about as long as Harry’s.

“Ix, down- shit, get the- Mer- Em, where’s-? HEY, WHERE’S NALA?!”, Arthur yells suddenly, wrangling the fox-thing down with minor difficulty. Several voices answer from other rooms at once.

“YOU TOOK HER-“

“HOW SHOULD I KNOW?”

“HAPPY YULETIDE!”

“YOU’RE BACK!!”

Harry startles, exchanging a worried glance with Ron. Just how many people are here?

“She’s in the- hang on, she’s coming, we’re coming!”, a gentler voice calls out. Merlin leads Ron and Harry around the tree to place their presents down as Pandora swoops in and perches herself on the Christmas tree, keeping it impressively still. 

“We’re in the living room, everybody get over here!”, Arthur orders. 

Nala is the first to arrive on the scene, massive paws padding across the rug, scattering the grazing horse who she has no qualms about trodding on. The fox, who Harry now believes to be something magical, immediately settles down with one last happy lick to Ron’s face. 

“Your place is amazing,” Harry breathes to Em before the rest of them start appearing. 

The walls are suddenly alight with movement, light flashing off the shifting pieces as several tenants skip into the room. 

First Harry makes out a woman so beautiful she must be some kind of goddess or siren or something, and then another one, both holding themselves gracefully with pretty painted smiles that crinkle their eyes and hair flowing around them like waterfalls. They’re dressed for the occasion; the shorter one with holly expertly woven into her braided crown, the taller with silver lace gracing her pale shoulders and slender arms, earrings shining like stars.

Te men come next. One with soft curls, a loose linen shirt, and leather cuffs on his wrists accompanies an old man in a tunic with white hair hanging in curtains around his face. They’re quickly overtaken by a jubilant ball of energy barreling into the room, impressive hair flying behind him, making a bee-line for Em. Two more follow at a more leisurely pace with smiles on their faces- a darker man with large lips and a happy look to him, and a man closer in size to Hagrid than a regular man. Bringing up the rear is a woman wearing a strange green headdress, a few errant curls spilling out. Her arm is interlocked with a tall blonde man who holds himself with a dignity that makes Harry want to stand at attention.

“HAPPY YUUUULE!”, the exuberant man screams, making as if to fly at Em, having somehow forgotten he’s a dimension short of being capable of that.

“Merry Christmas!”

“Good tidings!”

“We WISH you a merry Christmas, we WISH you-“

“For the love of Camelot, shut up!”

“Happy Christmas, everyone!”, Merlin calls brightly, arms spread out wide. “This is Ron Weasley and Harry Potter!” He turns to his guests now, “Honestly, guys, don’t bother learning these gits names, they’re old news, the lot of ‘em.”

“Old news, are we?”, The white-haired old man asks archly with an undertone of mirth.

“Not you, Gaius. Never you.”

“I resent that!”, calls the happy man.

“Blimey, you’ve got a lot of housemates to contend with! It’s almost as crowded as my house!”, Ron says. 

“Hang on, we’re not all here. Where’s Goldie?”, asks the shorter woman with the holly in her hair. Her voice is as soft and sweet as her face.

“Oh, are you two okay with snakes?”, Merlin asks, spinning to face Ron and Harry, who nod curiously. Harry still has a particular fondness for snakes since that time in the zoo.

“Great, she should be here soon, then.”

They all take their seats around the room and it becomes clear that the room is specifically set up so that the residents of the windows can participate as much as those physically present. That’s why it’s so open and round. They take turns introducing themselves as the actual Knights of The Round Table and the Camelot Court Physician. The simple woman with the green headdress smiles kindly at them and simply introduces herself as Hunith and assures them they wouldn’t know her. 

“Boring! Present time! Open, open!”, the one called Gwaine cheers, bouncing up and down like a child. He’s the one with the hair that makes Harry want to completely give up on his own forever. 

“Yes! Go on, boys, we’ll take turns. Harry, you first,” Arthur insists.

Harry picks up the top parcel on his pile. It’s wrapped clumsily in thick brown paper. Scrawled across it in great black letters is ‘To Harry, from Hagrid.’ Inside is a roughly cut wooden flute. Hagrid obviously whittled it himself. Harry blows it — it sounds a bit like an owl. Pandora sings the note back to him, pulling a huge smile out of the boy. 

A second, very small parcel contains a note. ‘We received your message and enclose your Christmas present. From Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia.’ Taped to the note is a fifty-pence piece. 

“That’s friendly,” says Harry, unperturbed. The rest of the room seems to think so. 

“It’s money, right?”

“To be exchanged for goods and services. It doesn’t look like a lot. I thought the idea was to trade gifts, to bolster camaraderie and encourage thoughtfulness?”, Morgana- the Morgana- inquires.

“They aren’t very thoughtful people,” Harry tells her, handing the coin over to Ron to study.
“Weird!” he says, ‘What a shape!”
“You can keep it,” Harry tells him, laughing at how pleased Ron is. “Hagrid and my aunt and uncle — so who sent these?”

“You cannot for one moment think those are all the friends you have, Harry,” Arthur says reprimandingly, nodding at the next presents.
“I think I know who that one’s from,” Ron mumbles, turning a bit pink and pointing to a very lumpy parcel. “My mum. I told her you didn’t expect any presents and — oh, no,” he groans, “she’s made you a Weasley sweater.” 

Harry has torn open the parcel to find a thick, hand-knitted sweater in emerald green and a large box of homemade fudge. 

“Every year she makes us a sweater,” Ron explains, unwrapping his own, “and mine’s always maroon. Oh, Merlin, you guys too?”

Em’s eyebrows jump, but he unwraps the similar lumpy package in his pile and Arthur does the same beside him. Em’s is a deep blue that brings out his eyes, while Arthur’s is a cheerful yellow. You’d think he’d been given the moon, the way Em lights up. He immediately starts shoving Arthur into his, trying to put his own on at the same time, a huge grin on his face.

“That’s really nice of her,” Harry tells Ron genuinely, trying the fudge, which is very tasty. Ron smiles at him, looking a little more comfortable. The last of his hesitance melts away when he sees their newly-clad hosts modelling the Weasley sweaters with pride. The knights clap. One of them wolf-whistles.

Harry’s next present also contains candy — a large box of Chocolate Frogs from Hermione. Apparently the residents of the window have never seen chocolate frogs before. Queen Guinevere screams when Harry’s slips away from him and jumps up onto the window pane at her. Sir Lancelot jumps in front of her and eyes it warily. Gwaine and Elyan take turns poking it to se if that has any effect until the charm wears off. 

There are even more presents after that. He even gets one from the knights and ladies, which turns out to be a box full of things like hair ties and headbands to help tame his unruly hair, or at least get it out of his face while he works. The knights of Camelot, Morgana, Queen Guinevere, and all of the others- they got him a Christmas present! A really thoughtful one, too! Harry doesn’t know what to say.

Em gets a watch from Arthur that makes Dumbledore’s twelve-handed timepiece look a simple thing. Each of the planets moves along the rings of the face, tiny stars twinkling around them. Golden letters in an unfamiliar language dance around the rim. Arthur says it’s to help him with his Astronomy- they all know it’s Em’s downfall. Harry belatedly wonders how much money these two actually have- that watch looks to be worth more than Harry’s life, and he wouldn’t even know where to look for a thing like that. In fact, he has no idea how to read it, but Em looks positively delighted and not at all worried. 

Arthur gets a gift from Em too, of course. Not to be outdone, Em hands Arthur a handsome guitar, simple and elegant, with subtle gold flecks in the pick guard and a stately crown carved lovingly into it. Arthur’s initials feature along the side. Honestly, forget the Dursley’s change- Harry feels awed just watching those two exchange presents. There’s a lot of staring and “Oh, Arthur,” and gasping and that, but Harry only feels uncomfortable for a moment, and he’s still happy he saw it. 

Em gifts Harry an elegantly wrapped gift basket full to the brim with things for Hedwig- owl treats, training manuals, feather care kits, and everything in between. Arthur’s given him a new set of shoes- velvety black with red and gold stripes up the side and the Gryffindor crest proudly flapping in the wind. A golden snitch flits around the black parts, shimmering. Harry nearly cries. He’s never had his own shoes before, and these are better than anything Dudley will ever get for any of his over the top birthdays. Ron also gets a box of chocolate frogs from Hermione. Arthur and Merlin assure him they got him a present, but he’ll want to open it last, which leaves Harry to open his final parcel. 

It’s very light as he unwraps it, and his curiosity builds as something fluid and silvery grey comes slithering to the floor where it lays in gleaming folds. Ron gasps. 

“I’ve heard of those,” he breathes in a hushed voice, dropping the box of Every Flavor Beans Em’s gotten from Hermione. “If that’s what I think it is — they’re really rare, and really valuable.” 

“What is it?”

“It can’t be,” Em whispers, eyes wide.
Harry picks the shining, silvery cloth off the floor. It’s strange to touch, like water woven into material.
“It’s an invisibility cloak,” says Ron, a look of awe on his face. “I’m sure it is — try it on.”

“An invisibility cloak?”, Percival echoes. “Like the one—?”

Morgana stands on his foot to shut him up, but Harry’s too preoccupied to notice the exchange. He throws the cloak around his shoulders and Ron gives a yell, leaping up. Arthur and Em have twin looks of shock on their faces. “It is! Look down!” 

Harry looks down at his feet, but they’re gone. He pulls the cloak over his head and vanishes completely. 

“There’s a note,” Arthur points out.
Harry pulls off the cloak reverently and seizes the letter. Written in narrow, loopy writing he has never seen before are the following words: 

Your father left this in my possession before he died. It is time it was returned to you.
Use it well.
A Very Merry Christmas to you. 

There is no signature. Harry stares at the note. The cloak passes between the other three.

“I’d give anything for one of these,” Ron says. “Anything.”

“What’s the matter?”, Em asks, watching him closely. 

“Nothing,” Harry responds. It sounds hollow to him. He feels very strange. Who sent the cloak? Did it really once belong to his father? It’s all he has of him, and it’s more than he’s ever had of either of his parents. This cloak…

Before he can say or think anything else, the doorbell rings. 

Arthur sits beside Harry, putting a grounding hand on his shoulder, while Em gets up to check the door. He comes back with two fashionably late redheads. 

“Merry Christmas!”, George crows.
“Hey, look — Harry’s got a Weasley sweater, too!” 

Fred and George are wearing purple sweaters, one with a large yellow F on it, the other a G. 

“Harry’s is better than ours, though,” Fred whines, holding up Harry’s sweater. “She obviously makes more of an effort if you’re not family.” 

“Why aren’t you wearing yours, Ron?” George demands. “Come on, get it on, they’re lovely and warm.” 

“I hate maroon,” Ron moans halfheartedly as he pulls it over his head, but he’s smiling. 

“You haven’t got a letter on yours,” George observes. “I suppose she thinks you don’t forget your name. But we’re not stupid — we know we’re called Gred and Forge.” 

“I think it’s just inside out,” Em chuckles, showing off his Weasley sweater with faux nonchalance. The twins jump on it hook, line, and sinker, exclaiming over how dashing he looks in it and how could they have missed it, it’s even nicer than Harry’s.

Em and Arthur were right about Ron wanting to open his gift from them last. ‘Open’ is a bit of a strong word, anyway.

“Here, I’ll get it, Ron, wait here,” Em says, eyes twinkling, unfolding like a flower in bloom and racing off through a door.

“It’s from both of you?”, Ron asks Arthur eagerly. Arthur nods.

“New uniforms for your chess set,” I’ll bet, Harry guesses. Ron’s eyes light up. Arthur’s grin widens. 

Everyone turns expectantly to the door as Em comes back, something large and fluffy in his arms—

Ron’s jaw drops. Harry can’t help it, so does his. 

“We didn’t mean to replace Scabbers or anything,” Arthur says as Em comes over and gently deposits the black rabbit into Ron’s arms. That’s exactly what they meant to do, actually. “He wasn’t even missing when we got her for you, honestly.”

“Her name’s Daisy. She’s a black otter rex rabbit, we’ve been training her up for you,” Em continues, gazing down at her adoringly. Ron can’t take his wide blue eyes off of her. Eventually he manages to drag his head up to look at Em and Arthur in turn.

“Are you sure?”, he breathes uncertainly.

“‘Course we are,” Arthur says. 

Harry hops forward to get his own look. Even the window people crowd around to peer at the dark bundle of fluff in Ron’s freckles arms. 

“She’s so soft,” Ron huffs disbelievingly. “She’s really mine?”

“All yours.”

“Not Percy’s, not Fred’s, not George’s, yours.”

Harry runs a hesitant finger over her twitching nose. She really is soft, like a little black cloud. Ron sniffs and wipes his face with his sleeve and they all pretend not to see.

They pop back into Hogwarts for dinner- really the brief sojourn to the Emrys/Penn’s(?) was just for the sake of the happy bustle inspired by the full room. You don’t really ever pass up a Hogwarts dinner if you can help it, certainly not a Christmas one. And she does not disappoint.

A hundred fat, roast turkeys; mountains of roast and boiled potatoes; platters of chipolatas; tureens of buttered peas, silver boats of thick, rich gravy and cranberry sauce – and stacks of wizard crackers every few feet along the table. These fantastic party favors are nothing like the feeble Muggle ones the Dursleys usually bought, with their little plastic toys and their flimsy paper hats inside. Harry pulls a wizard cracker with Fred and it doesn’t just bang, it goes off with a blast like a cannon and engulfs them all in a cloud of blue smoke, while from the inside explodes a rear admiral’s hat and several live, white mice. Harry feels terrible when the loud BANG as of gunfire makes both Em and Arthur shoot straight up and look around as if for danger, and he gives Arthur his admiral’s hat. It strangely suits him. Up at the High Table, Dumbledore swaps his pointed wizard’s hat for a flowered bonnet, chuckling merrily at a joke Professor Flitwick just read him. 

Flaming Christmas puddings follow the turkey. Percy nearly breaks his teeth on a silver sickle embedded in his slice. Harry watches Hagrid getting redder and redder in the face as he calls for more wine, finally kissing Professor McGonagall on the cheek, who, to Harry’s amazement, giggles and blushes, her top hat lopsided. That (less strangely) suits her, too. When he looks back at his own table, Em’s got some fanciful antique thing on with a veil and feathers that matches his Weasley sweater.

When Harry finally leaves the table, he’s laden down with a stack of things out of the crackers, including a pack of nonexplodable, luminous balloons, a Grow-Your-Own-Warts kit, and his own new wizard chess set. The white mice have all disappeared and Harry has a nasty feeling they are going to end up as Mrs. Norris’s Christmas dinner, but only if Nala doesn’t get to them first. 

Oh… is that what happened to Scabbers?

…He’ll just sit on that.

Harry and the Weasleys spend a happy afternoon having a furious snowball fight on the grounds. Then, cold, wet, and gasping for breath, they return to the fire in the Gryffindor common room, where Harry breaks in his new chess set by losing spectacularly to Ron. He suspects he wouldn’t have lost so badly if Percy didn’t tried to help him so much. Ron asks him where Em and Arthur have gotten off to, but Harry tells him not to worry about it, they probably have other people to see. Harry’s pretty certain they’re back in the trunk making the most of Christmas.

After a meal of turkey sandwiches, crumpets, trifle, and Christmas cake, everyone feels too full and sleepy to do much before bed except sit and watch Percy chase Fred and George all over Gryffindor tower because they stole his prefect badge. 

It’s been Harry’s best Christmas day ever, by far. In fact, it’s a better day than Harry felt certain he’d ever have, and if he should wake up tomorrow having dreamt it all up, he’d still be shocked he was fortunate enough to have dreamt such a thing. Yet something has been nagging at the back of his mind all day. Not until he climbs into bed is he free to think about it: the invisibility cloak and whoever sent it. 

Ron, full of turkey and cake and with nothing mysterious to bother him, falls asleep almost as soon as he’s drawn the curtains of his four-poster. Harry leans over the side of his own bed and pulls the cloak out from under it. 

His father’s...this was his father’s. He lets the material flow over his hands, smoother than silk, light as air. Use it well, the note said. 

He has to try it, now. Now now now. He slips out of bed and wraps the cloak around himself. Looking down at his legs, he sees only moonlight and shadows. It’s a very funny feeling, but Harry’s always wanted to be invisible.

Use it well.
Suddenly, Harry feels wide-awake. The whole of Hogwarts is open to him in this cloak. Excitement floods through him as he stands there in the dark and silence, the reality of the realisation finally hitting him. He can go anywhere in this, anywhere, and Filch will never know. Malfoy will have a harder time getting him expelled from now on!

Ron grunts in his sleep. Should Harry wake him? But he hesitates. Something holds him back — his father’s cloak… no, not this time. The first time, he has to use it alone. 

He creeps out of the dormitory, down the stairs, across the common room, and climbs through the portrait hole. 

Chapter Text

It’s not that Merlin can see Harry through the invisibility cloak, per se. More that magic, to him, is as tangible as any other sense, and he can feel the cape moving when Harry uses it. He made very sure nothing on earth would be able to visually sense anyone under the cloak when he made the thing, but there’s more than one way to see.

Either way, when Harry creeps out of the dorm, Merlin knows. The kid deserves that much. It’s likely something to do with it having been his father’s cloak.

Merlin debates for a moment. He doesn’t want to follow Harry everywhere, everyone deserves secrets, and this is important to him. But he can’t very well let Harry wander off alone when Quirrell’s in the castle.

Merlin sighs. Mind made up, he gently deposits Nala into the space he’s just vacated beside Arthur and creeps out himself.

“Who’s there?”, he hears Liz squawk. He lets his own invisibility spell falter for just enough time to give her a wink and put his finger to his lips as he goes, effectively settling her.

Harry stops down a corridor for a bit, then walks with new purpose in the direction of the library. Merlin groans internally. The restricted section, of course. Maybe Merlin needs to make a habit of this to protect Harry from himself as well.

Turning the corner where Harry’s stopped, creeping around the back end of the library and tiptoeing over the velvet rope, Merlin’s jaw drops. Harry brought a perfectly visible lamp. Sort of defeats the purpose of an invisibility cape. Even hiding it under said cape, the risk is good that a sliver of light will flash out as he’s shifting and give him away. Really, Harry. Ignatius Peverell is rolling in his grave.

Merlin watches anxiously as Harry picks out tome after tome, close to tearing his hair out. They’re restricted for a reason. It’s a miracle nothing’s gone wrong yet; A miracle, coupled with a bit of soothing magical energy from Merlin to lull the books into a sense of security and calm.

There’s only so much he can do, though, and eventually Harry’s luck runs out.

The book’s piercing, bloodcurdling shriek sends Harry stumbling back, smashing his lamp. He manages to stuff the old book back into place before the footsteps they can both hear arrive, racing out the door and right past Filch. Merlin is right behind him.

See, this is why he can’t let Harry wander off alone.

Harry’s luck ends up being even worse than Merlin’s somehow. Godess, what are the chances the boy runs right into the teachers talking about him?

“You asked me to come directly to you, Professor, if anyone was wandering around at night, and somebody’s been in the library Restricted Section,” Filch sneers delightedly. Sick, horrible man.

“The Restricted Section? Well, they can’t be far, we’ll catch them.”

That’s Snape’s voice. Merlin casts his own subtle form of protection on the boy as they go by, making him near undetectable. Sure enough, it sees him through an open door to his right. Merlin slips in after him.

It looks like an unused classroom. The dark shapes of desks and chairs are piled against the walls, and there’s an upturned wastepaper basket – but propped against the wall facing the entrance is something completely other. It looks out of place, and it feels even more so. It sends a rush of something intense through Merlin, and he immediately knows beyond anything else that Harry should not be exposed to it. This is much too powerful, this magic- old and invasive and alluring, like a Siren’s song.

It’s a magnificent mirror, as high as the ceiling, with an ornate gold frame, standing on two clawed feet. Merlin can just make out the prescription in the dark with his sharp eyes: Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi.
It’s gibberish. Merlin knows his languages, and that’s nothing well known, but there are other ways to get a message across. He hardly needs to call on his experience as a spy through the First World War to decipher it. Backwards, and with a little spacial rearranging, it reads: I show not your face but your heart’s desire.

In the time Merlin’s taken to suss this out, Harry’s already placed himself directly in front of it, and he’s clearly already seen something.

Shit.

Harry spins around a couple times, searching the mirror, looking for something around him he’s seeing in he deceitful glass. His eyes are wide and so terribly vulnerable. With a start, Merlin remembers just how young he is. Children are so capable it can be hard to keep perspective and remember that they shouldn’t have to be.

The boy edges a little closer to the glass, breathing evening out from its terrified pace. He gets closer and closer to the mirror until his nose is almost touching the glass.

“…Mom? …Dad?””

Oh .

Oh, Harry.

Merlin’s heart breaks a little. He just wants a family. More than anything, Harry wants to be loved. Goddamnit.

Merlin knows then that Harry’s going to be one of those people he gets attached to. It’s going to hurt to watch this one die.

Merlin takes a deep breath and leaves the room. He’s going to have to do something about this.

He makes his way silently into a carved-out nook as yet undiscovered, if the cobwebs and ancient decor are anything to go by. They make Merlin feel at home.

“Fawkes,” he whispers into the air.

Fawkes’ appearance throws orange light across the flagstones, leaving no crevice unbrightened. It is as though the sun has risen early in this little corner of the castle. Merlin smiles as brightly as he can at his friend despite his fallen spirits.

The bird looks at him knowingly, cawing ever so softly, knowing full well how important discretion is in this circumstance. Merlin hums at him and takes the roll of parchment Fawkes has thoughtfully provided. He doesn’t have a quill, so he writes with his magic. The letters glow a gentle gold, and they’re warm where they kiss the paper.

Harry has found your mirror.

M

He hands Fawkes the note, giving him a grateful scratch under the chin. He watches his friend go, leaving a bit of his warmth with Merlin, enough to get him back to Liz’s portrait.

He wonders how long it will be before he has to make himself known to Dumbledore. He hopes it won’t get that far, but he won’t deny the possibility. Maybe Dumbledore will listen to him more if he delivers his notes in person. He will likely make the connection that whoever’s been sending him letters is in Hogwarts currently, and after that it probably won’t take him long to guess at M’s identity.

Well, he’ll jump off that bridge when he comes to it.

Merlin was right to be wary of the mirror’s addictiveness. Harry does not return to them the same. Though Merlin’s heartened the boy sees fit to tell them about it- him, Ron, and Arthur, that is- Harry has a sick, longing quality to him now. He refuses to eat, he snaps at Ron and replies dazedly if at all. His eyes are empty and distant, his heart in a cold, empty room staring at an equally cold and empty sheet of reflective glass. Even Ron picks up on it.

On the upside, Harry wants to bring them all to see the mirror next time. With a little manoeuvring, they all fit under the cloak. Even better, they wandered for an hour and still can’t find the damned thing, and Merlin is just getting hopeful that they might give up.

“I’m freezing,” says Ron. “Let’s forget it and go back.”

“No!” Harry hisses, not sounding like himself. “I know it’s here somewhere.”

If Dumbledore’s done something irreversible to Harry, leaving that horror around a school full of kids, nothing will save him from Merlin.

“It’s here — just here — yes!”

Damnit.

They push the door open, Harry hardly squeezing through the door before he’s dropped the cloak from around his shoulders, discarding it carelessly and throwing himself in front of the blasted mirror.

“See?”, he whispers reverently.
“I can’t see anything,” Ron replies.
“Look! Look at them all... there are loads of them...”

“We can only see you, Harry,” Arthur tells him.

Merlin tunes out of the conversation, zeroing in on the fifth presence in the room. They aren’t alone. So Dumbledore decided to heed his warning after all. Well, any day now, old man.
“Look in it properly, go on, stand where I am.”

He grips Arthur’s arm alarmingly tight, not really thinking as he moves, which is so un-Harry like it sends a flare of concern through Merlin. Still, he doesn’t budge.

“I don’t need to see,” Arthur says firmly, prying Harry’s fingers from his bicep.

“What?”, Harry shoots distractedly. It’s a strange comment, but Harry’s so taken in by the hypnosis of desire that he hardly bats an eye, turning on Ron instead, dragging him before the mirror that’s turned him into a shell. Ron goggles at his reflection for a moment, Harry looking between him and his reflection expectantly.
“Look at me!” Ron cries.
“Can you see all your family standing around you?”, Harry urges.
“No — I’m alone — but I’m different — I look older — and I’m head boy!”

“What?”

“I am — I’m wearing the badge like Bill used to — and I’m holding the house cup and the Quidditch cup — I’m Quidditch captain, too.”

Ron tears his eyes away from this splendid sight to look excitedly at the trio. “Do you think this mirror shows the future?”
“How can it? All my family are dead — let me have another look —”

“You had it to yourself all last night, give me a bit more time.”

“Em, you stand there!”, Harry demands, uncharacteristically harsh. Merlin shakes his head. Arthur crosses his arms, looking at the boy sadly.

“We don’t need to see,” he repeats quietly.

Merlin’s not sure what it would show them. If it would even work on them. Maybe Albion, Merlin standing beside his King with a crown of his own, ripping that stupid bloody Statue of Secrecy into thousands of tiny pieces. Maybe Avalon, all their friends from a thousand different places and times, arms open to take them home. Maybe it would just show them standing there together, just as they are, hand in hand. At each other’s side.

None of it would make a difference. Merlin looks back into Harry’s glazed, muddled eyes, and stands his ground.

“Ron, move over, I want to see again.”

“Not yet.”

“You’re only holding the Quidditch cup, what’s interesting about that? I want to see my parents.”

“Don’t push me —”

A sudden noise outside in the corridor puts an end to their discussion. Neither Harry nor Ron realized how loudly they were talking.

“Quick!”, Arthur hisses, throwing the cloak back over them all just as the luminous eyes of Mrs. Norris bob round the door. She stares unnervingly at the four of them. Merlin knows she can’t see them, but as he said, there are many other ways to sense someone. He’s not actually sure what Mrs. Norris will make of them. Cats were quite different when he made this for Iggy.

“This isn’t safe — she might go for Filch, I bet she heard us. Come on.”

And Arthur pulls the other boys out of the room, leaving Merlin to wonder what the hell Albus Dumbledore thought he’d accomplished by just standing there and watching that whole exchange.

“Want to play chess, Harry?”, Ron asks.

“No.”
“Why don’t we go down and visit Hagrid?”, Merlin suggests rather desperately.

“No... you go...”

Merlin turns away in despair, distracting himself by thinking up new and creative ways to throttle the headmaster.

“I know what you’re thinking about, Harry, that mirror. Don’t go back tonight,” Arthur warns gravely in his ‘don’t argue with me’ voice.

“Why not?”
“I dunno, I’ve just got a bad feeling about it — and anyway, you’ve had too many close shaves already. Filch, Snape, and Mrs. Norris are wandering around. So what if they can’t see you? What if they walk into you? What if you knock something over?”

“You sound like Hermione.”

“I’m serious, Harry, don’t go.”

“He’s absolutely right,” Merlin says gently, knowing exactly how much good it will do.

“I agree, mate. I’m gettin’ worried about you,” Ron adds.

Merlin follows Harry out of the dorm that third night. He’ll deal with this now, then pay Dumbledore a visit.

Harry’s callous and thoughtless as he makes his way to the room, his steps loud and conspicuous, the cloak that meant so much to Ignatius tossed haphazardly over his form. He makes it in half the time they did last time. Merlin lets the door close behind them, surprised to find that once again, they’re not alone. He holds off on revealing himself- he’ll watch this unfold.
“So — back again, Harry?”

Harry’s head whips around where he’s sunk down onto the round before the mirror, eyes wide and locked on Dumbledore, who’s sat rather casually in one of the old desks by the wall. Harry didn’t even notice him as he stalked by in his haste to get to the mirror.

“I — I didn’t see you, sir.”

“Strange how nearsighted being invisible can make you,” the old man hums lightly. “So,” he continues, slipping off the desk to sit on the floor with Harry, “you, like hundreds before you, have discovered the delights of the Mirror of Erised.”

Merlin almost scoffs. Erised. Just call it desire. Better yet, call it crack-cocaine, it has the same effects on a man.

“I didn’t know it was called that, Sir,” Harry admits.
“But I expect you’ve realized by now what it does?”, Dumbledore prods gently. As if Harry was likely to have sussed that out when he was too drunk on its magic to even read the inscription.

“It — well — it shows me my family —”
“And it showed your friend Ron himself as head boy.”

“How did you know —?”

“I don’t need a cloak to become invisible,” says Dumbledore gently. “Now, can you think what the Mirror of Erised shows us all?”
Harry shakes his head. Merlin’s just glad to see his gaze is on the old man, not the glass.

“Let me explain. The happiest man on earth would be able to use the Mirror of Erised like a normal mirror, that is, he would look into it and see himself exactly as he is. Does that help?”

Harry thinks about this, his brow furrowing, trying to work through the fog in his brain.

“It shows us what we want... whatever we want...”

“Yes and no. It shows us nothing more or less than the deepest, most desperate desire of our hearts. You, who have never known your family, see them standing around you. Ronald Weasley, who has always been overshadowed by his brothers, sees himself standing alone, the best of all of them. However, your other friends, Myrridian and Arthur, were quite wise to turn down the offer of looking for themselves. This mirror will give us neither knowledge nor truth. Men have wasted away before it, entranced by what they have seen, or been driven mad, not knowing if what it shows is real or even possible.”

Harry blinks, digesting this new information. He’s smart enough, he might just come to the right conclusion himself, even despite the mirror’s hold on him.

“The Mirror will be moved to a new home tomorrow, Harry, and I ask you not to go looking for it again. If you ever do run across it, you will now be prepared. It does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live, remember that. Now, why don’t you put that admirable cloak back on and get off to bed?”

Harry stands up on wobbly knees, making an aborted motion for the door as if stuck in place. He looks back at Albus.
“Sir — Professor Dumbledore? Can I ask you something?”

“Obviously, you’ve just done so,” Dumbledore smiles, still sitting criss-cross applesauce on the floor. “You may ask me one more thing, however.”

“What do you see when you look in the mirror?”

Oh, good question, Harry. Merlin knew he’d picked a good one.

“I? I see myself holding a pair of thick, woolen socks,” Dumbledore replies.

Harry stares. Merlin stares. That’s one way to avoid answering, he supposes. Kind of sounds like something he himself would say, actually.

“One can never have enough socks,” the old man babbles happily. “Another Christmas has come and gone and I didn’t get a single pair. People will insist on giving me books.”

Merlin searches Harry’s face. He looks a little more present now, if not completely whole yet. The warlock chances a hopeful smile as he slips out after him and back to the Gryffindor dorms.

What Dumbledore said must have struck a chord with Harry, because he doesn’t go back for the mirror. Merlin himself makes sure it’s removed just as the headmaster promised before he finally settles. The invisibility cloak stays folded safely in the bottom of Harry’s trunk, where it’s supposed to be.

The mirror doesn’t have its claws out of him yet, though. Harry’s nightmares hurt Merlin and Arthur in equal measure even as Ron snores on, oblivious. Poor Neville has nightmares too, not that that’s new. The two of them work in tandem, taking turns keeping the boys company on bad nights. It really is better when you don’t have to wake up alone.

“You see, Dumbledore was right, that mirror could drive you mad,” Ron says when Harry finally admits to the dreams.

Hermione, who comes back the day before term starts, takes a different view of things. She’s torn between horror at the idea of Harry being out of bed, roaming the school three nights in a row (again, her priorities do need work, but she didn’t see Harry’s mental decline), and disappointment that they haven’t at least found out who Nicolas Flamel is.

🪞 

Merlin waits for an opportunity and finds one when he and Hermione are the only ones left in the Gryffindor common room, both of them reading separate books. He looks around, making sure. They should be the only ones around for a bit, at least. Long enough to finally give Hermione her long overdue Yuletide present.

“Mione,” hey hums, closing his book. “Have you got a moment?”

She looks up, eyes wide like a startled rabbit. She looks a bit like Daisy, actually. She’s got her hair in a couple of aborted clasps- she’s still getting the hang of the hairstyle guide book Arthur got her for Yuletide.

She looks between him and her book for a moment as if bringing herself back to reality and slowly closes her own read, putting it aside and inching forward in her seat. Merlin stands up and crosses over to her, crouching in front of her armchair.

“I’ve been trying to find a moment to give you your yu- Christmas present. I know it’s late. I got quite sidetracked with Harry and the mirror, but now that that’s settled…” he snaps his fingers, straightening up as he remembers. “Oh! And thank you for the m&m sweater! I love it!”

She brightens up, grinning with those impressively large teeth of hers.

“Did you really? I wasn’t sure if you’d get the joke, it is a muggle candy…”

“Oh, Arthur laughed himself stupid explaining it to Ron, but I got it. It’s for my name, right? Myriddian and Emrys.”

“Yeah. I don’t know, it just made me think of you, and…” Hermione’s eyes widen a little and she shakes her head as if to rid the air of what she’s just said.

“Well, I… look, Hermione…”, Merlin sighs, wondering how to go about this. Now that he thinks about it, this might have been a bit much. “The gift I got you… see, it’s sort of a secret. It’s just… what Harry said, earlier. When you were mad? About me not wanting the attention that… just, attention. Even if it’s good attention. He was right. I don’t want it. I want to be a normal student, Hermione- as normal as I can be. I don’t want to stand out in any way. I know that’s hard for you to understand. But I hope you can still respect it. I trust you to, because I know how good of a friend and person you are. That’s why I’m also trusting you with this gift, okay? So… can you keep it a secret?”

He thinks he worded that pretty well. He gives himself a mental pay on the back.

Hermione’s breaths have sped up incrementally, and she’s sitting at the edge of her seat, coiled tight as a spring, lion’s mane shuddering around her and dislodging one of her clips as she nods seriously.

Ehh… Arthur tried.

Merlin takes a steadying breath.

“Okay. Get your wand out.”

It all but materializes in her hand.

“Think of something in that book you’re reading that you know is in there. Cut it down to keywords, three maximum. Got it?” Another nod. “Okay. Repeat after me and then say your key words. Ready?” Stupid question. He snickers. “Indago.”

This first time, he guides her wand, making sure she has the motion down.

“Indago, top bun.”

The book in her lap springs to life, flipping open to the page with an illustration of a ballerina’s tight bun. That… yeah, Hermione’s hair doesn’t have a hope of accomplishing that.

Hermione gasps, shooting up in place. The book nearly topples to the floor, but Merlin catches it just as Hermione throws herself forward to do the same thing, smashing their foreheads together.

“OW! Oh my god, I’m sorry!”

“It’s fine,” he chuckles. Is your head okay?”

“Did you-“, she breathes, stammering as though afraid to say the words out loud. Her eyes are as wide as saucers, her chest heaving with tiny rapid breaths. She looks, quite frankly, astounded. “Did you… make that spell?”

Merlin ducks his head, scratching at the back of his neck. Maybe it was a bit much.

“I had no idea it wasn’t a commonly used spell. I submitted it to the Ministry last week. It should be in the syllabus soon. But I know how much you research. I just thought of how much more you could accomplish if you halved the time it took you to find the information you were looking for in the library. Thought I could make it easier on you.”

Hermione gapes at him like a fish for four and a half long seconds before sitting down heavily in her armchair. It’s more collapsing than sitting. Gravity just sort of has its way with her. Merlin regards her through cautious eyes like a wary animal unsure whether or not to bolt.

“That’s… you… oh, Merlin ,” she breathes reverently. “I don’t know what to say.”

“Say you won’t tell anyone?”, he pleads hopefully.

“If- if that’s what you want, or course. I… you’re right, I don’t understand, but…” she sniffles, pulling her face together and giving him a steady nod. Merlin leads his beaming grin take over his face.

“Ohhh, thank you!”, he chirps, squeezing her in a hug. She squeaks, so he pulls back, but his expression doesn’t dim. He’s positively delighted. He knew he could count on her.

“I… I…”

He shakes his head with a happy noise.

“Happy Christmas, Hermione.”

Everyone loves their Christmas presents. All five of them are completely enamoured with their respective things over the next few weeks. Harry is never seen without his new sneaks on- Arthur had to talk him out of wearing them to bed that first night. The teachers all ogle Merlin’s new watch, exclaiming about how advanced and one of a kind it is. Merlin himself has been caught on a few occasions just staring into it as if it’s the most beautiful thing on earth, or as if he can read the secrets of the universe in the face, the crystal stars reflecting in his wonder-struck eyes. His Astrology grades do improve, too.

Ron is besotted with Daisy. So besotted that not even Malfoy’s teasing about his ‘cute new bunny wabbit’ has an effect on his mood. She makes herself a little nest under Ron’s bed, and he brings her up for cuddles sometimes. She’s a brave bunny- she gets on well with Nala, even with Nala’s habit of sitting on her.

Then there’s Arthur. Merlin knows he tried his best to keep his mother’s harp in working order, but it simply wasn’t possible to keep something so old. It was only wood and string, after all. They don’t even make the various bits and bobs needed to maintain those instruments anymore. It was a blow to Arthur when it crumbled on him- it’s what he does to connect to his mother and feel close to her- or, what he used to do.

So Merlin’s been getting him other string instruments over the years. He helps in other ways, too- every year on Arthur’s birthday Merlin makes sure there’s a vase of lilies by the bed. They were her favourite. And he’s extra thoughtful towards Arthur on that day of the year. Arthur does the same for him come Gaius’ death day, lighting incense to make the room smell like potions and herbs and bringing Merlin tea in the look-alike copy of the Physician’s chambers.

All this to say, Arthur takes to the guitar immediately. He’s practically a master overnight- that’ll happen when you learn every string instrument that comes along over 1400 years. It’s rare to come into a common room without the sound of strumming accompanying the crackling fire now. It suits the space, and the guitar suits Arthur. Merlin loves to sit and listen to him play. With a couple of well-plucked chords, Arthur can send him right to sleep.

Suffice it to say, Christmas was a success.

🎸

Ron, Harry, and Hermione have almost given up hope of ever finding Flamel in a library book, even though Harry still swears blind he’s read the name somewhere. Though Hermione now has the major advantage of Indago, it seems there’s simply nothing written in any of the books they check out about Flamel. Harry has even less time than the other two to look, because Quidditch practice has started again.

This last point is what sends Harry storming into the Gryffindor common room one day in his Quidditch robes, alarm on his face. Arthur is strumming his guitar. Hermione and Merlin are playing chess, making the game a different beast altogether than when Arthur and Ron play. Indeed, they spend so much time sitting and staring and thinking that Ron’s been inclined to ban them from using his set, lest the game never end. Luckily, it seems those two have made up completely, and Hermione’s completely forgotten her tiff, even if jealousy still rears its head sometimes.

“Don’t talk to me for a moment,” Merlin requests when Harry sits down next to him, hand up, “I need to concen—” He catches sight of Harry’s face. “Oh no. Do I want to hear this?”

Speaking quietly so that no one else hears, Harry tells them all about Snape’s sudden, sinister desire to be a Quidditch referee. Apparently the Gryffindor Quidditch captain, Wood, told them at practice today.

“Don’t play,” Hermione snaps at once.
“Say you’re ill,” Ron suggests.
“Pretend to break your leg,” Hermione adds.
“Really break your leg,” says Ron.
“I can’t,” said Harry. “There isn’t a reserve Seeker. If I back out, Gryffindor can’t play at all.”

“Actually,” Hermione brightens, straightening up with a sudden thought. “You’ll be fine. Em will be there, he won’t let anything happen to you.”

“What?”, the man in question asks, raising his eyebrows at suddenly being called out.

“Well, you won’t, will you? You’re insured, Harry, so no worries!”, Hermione continues.

Before Arthur or Merlin can protest, Neville topples into the common room. How he managed to climb through the portrait hole is anyone’s guess, because his legs are stuck together with what they recognize at once as the Leg-Locker Curse. He must have had to bunny hop all the way up to Gryffindor tower.

Hermione leaps up and performs the counter-curse while Merlin helps Neville up. Neville’s legs spring apart and he gingerly gets to his feet, trembling, with Merlin’s help.

“What happened?” He asks, leading the boy over to sit with the rest of the lot.

“Malfoy,” Neville responds shakily. “I met him outside the library. He said he’d been looking for someone to practice that on.”

“Go to Professor McGonagall!” Hermione urges Neville. “Report him!”

Neville shakes his head.

“I don’t want more trouble,” he mumbles.

“You’ve got to stand up to him, Neville!” Arthur urges. “He’s used to walking all over people, but that’s no reason to lie down in front of him and make it easier.”

“There’s no need to tell me I’m not brave enough to be in Gryffindor, Malfoy’s already done that,” Neville chokes out.

Merlin’s eyes go steely. Harry digs into the pocket of his robes and pulls out a Chocolate Frog, the very last one from the box Hermione gave him for Christmas. He gives it to Neville, who looks as though he might cry.

“You’re worth twelve of Malfoy,” Harry tells him. “The Sorting Hat chose you for Gryffindor, didn’t it? And where’s Malfoy? In stinking Slytherin.”

“Well, while I might not agree with all of that- the Slytherin part, Neville, don’t misunderstand- he’s absolutely right about the rest of it. You are here because your bravery would make Godric Gryffindor proud, and the hat knew it,” Merlin adds, looking at Neville with a sideways smile and a twinkle in his eyes not unlike Dumbledore’s.

“That boy doesn’t have a fraction of what you have, Neville,” Arthur informs him steadily, as if Neville were one of his knights, daring him to disagree.

Neville’s lips twitch in a weak smile as he unwraps the frog with a sniffle.
“Thanks, guys… I think I’ll go to bed... D’you want the card, you collect them, don’t you?”

As Neville limps away, Harry looks over the Famous Wizard card.
“Dumbledore again,” he mumbles, “He was the first one I ever —”
He gasps, shooting up in place, eyes fixed on the back of the card.

“I’ve found him!” he whispers. “I’ve found Flamel! I told you I’d read the name somewhere before, I read it on the train coming here — listen to this: ‘Dumbledore is particularly famous for his defeat of the dark wizard Grindelwald in 1945, for the discovery of the twelve uses of dragon’s blood, and his work on alchemy with his partner, Nicolas Flamel’!”

Hermione jumps to her feet, eyes wide. She hasn’t looked so excited since they got back the marks for their very first piece of homework.

“Stay there!” she shrieks, and she sprints up the stairs to the girls’ dormitories. Harry and Ron barely have time to exchange mystified looks (and Arthur and Merlin exchanged weary ones) before she’s dashing back, an enormous old book in her arms.

“I never thought to look in here!” she whispers excitedly. “I got this out of the library weeks ago for a bit of light reading.”

“ Light? ” Ron echoes incredulously, but Hermione hushes him, flicking frantically through the pages, muttering to herself. It would seem in her haste she’s forgotten her Christmas present, but Merlin feels it would not be wise to interrupt her right now.

At last she finds what she’s looking for. “I knew it! I knew it!”

“Are we allowed to speak yet?” Merlin asks casually. Hermione ignores him.
“Nicolas Flamel,” she pronounces dramatically, “is the only known maker of the Sorcerer’s Stone!”

It doesn’t have quite the effect she’d expected, at least not on most present. Merlin sits back with a sigh and tries to look gobsmacked. They’ve done it now.
“The what?” Harry and Ron ask blankly.
“Oh, honestly, don’t you two read?”

“The Sorcerer’s stone- or the Philosopher’s, depends where you’re from- is an alchemic substance that embodies the two ultimate goals of the science- turning metal into gold, and producing the Elixir of Life, making immortality a tangible feat to humans. Nicolas Flamel himself keeps the only stone in existence. Him and his wife use it to meet their own needs, which are carefully monitored. He created it, so he has the rights to it, and Flamel’s a pacifist. It’s never been a problem because the stone’s always been safe with him,” Merlin explains.

“See?” Hermione says. “The dog must be guarding Flamel’s Sorcerer’s Stone! I bet he asked Dumbledore to keep it safe for him, because they’re friends and he knew someone was after it, that’s why he wanted the Stone moved out of Gringotts!”

Eh, close.

“A stone that makes gold and stops you from ever dying!” Harry whistles. “No wonder Snape’s after it! Anyone would want it.”

Merlin bites down on his lip so as not to make a face. It’s not worth the dirt on his shoes unless you’ve got someone worth living for. Perenelle was always Nick’s Arthur, though.

“And no wonder we couldn’t find Flamel in that Study of Recent Developments in Wizardry,” Ron steamrolls on, reading something from the book. “He’s not exactly recent if he’s— blimey, six hundred and sixty-five!”

Hopefully this won’t change much. Quirrell, and by extension, Voldemort, is still wasting his time on the third floor. Harry, Ron, and Hermione are still looking in the wrong direction, which at least makes them safer than if they weren’t. Merlin wouldn’t put it past them to go after Quirrell if they knew.

🐸 

Severus Snape has taken to watching the Potter boy. With as reckless and foolish as he’s proven to be, he might be the worst student to be in the crosshairs of Voldemort’s man at school. Quirrell’s getting bolder, ever since that stunt at the last Quidditch game. It would be just typical that the last of Lily Evans would be forced out of the world because of a first year’s insufferable naivety, no doubt given to him by his father.

Severus Snape isn’t going to let that happen.

It seems, though, that the other one, Emrys, is determined to draw his attention. Every time Severus is about to snap at Potter, Myrridian Emrys pipes up with some obnoxious comment and gets himself landed in even more detentions- detentions Severus could be spending looking out for Potter. Detentions that could cost the world the last of Lily. And despite himself, Severus finds himself successfully distracted.

Emrys’ tongue is as quick and sharp as it is troublesome. Severus might admit, under great duress and against his better judgment, that the boy can be quite witty. He would have done admirably in Slytherin, and the more he watches, the more apparent that seems. Severus sees little to no Gryffindor in him, although he knows these things come in many forms, some subtler than others. More compelling than that… Severus can’t help but be partial to him. He’s only ever partial to Slytherins.

Then there are the detentions. Severus has him do boring work sometimes, labelling bottles and sorting ingredients, cleaning desks, that sort of thing. But Emrys excels in all of it. His work is professional standard, whether he’s cleaning the floor or bottling essences. He’s yet to find a single flaw in the boy’s work.

Severus notices something else, as well. No matter what he’s being asked to do, Myrridian is always careful not to touch any ingredients. He handles them all with tweezers and tongs specifically for that purpose. This is something only expert potion makers make sure to do, because the oils of the human hand can fractionally dull some of the substance’s effectiveness, and by extension, any potions made with them. This doesn’t matter for most brewers, certainly not for first years, but for world class potion makers it’s the difference between failure and success.

Myrridian handles everything Severus throws at him with an experienced proficiency that Severus would expect from a master. And above all, he never, ever complains. Hes not cowed by any of Severus’ usual glares and stares. He doesn’t bat an eye at the growled speeches Severus has carefully crafted over his long and painful career. He’s never even lost his cheer. In fact, he’s always ready with a response that sends Severus recalibrating. Against all odds, the Slytherin- ahem , Gryffindor- has intrigued him.

None of that prepares him for what Myriddian says in the middle of his last detention, though.

“Harry Potter, Hermione Granger, and Ron Weasley are under the impression that you’re going to harm Harry during the next Quidditch match you’re refereeing.”

Severus blinks. Lowers his book. Then puts it down entirely and turns to look at Myriddian, unamused.

“Just thought you ought to know. Ron and Hermione are fiercely protective, and they won’t hesitate to hex you if they misread anything as you threatening Harry.”

A few things go through Severus’ head at once. First is the brief shock at what sounds like a threat, but he throws that out the window, knowing it isn’t. Oddly, he feels that if Myriddian were to threaten him, Severus would know. A warning, then? Second is the off-putting realization that he doesn’t think for a second Myriddian’s lying. Third is the baffling conclusion he’s being forced to draw regarding the children’s disposition towards him, which is apparently borderline violent. Fourth is that Myriddian wouldn’t impart this information without being sure and without having a damn good reason. It’s the Slytherin in him.

“Is that what happened at the last match?”, he asks carefully. Myriddian doesn’t answer.

“We both know that you’re not after Harry. You’re looking out for him. I want you to be aware before the game in case either of them misunderstand and react inadvisably- they can both be quite formidable, you know.”

“Have you tried imparting your wisdom to them?”

“Oh, they won’t listen to me. Besides, they’re safer looking in the wrong direction, aren’t they? Wouldn’t want them going after someone actually dangerous.”

Once again, Severus is sent reeling and he has to recalibrate himself. He openly stares at the boy, eyes narrowed and lips slightly parted. Is he aware of the threat to Potter? What else does he know? And how?

“And what of Mr. Penn?”

“He knows full well you’re not a threat to Harry, so don’t worry about him.”

“And why did you not see fit to tell the Headmaster these concerns?”

“If you must know, he doesn’t listen to me either. And quite frankly, I’m sick of him,” Myriddian admits matter-of-factly.

Severus hasn’t been this close to struck dumb in years.

“That is the headmaster of Hogwarts you’re talking about,” he grits out. Myriddian shrugs.

“You asked.”

Chapter Text

Harry looks sick when they wish him luck before the match. Hermione is actually the only cheerful one between them, her mind completely eased knowing Em will be looking out for Harry. Ron seems less sure. Merlin looks a little pale himself, but that might have more to do with the height of the stands than anything else. 

Merlin squeezes in next to Neville, who he’s pretty sure is the least into Quidditch out of all of them and thus will make the best company. The chubby boy turns to his friend with a bright grin that fades when he sees Merlin’s face.

“Hey, are you okay?”, he asks, scootching up closer to press his side against Merlin’s. 

“Yeah, Nev, thanks. Well, no, not really, but it’s fine. That’s fine. It’s Harry’s big game, are you excited?”

“It’s no bigger than any of the others…”, Neville says distractedly, frowning at the taller boy. “What’s wrong?”

Merlin heaves a big sigh. “Sorry, Nev. It’s really not that big of a deal, and I really am fine. I just don’t like heights, is all.”

Neville’s eyes blow wide at once. 

“What! Why didn’t you- what are you doing here? You don’t have to be up here!”

“I kinda do. I’m looking out for Harry. Oh, don’t worry, Nev, I promise I’ll be just fine.” As long as neither Ron nor Hermione let loose that LegLocker curse they’ve been practicing.

“Harry will be fine, you can still watch from the lower seats!”

Merlin waves him off and Neville huffs in distress like it’s him with the issue.

“Doesn’t Arthur know? Why’d he bring you if…?”

As if on cue, the players march out on the field, prompting uproarus cheers from the crowd, Arthur included. Merlin lets his husband go and grips the bannister instead, leaning slightly into Neville. Arthur sends him an apologetic glance that he waves off.

“Neville, I promise, I’m fine.”

“Look Em, Dumbledore’s here!”, Ron exclaims, jostling Merlin with his shoulder, making his face a little paler. Once he’s got his bearings back, he follows Ron’s gaze. There he is, silver beard near luminescent in the sun, stars and moons twinkling out of the stitching of his handsome grey robes.

“I’ve never seen Snape look so mean,” Ron continues. “Look — they’re off. Ouch!” 

“Oh, sorry, Weasley, didn’t see you there.” Malfoy sneers from where he’s just poked Ron hard in the back of the head. “Wonder how long Potter’s going to stay on his broom this time? Anyone want a bet? What about you, Weasley?” 

No one answers, too caught up in the game; Snape’s just awarded Hufflepuff a penalty because George Weasley hit a Bludger at him. Hermione has all her fingers crossed in her lap, squinting fixedly at Harry, who’s circling the game from high above like a hawk, looking for the Snitch. 

“You know how I think they choose people for the Gryffindor team?” jeers Malfoy loudly, unsatisfied with being ignored, as Snape awards Hufflepuff another penalty for no reason at all. Merlin wonders who the hell spit in his gruel. “It’s people they feel sorry for. See, there’s Potter, who’s got no parents, then there’s the Weasleys, who’ve got no money — you should be on the team, Longbottom, you’ve got no brains.” 

Neville goes bright red and whips around in his seat to face the bully. 

“I’m worth twelve of you, Malfoy,” he stammers. Merlin beams at him. Arthur barks an encouraging laugh without looking back. 

Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle howl with laughter, but Ron, still not daring to take his eyes from the game, says, “You tell him, Neville.” 

“Longbottom, if brains were gold you’d be poorer than Weasley, and that’s saying something.” 

“And if gold were brains, it might explain your arrogance,” Merlin throws back casually, eyes on the sky.

“Ron!” snaps Hermione suddenly, “Harry —” 

“What? Where?” 

Harry has suddenly thrown himself into a spectacular dive, drawing gasps and cheers from the crowd. Hermione shoots up and rushes to stand beside Arthur, her crossed fingers in her mouth, as Harry streaks toward the ground like a bullet. 

“You’re in luck, Weasley, Potter’s obviously spotted some money on the ground!” 

Ron snaps. He slams into Merlin on his way to throw himself into Malfoy, and the only reason Neville doesn’t join him is out of fear and support for his height-phobic friend. Arthur’s arm snaps back to grab Ron by the collar without looking. As Ron finds out, trying to fight Arthur is akin to trying to fight gravity. Malfoy lives to sneer another day. 

“Come on, Harry!” Hermione screams, leaping onto her seat to watch as Harry speeds straight at Snape. At least, that’s what Merlin thinks she screams- it’s hard to hear her over Arthur. His man can yell.

Up in the air, Snape turns on his broomstick just in time to see something scarlet shoot past him, missing him by inches — the next second, Harry’s pulled out of the dive, his arm raised in triumph, the Snitch clasped in his hand. 

The stands collectively lose their shit.

“YES! YES, HARRY, WHOOOOOO! A RECORD, HERMIONE, HE’S GOT A RECORD! THAT’S MY BOY!”, Arthur hollers, shaking Hermione by the shoulders and grinning ear to ear. Poor Ron is not exempt from the excitement- he crashed to the ground as soon as Arthur let him go, but now he’s too over the moon to even think of little blonde twats. Even Merlin jumps up, forgetting himself momentarily, even if he throws himself back down rather fast with a minor yelp. 

Once he’s done with Hermione, who was closest, Arthur’s head whips around to find Merlin, and upon seeing him, snatches him up in his arms and twirls him in a full excited circle. Merlin isn’t even scared, not in Arthur’s arms. 

The good mood brought on by the win is infectious. Arthur parades Hermione around on his shoulders, hardly noticing the extra weight, as he celebrates with the rest of Gryffindor. Fred and George wrangle Merlin into helping them snatch some extra cakes and things from the kitchens- much easier for him, he only needs to ask the house-elves for some provisions. They know and love him, and the feeling’s mutual. Merlin can’t say he’ll ever be short of friends here at Hogwarts- it’s been home for far too long for that.

But Merlin looks away from Lee Jordan (who’s trying to get him to rap an Eminem song) for a second and catches Harry’s alarmed face across the room, and he knows he can’t forget his troubles tonight. Harry’s troubles are his troubles, and judging by his face, he’s got a few. Harry’s a troubled boy. 

Merlin grabs Arthur from where he’s moving the table- still with Hermione on his shoulders, who he seems to have forgotten about. All three of them duck out after Harry, who’s pulled Ron out of whatever he was busy with. Ron just seems to be catching onto Harry’s seriousness. Arthur sets Hermione down, face falling from its celebratory grin. 

“Harry, where have you been?” Hermione squeaks worriedly.
“Never mind that now,” he says breathlessly, stuffing the invisibility cloak into his back pocket- handy, it being made of such fine material. “Let’s find an empty room, you wait ’til you hear this...” 

Harry makes sure Peeves isn’t inside before shutting the door behind them. Merlin double checks they're alone, just in case. This seems a private matter.

“It’s Snape,” Harry says, and Merlin valiantly resists the urge to groan.

“He didn’t hurt you, did he?”, Ron demands. Harry shakes his head.

“He met up with Quirrell in the forbidden forest. He was threatening him, asking if he knew how to get past Fluffy yet, and saying something about Quirrel’s last bit of ‘hocus pocus’- I don’t know, I didn’t catch it all-“

“Slow down, Harry. Breathe,” Arthur orders, meeting his eyes and placing his hands on Harry’s coat-hanger shoulders. 

“So we were right, it is the Sorcerer’s Stone, and Snape’s trying to force Quirrell to help him get it,” Hermione ponders. Merlin can hear the cogs in her bran whirring. “I reckon there are other things guarding the stone apart from Fluffy, loads of enchantments, probably, and Quirrell would have done some anti-Dark Arts spell that Snape needs to break through —” 

“So you mean the Stone’s only safe as long as Quirrell stands up to Snape?” Ron demands in alarm.

“It’ll be gone by next Tuesday,” Harry concludes glumly.

“Okay, look. We don’t know that. You know how much I hate to be the voice of reason, it doesn’t suit me,” Merlin interjects, “but honestly? I think there are a lot of different things all these clues could point to. I don’t like how many assumptions we’re making with this theory, it’s too shaky, and it doesn’t match up with what we know to be true.”

“How so?”, Hermione asks, eyes latching onto and sinking into Merlin like claws. 

“For that hypothesis to be viable, we’d have to assume a lot of things. We’d assume Dumbledore is incompetent at his job,” semi-true, he dropped the ball hiring Quirrell, “we’d assume Snape is prepared to become a wanted criminal on the run from the Ministry in possession of a highly valuable stone that most people on earth would happily kill him for, and is willing to kill a child in the name of that goal. We’d assume that Quirrell wouldn’t go to Dumbledore about Snape’s threats for some unknown reason, AND we’d assume that my gut is wrong.”

The three kids blink at him, but Arthur makes a sound of apparent realisation.

“You have a feeling?”, he asks. Merlin nods. Arthur shakes his head as if that solves matters. “Right then. He’s usually right about those. Like, every time. Em’s feelings are as good as evidence in my book.”

Hermione turns to him in indignant horror at the idea that a ‘feeling’ could constitute hard evidence, but half of her brain is still working through Merlin’s case. Merlin thinks it shouldn’t take her so aback; even if she didn’t realise it, she was doing the same exact thing to purport her Snape theory. 

“I don’t see how you can’t think it’s Snape. The man’s an evil git,” Ron disagrees, proving Merlin’s point. Hermione frowns at him, picking it up. 

“Either way, the stone is in danger,” Harry interrupts, and Merlin gets the distinct impression he’s just agreeing to keep them all happy.

“Well, it’s not going anywhere tonight,” Arthur reminds them all, the merry twinkle reanimating his eyes. “Tonight, Harry, we celebrate.”

🏆

Merlin and Arthur keep a close eye on Quirrell after that. Snape’s obviously onto him, and being far less subtle about it than they are. Arthur would like to think the pressure of a human vulture breathing down his neck might dissuade Quirrell, or at least wear him down a bit, but he can’t quite convince himself of it. Riddle’s followers tend to throw little things like common sense and rational boundaries out the window- they’re all in.

But the good guys aren’t without help either. The Weasley twins have been caught up with Quidditch lately, but with their latest win, pranks are back on the menu. All of Hogwarts seems to brace itself in anticipation— but no shoe drops. 

People start getting anxious. Arthur asks Merlin about it- for some reason the twins seem quicker to approach him than Arthur, but then they are falcons of a feather- but he says he hasn’t heard from them. He figured they were saving something up.

Well, they were. By next week Arthur’s sure- Fred and George have single-handedly directed all of their troublesome ire at Quirrell. The man can’t make it one hour without finding his cape turned pink, or a chipmunk in his turban, or, as on one memorable occasion, his tongue covered in orange fur and quite literally tied.

These are the milder schemes the man finds himself subjected to, meant to confuse and distract, draw attention, nothing more, but every second Quirrell spends getting a rodent out from under his turban is a second he can’t devote to chasing the stone, and that proves invaluable. They’re far from the only things to befall Quirrell, though, and everyone knows who’s doing it, even if the teachers can’t prove it. Quirrell trembles near constantly now, and Arthur worries it’s more out of rage than fear.

On Friday night, Arthur takes up a post in the hidden quarter of the clocktower and dispatches Ixorix. 

His wolf comes back with a couple of bemused Weasleys, ducking under the giant gears that should mask their conversation even if anyone were to happen by (which they wouldn’t). Upon seeing him they exchange a glance.

“Ah, the second side of the coin,” the first one says. Arthur has no idea how Merlin tells them apart. 

“We’ve been wondering when we’d have a good chat,” the other agrees. “Nice sweater.”

“Nice wolf.”

Arthur looks down. He’s wearing the sweater from Mrs. Weasley. He’s grown quite fond of it. Ixorix pads over to him for a pet, winding adoringly around his legs.

“Thank you. Your mother’s very kind,” he says diplomatically. The second one groans.

“Oh, no, he’s a smooth talker.” 

“Please don’t be formal about it, Em was way cooler.”

Arthur’s eyebrows twitch up. He uncrosses his arms and shifts his stance accordingly. The twins immediately look more relaxed.

“Alright then. Sorry we can’t all be Em- I can’t understand why everyone’s so enamoured with him, he’s a complete cabbage-head, but there’s no accounting for taste.”

“Don’t worry, we have no designs on him,” the one on the left assures Arthur with a crooked grin. 

“We know marked territory when we see it, don’t we, Georgie?”, asks the one on the right. So that’s Fred. Probably.

“Yeah, he positively reeks of you.”

“He’s very much your cabbage-head.”

Arthur looks at them sideways in amusement that they think that’s what this is about. 

“Riiiight… well, I appreciate that. Actually, I’m here for you.”

“We’re flattered, mr. Magic-keeper coin man,” George responds silkily.

“Oh, yeah, but we wouldn’t want to step on Em’s toes- you’re his cabbage-head, see.”

“And we’d hate to mess up relations with such a mysterious powerhouse-“

“-Especially one with full access to the kitchens-“

“-He helps us out with pranks you know-“

“-Yeah, he’s taken our hustle to the next level-“

“You need to tone it down with Quirrell,” Arthur interrupts. They blink. 

“Sorry-“

“-Could’ve sworn he said-“

“-Almost sounded like-“

“You want us to tone it down,” they both finish together, which wigs Arthur the fuck out. Oh, yeah, Merlin’s gonna have a ball with these guys. 

“I appreciate the help, we both do, but he’s losing his patience. He’s not above killing children. You are not safe.”

“We know that,” Fred says, suddenly as serious as Arthur. It's like a switch has flipped. 

“This is You-Know-Who we’re talking about.”

“We know the dangers.”

“You don’t need to fight him,”Arthur says. “That’s our job. We’re on top of things. We don’t want anyone in danger that doesn’t have to be. If you’re on his radar, you’re in danger. The only reason Harry’s still around is because Riddle has other priorities right now. If he makes you that priority, you’re dead. Do you understand?”

“We get it,”, George assures him, and Arthur believes him. “But we can’t sit here and do nothing.”

“We may not be- um, whatever you guys are,” Fred says delicately, “but we’re not about to let that guy walk around unbothered.”

“I know,” Arthur says, meeting their eyes, “And that’s why I’m here to debrief you. There’s more than one way to fight a war. You being on our side gives us more options, but only if we use you properly- no offence intended. I’m not here to treat you like children. You’re in on this. But there’s more than one way to fight a war. You’ll only be helpful if you listen to me, okay? We need to work in tandem. Are we agreed?”

The twins look at each other, having a silent conversation. Arthur waits them out. He pinpoints the moment they’ve come to a decision, because their faces go from serious to teasing.

“Maybe we should’ve taken him up on his proposition, Freddie. He’s a catch.”

“Emmie’s a lucky man.”

“Emmie? No, nevermind- are we agreed?”, Arthur asks again. They give him twin Cheshire grins.

“Sir, yes, sir!”, George salutes. 

“We are at your service, Mr. Magic.”

Arthur shakes his head. “That’s Mer- Em.”

“So what, he’s the brains, you’re the brawn?”, Fred teases. Arthur scoffs.

“I’m the brains, I’m the brawn, he carries the water.”

“Kinky. Wait, you’re super old, right, you’re not actually eleven?”

“I haven’t been eleven since the dark ages.”

Fred and George stare at him for a second and Arthur worries he might’ve gone a little too far. Then the grins creep over their faces again and they start nodding along.

“Wicked,” they say together.

🕰

Hermione, as constant as the weather, has her own priorities. She spends every waking moment between classes drawing up study schedules and colour coding all her notes. Surprisingly, it’s Arthur who appreciates the order the most. Merlin is impressed but unmoved to do the same. Arthur, on the other hand, grew up with rigid training regimens and order in his everyday life. It all makes perfect sense to him that when in doubt and under high stress or stakes, you organise. Harry and Ron seem like they wouldn’t be bothered if Hermione didn’t keep nagging them to do the same. 

“Why can’t you be more like Arthur? See what good it does him?”

“Hermione, the exams are ages away.”

“Ten weeks,” Hermione snaps. “That’s not ages, that’s like a second to Nicolas Flamel.” 

“But we’re not six hundred years old,” Ron reminds her. Merlin and Arthur, who are well over six hundred, share a look. “Anyway, what are you studying for, you already know it’s an A.” 

“What am I studying for? Are you crazy? You realize we need to pass these exams to get into the second year? They’re very important, I should have started studying a month ago, I don’t know what’s gotten into me...” 

“Em’s been a good influence, that’s what,” Ron mutters.

Unfortunately, the teachers seem to be thinking along the same lines as Hermione and Arthur. They pile so much homework on the kids that the Easter holidays aren’t nearly as much fun as the Christmas ones. It’s hard to relax with Arthur trying to drill you on the twelve uses of dragon’s blood and Hermione on your other side practicing wand movements. Moaning and yawning, Harry and Ron spend most of their free time in the library, and the other three spend it trying to get them through all their extra work. 

“I’ll never remember this,” Ron bursts out one afternoon, throwing down his quill and looking longingly out of the library window. It’s the first really fine day they’d had in months. The sky is a clear, forget-me-not blue, and there’s a feeling in the air of summer coming. Em stopped pretending to pay attention half an hour ago, gazing unabashedly outside at the clouds and following the path of a determined little butterfly.

This being the fourth outburst in the past hour, nobody looks up until Ron says, “Hagrid! What are you doing in the library?” 

Something eclipses the sun. Arthur blinks up at the towering disturbance in all his glory. Hagrid seems to be hiding something behind his enormous back, which is only feasible on account of his equally massive arms. He looks very out of place in his moleskin overcoat, like a blacksmith in a museum. 

“Jus’ lookin’,” he grunts in a shifty voice that gets their interest at once. Bless him, he wouldn’t be able to lie to a toddler. “An’ what’re you lot up ter?” His eyes squint over dramatically all of a sudden as he leans in with a suspicious look. “Yer not still lookin’ fer Nicolas Flamel, are yeh?” 

“Oh, we found out who he is ages ago,” Ron boasts. “And we know what that dog’s guarding, it’s a Philosopher’s St—” 

“Shhhh!” Hagrid hisses at the same time as Merlin and Arthur both pounce on Ron to shut him up. The giant looks around quickly to see if anyone’s listening. “Don’ go shoutin’ about it, what’s the matter with yeh?” 

“There are a few things we wanted to ask you, as a matter of fact,” Harry interjects, steamrolling right through Hagrid’s very good point. “about what’s guarding the Stone apart from Fluffy —” 

“SHHHH! Listen — come an’ see me later, I’m not promisin’ I’ll tell yeh anythin’, mind, but don’ go rabbitin’ about it in here, students aren’ s’pposed ter know. They’ll think I’ve told yeh —” 

“See you later, then,” says Harry. Merlin hits him for his rudeness and then suddenly feels like his mother. Hagrid shuffles off.

“What was he hiding behind his back?” Hermione ponders thoughtfully. 

“Do you think it had anything to do with the Stone?”, Harry asks.

“Not everything does, you know,” Arthur sighs.

“I’m going to see what section he was in,” Ron claims, delighted by the excuse to escape the monotony of studying. He comes back a minute later with a pile of books in his arms and slams them down on the table. 

“Dragons!” he whispers. Merlin’s head shoots up. “Hagrid was looking up stuff about dragons! Look at these: Dragon Species of Great Britain and Ireland; From Egg to Inferno, A Dragon Keeper’s Guide.” Arthur’s eyebrows creep up.

“Hagrid’s always wanted a dragon, he told me so the first time I ever met him, “ Harry remembers. 

“But it’s against our laws,” protests Ron. “Dragon breeding was outlawed by the Warlocks’ Convention of 1709, everyone knows that. It’s hard to stop Muggles from noticing us if we’re keeping dragons in the back garden — anyway, you can’t tame dragons, it’s dangerous. You should see the burns Charlie’s got off wild ones in Romania.” 

“But there aren’t wild dragons in Britain?” Harry asks. 

“Of course there are. Common Welsh Green and Hebridean Blacks. The Ministry of Magic has a job hushing them up, I can tell you. Our kind have to keep putting spells on Muggles who’ve spotted them, to make them forget.” Yeah, and Merlin has to keep talking them out of raiding random towns.

“So what on earth’s Hagrid up to?” says Hermione. 

Arthur might have an idea. He exchanges a look with Merlin.

How sideways can the first year of high school go?

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Instead of going with the kids to see Hagrid that afternoon, Merlin cites a headache from all the studying. He gives Arthur a look before he can open his mouth: Go with them.

“Get some rest, Em. Using any organ for the first time is very taxing, your brain must really hurt.”

“You manage.”

Arthur sticks his tongue out at him and leads the other three off to Hagrid’s house. Merlin knows what they’ll find there, and he’s got a prior engagement. He would likely only confuse things anyway. Today’s dragons have varying reactions to him, and he doesn’t want to meddle too much. He’ll have to deal with it, but not right now.

He meets Nicolas and Perenelle at their home in the hills of Pamplona, in Spain. It’s a beautiful place, far from anything that would intrude on the sanctity of the rolling golden hills it’s nestled into. A place quite unknown to the world, and better for it. Merlin treasures the wind in his hair. The air is fresh here. He looks up and muses that if he stayed after dark, he could see a lot more stars from here than he could from most other places. That’s why they picked it, he’d bet- Spain for Perenelle, and the stars for Nick.

Nicolas opens the door and smiles down at him brightly, looking deceptively colourful in the light. 

“Merlin,” he wheezes, sounding as old as he is.

“Nick,” Merlin returns in the squeaky voice of an eleven year old.

When he returns he doesn't head straight for the castle. He takes a detour to Hagrid's. Halfway across the pitch, though, Merlin stops.  

Something's wrong. The air tastes like terror. He can feel the roots of the Forbidden forest behind him clench up as if cringing away in fear. He turns to look at it and the leaves seem to hold still against the wind, frozen. There is absolute silence. The dark presses in. A shudder passes through him at the wrongness of it. He's never been afraid of the forest, whatever reputation it's drummed up over the years. He's never been afraid for it, either. It has its own balance that it upholds admirably, a magically agreeable compromise it meets between life and death that Merlin's almost jealous of.

Looking at it now, he sees no life. Only death.

So, Hagrid has a dragon egg. And Merlin definitely knew about it when he made a point about not coming. That bastard. Would it have killed him to warn his other half? 

By the time they get back to the dorms Merlin isn’t back yet from ‘the infirmary’. In fact, he doesn’t get back until most everyone’s dropping off to bed, too tired to remember to worry about him. Arthur’s lack of concern might also play a part in that, but he knows Merlin’s fine. He does wonder what he’s actually doing, though. 

Arthur stays up and waits for him despite his exhaustion. Merlin slides into bed behind him and Arthur shivers as he snakes his skinny arm around his waist, cold against Arthur’s bed-warmed skin.

“Where’d you go?”, he mumbles. 

“I saw Nick.”

Arthur turns in Merlin’s arms to face him. “Nick? Nell’s Nick?”

“We both figured it was best if we had a way to destroy the stone should it come to that. It shouldn’t, it’s just insurance. Just in case.”

Arthur looks at Merlin for a while in the dark, breathing with him. “...Is that how he saw it?”

Merlin nods, but his brows are a little contracted, his eyes a little far away. 

“Really we already had a way to do it, it was just smoothing out the practical aspects of the alchemy for this circumstance. I check in on the measures put in place every now and then, it’s nothing new, but…”

“But it was different this time?”

“...He was, a little.”

Arthur hums and lets his eyes slip shut. 

“I’m gonna talk to Nell.”

“I also dealt with the dragon,” Merlin whispers, but Arthur’s already asleep.

Albus stares at the note Hagrid’s handed him. It’s splotched with big tears, making the golden ink that floats off the page swirl into odd ephemeral patterns that turn into little creatures swimming across the parchment.

Norbert is being cared for in Romania by professionals as overseen by one Charlie Weasley. 

Something’s wrong in the forest. Do not enter. 

M

“I don’t kno’ who tha’ is, sir, yeh’ve gotta believe me! Never seen nothin’ like it before in all me life!”

“I believe you, Hagrid.”

“I didn’t know what ter do, I went straight ter you! Beggin’- beggin’ yer pardon fer the dragon affair, but will yeh check he’s alrigh’?! I couldn’t- I couldn’t stand it if-”

“I’ll verify it right away, but I deeply suspect that Norbert is safe and sound just as the note states.”

Hagrid blinks, wringing his great shaking hands. “Yeh do?”

“Mm.”

“‘S… ‘S this ‘M’ a friend o’ yours, professor?”

“You know, I have no idea,” the Headmaster hums thoughtfully. “But they’ve never lied before.”

Then again, they’ve never sent anyone else a message before, either. Not that Albus knows of. He considers the golden text that’s taken to waltzing through the air.

He’s certain now that M is here this year. If not on Hogwarts grounds directly, they are definitely watching somehow. Albus has suspected before that they’ve been based at Hogwarts from the beginning, always knowing intimate details of the goings-on in the castle. But they’ve never involved themself quite so actively as they have this year. The only cause for that that Albus can identify would be Harry Potter starting school. But why would M be interested in Harry? If it has anything to do with his suspicions about the boy, things are even more complicated than he supposed. 

Albus hates not knowing. He hates having to factor in an unknown, unnamed party with unclear motives and no face that inexplicably knows more than him, more than anyone, somehow. Someone trusted by the very foundations of the school, defended by the portraits fixed in the Headmaster’s office permanently, handed down from Head of School to Head of School. 

Someone with a vested interest in a boy that Albus suspects might be the world’s first human Horcrux.

“Professor?”, Hagrid sniffles. Albus blinks his whirlwind of thoughts away to smile at his Gamekeeper.

“My apologies, Hagrid. Do ignore me- us old men get distracted so easily. And I’m afraid I’ll have to beg your forgiveness again, for I simply must ask- a dragon?”

Hagrid ducks his head sheepishly and shuffles his monstrous feet. 

“Lookie, Forge, a letter!”

“Well open it, then. Wait, whose is it?”

“Ours.”

“Actually?”

“Says ‘Avoid the forest for now. PS: Please.’”

“That’s hilarious. They’ve resorted to begging us.”

“Hang on, it’s from Em.”

“Damn. We actually have to, then.”

“Aww beans, did we leave the liplocker cauldron out there?”

🥚

Arthur knocks on the door. It’s a lovely place they’ve got here. He and Merlin were always rather fond of Spain.

Nicolas opens the door and he looks old. Arthur, being so short now, has to crane his neck to look at him. There is a difference between having lived a long time and being old. Nick’s never looked old before, but he does now, his smile as brittle as it is genuine. 

“Arthur! In, Come in, in in in. Suppose your husband told you he was here yesterday?”, he wheezes merrily, beckoning Arthur inside. 

Arthur almost stops short in shock. Coming from the golden fields and the bright blue sky outside to darkness like this is alarming even when one is prepared for it, and Arthur isn’t. The house has never been dark before. In fact, they built it with the sun in mind, with skylights and open windows and all manner of things. There isn’t a single light on anywhere. 

“He got around to it,” he says, infusing some of his regular grumbling into his voice. Nick coughs a laugh. 

Perenelle rounds the corner into the spacious living room on hearing voices, and Arthur brightens a little. 

“Artie!”, she gasps happily, spreading her arms and pulling him in for a hug. Her eyes are still sharp, but they’re softened by choice and the smile that crinkles them. Her cheeks lift up with that same broad grin of hers. No earrings, no makeup. He’s careful with her, something he’s still not used to having to be.

“Come to steal my wife, eh? Have at her!” Nick teases with a dismissive hand wave. Arthur spins Nell around in a dance long extinct, and she chuckles. 

“Serves you right for talking shop the entire time Merlin was here,” she informs her husband. 

“Unbelievable, aren’t they?” Arthur agrees.

“Would you like some tea, dear?”

“I feel like a walk. Come with me.”

“Oh, yes, great idea,” she agrees.

They walk slowly. Arthur lets her lean on his shoulders for balance, being too short to offer his arm now. She shuffles along, blinking around at the hills, watching the crows fly and charting the colours of the world she stubbornly still lives in.

“Bet we scared you,” she remarks, a little wobble to her confident voice. She smiles. “Probably hard to recognize the place in the dark. Nick's doing some light experiments, but you didn't know that. ‘What changed,’ you probably thought. ‘It hasn’t been that long, has it?’”

“Fifteen years? Sixteen?” Arthur guesses.

“Ahh, who knows. We never did get the hang of temporal perspective.”

“Us either,” he admits. 

“But you never have your lights off.”

“We do, sometimes.”

Perenelle shakes her head, her flyaway bun bobbing with it. “You were always so bright, you two. You never let the house stay dark for long. There was always something on your desks, always something new to solve and work at. You were tangled up in all manner of things, all the time, like you couldn’t help it. I kept waiting for you to catch a break, like you said you were going to, ‘Don’t worry Nell, after this we’re settling down’, but you never did. You never ever did. You know what I said to Nick?”

“What?”

“I said, 'they must do it when we’re not looking’. He said you’re much too old to be bothering with looking busier than you are. And I hit him- don’t look at me like that, he deserved it- and I said you are not old.”

“We’re a little old. We’ve lived, you know, a little longer than average.”

“Don’t be stupid, you know there’s a difference,” she huffs exasperatedly. Arthur nods. She always got it, Perenelle. He missed that. 

“You know what the difference is?”, he asks. 

“What?”

“This stupid bun in your hair- get it out, come on, you old hag, how are you supposed to feel the wind like that?”

They laugh. Arthur has to find a rock to stand on to free Perenelle’s hair, and once he does the warm wind makes an absolute mess of it, making them laugh a little harder. 

“Where’s yours? Your hair is so short, you’re like all those new kids, you can’t even tie it back anymore,” she scoffs in disapproval, running her hand through his hair, the same colour as the fields.

“Ahh, I never tied it back anyway.”

“I thought you just did that to get in trouble.”

“Nell, I would never.”

She laughs at him. “Right, yes, you’re a king, above such silly things-”

“That’s right. That’s right!”

Perenelle sighs and Arthur helps her sit down under the tree they always sit down under on these walks. 

“Do you know, for the longest time, I thought it was your physical condition that made you so young,” she admits, tracing her fingers through the dirt.

“We told you it wasn’t-”

“I know, I know you did, Merlin told me a thousand times, but I was sure I had it right, I mean, how could… but, that’s not… and anyway...”

Arthur knows not to interrupt by now when she falls into her habit of continuing her conversation in her own head without realising. 

“Is it?”, she asks. Arthur shrugs, no idea what she’s talking about. It was, after all, a mental conversation. 

“Tell me how it happened again. For you,” she demands out of the blue. Nell asks him all the time to tell her things he’s done, things she and Nick have done. The human mind wasn’t designed to last this long, and she can’t remember it all on her own. But when she asks this specific question in just those words, Arthur always knows what she means.

He sighs and leans his head back against the tree, thinking back. He remembers, clear as day. 

“I nearly died at Camlann. It wasn’t a fatal wound, but it looked it and it sure as hell felt it. All that crap the Dragon had been spouting about Destiny and whatnot got to Merlin. Somehow he got it in his head that I had to die to come back, that he’d have to wait it out alone until I returned when the powers that be saw fit. Destiny’s stupid like that, if you try to translate it into actual words, the meaning gets all muddled up and you get confused and make assumptions and you end up crying over a not-quite-dying man. Anyway. That’s what Merlin did. I fell, and he caught me. He started rabbiting on about how he couldn’t do it. I was the one who got stabbed, I was pretty indignant about the whole thing, had no idea what he was talking about.”

“You can’t die. You can’t die, I know you have to, but you can’t, because I can’t live without you, I can’t, not even for a day, Arthur, please-”

“I told him to shut up and I kissed him. I blacked out. When I woke up I was in just the same position, right there in his arms, but he was cold. Dead cold. I thought I lost him, Nell, I really thought I lost him. I don’t even know what he died of, but he just stayed there with me instead of looking after himself, so it could’ve been anything really. And then he woke up. He got warm again. We both woke up, and we were- well, fine might be a stretch, but we were, and that was everything. I had him back. He had me back.”

Perenelle hangs on his every word, same as she always does, something monumental in her eyes. She looks at Arthur like he’s beautiful for his words, and Perenelle knows beautiful. This is it. 

“He told me what he knew. Told me everything. And when he explained why he- how he woke up… Nell, he thought I was dead. He thought he was gonna have to sit there and live every day forever while I was dead. He probably woulda sat there forever, dyin’ of thirst and hunger again and again while I just stayed dead. And I thought he was dead, too, for a minute, and it felt like the end of the world. Nothing even mattered anymore. And he was resigned to that, forever. No matter which way I looked at it, I was gonna die, and he was gonna live, and the world would fucking end. And I just decided I wasn’t having it. If there was a way for him to live forever, there was a way to- I don’t know. I would’ve taken anything, even if it was just saving him from that and killing him myself, so it would stick. I’d go with him, I wouldn’t make him go alone. Or maybe I could make it so we both lived. As long as it was both of us I didn’t care. I had no idea how he’d feel about that, he’s a bit of a defeatist, you’ve noticed, so he’d probably be all ‘it’s impossible, you prat, don’t put yourself in danger, blah blahhhh,’ so I didn’t actually tell him what I was doing. I also kind of didn’t know what I was doing. The best I could figure was if I could get him to the Isle of the Blessed, I could give him my life somehow. Really didn’t matter how, so long as he had it, ‘cause then whatever happened to him happened to me. All that talk about ‘a life for a life’ was all fine and good, but it had only been used to trade in the dying or dead. I didn’t want his death, I wanted his life. So that’s what I asked for- I dragged him out to the Isle under the pretense of a quest or something and I begged the Balance to give us to each other. I couldn’t do it without Merlin’s magic, what with him being the master of life and death or some such nonsense, so he had to agree. He had to let me do this with him. I wasn’t sure he would for a second. And then he pulled these rings out of his pocket, and he said, ‘this is convenient, Arthur, good thinking- cut out the middleman, go straight to the Goddess. Who needs a priest?’

"So that was the deal. As long as he’s alive, I’m not going anywhere. I’m not immortal, not really, but my lifeforce, he is. We’re sort of stuck in an indefinite standoff waiting for one of us to die first, which we can’t, because we’re a package deal. Something’ll find a loophole and kill us one day, probably something Destiny related, with our track record, but it’ll kill us both. That’s the important part.”

Perenelle beams, looking over the hills, counting the trees that dot the skyline. She draws an absent thumb over her dirt drawing and starts another. When she speaks it sounds like a non-sequitur, but Arthur knows it isn't. 

“One day, I was reading him some poetry. He had his thinking face on, so I said, ‘Are you listening?’”

“You definitely hit him, Nell, please don’t gloss over that.”

“Probably. Well, I said ‘Are you listening?’ And he didn’t say yes and make something ridiculous up on the spot like usual to make it seem like he was. He kept his thinking face on, and he looked right at me. And he said, ‘I have things to do. I think I want to stay.’ And I said, ‘What the hell are you talking about,’, and he said, ‘Like Merlin. Like Arthur. I want to stay. I always wanted to stay, but I’ve been thinking about it and I don’t think I can do it without you.’ He was right, by the way. I bet him a million bucks he wouldn’t figure out how to do it, and he made a counterproposal. He said if he found a way to stay alive, I’d have to marry him. I told him I’d marry him anyway. He said, ‘Marry me forever,’ so I said yes. And then the crazy bastard did it! Imagine my surprise! I’d been conned, Arthur. There was none of that mushy mutual consent stuff with us, no, Nicolas Flamel got me on entrapment!”

Arthur throws his head back and laughs. “The horror. And you could do so much better.”

“I know!”

They talk about other things for a while. Perenelle makes fun of Arthur’s uniform and cracking voice, but when he yells back it cracks worse, which sends them both into fits. 

“I’ve been telling you you need a dog, you know-”

“For the past two hundred years, yes,” she throws back dismissively. “We’re not getting a dog.”

“You need-”

“Don’t tell me what I need, Arthur Pendragon,” she chides teasingly. “I’ll call your Headmaster!”

“Oh, it’s like that, is it?”

“I would sooner get the cat Merlin’s been shoving down our throats just as long as you’ve been pushing the dog agenda-”

“You would HATE a cat!”

“I don’t know, all that fur all over my clothes sounds so ideal… cleaning litter boxes might be the life for me.”

Arthur shakes his head, not dignifying that with an answer, and they fall into a very comfortable silence.

“I think we’re in a standoff too,” Nell says all of a sudden. “Me and Nick.”

Arthur turns his head against the bark of the tree to look over at her. “How so?”

She shakes her head a little absently. “I don’t think he’s got things to do anymore. I mean, he does, he always will. He always finds something, he’s like Merlin that way, but it’s not important really. He just doesn’t know how to stop, and no one’s made him yet. I’m the only person who can do that.”

Arthur watches Perenelle’s hair run rampant in the breeze. It’s almost the same colour as her eyes, but not quite. It’s hard to tell when she looks so far away. That’s her thinking face. 

“What are you saying, Nell?” Arthur prods gently. 

“You know, the recent changes in the world don’t suit me, Arthur. Nick has his work, and I stayed for the beautiful things, but I don’t know how to look for them anymore. I have enough, I think.”

She looks at him happily. No, happy is not quite it. Arthur’s never seen this expression on either Flamel before.

Perenelle looks content.

🌳🍃🌾

Merlin and Arthur keep it PG in the dorms for several reasons: 

A) they are in children’s bodies. 

B) they may have muffling charms on their bed curtains, but that doesn’t mean no one can open them, and Ron is just oblivious and unlucky enough to do it. It would be very in character for him to walk in on Merlin eating Arthur’s ass or something, and Merlin would rather he didn’t.

C) Weird unpredictable magic shit tends to happen when Merlin comes. Not always, but enough to warrant caution.

D) They’re sharing said dorm with a bunch of minors who are just trying to get through school, thanks. 

So yeah, they keep the sexy times out of the school. That’s what they have their own bed for…and couches… and tables… you get the idea. But the Gryffindor dorms and common room offer something much more attractive: a chance to be as disgustingly sweet and loving as they feel like being at any given time. 

You’d think this would extend to their own home, too. Not so. They share that home with their loved ones, a gaggle of stained-glass menaces that leap on any opportunity to tease them. Merlin knows first-hand that it’s easier to be ancient when you act like you’re five years old, and he loves them for it, but sometimes he hates them for it. 

For example, when the very first machine to ever sing came out with its debut “Daisy Bell”, Merlin was so excited he made all the knights listen to it, Gwen and Morgana too. He regrets it to this day. Instead of sharing his wonder and delight at the magic muggles had made from their very own minds, the evil gits (with Gwaine at their head) wrote their own cursed lyrics. And now they follow Merlin everywhere. 

Arthur, Arthur 

Give me your answer, do

There’s a bludger 

Breaking my heart in two 

I know that I’m not a lady

I can’t make you a baby

But I’ll build a home

Grander than Rome 

And I’ll spend all my days with you.

Merlin, Merlin

Bandage your heart anew

Mine’s unfurling

All for the love of you

You can’t even make a bed right

But still I can’t get my head right 

So take this ring

And call me your king

And I’ll never again be blue.

Anytime he and Arthur do anything remotely romantic (by mistake, of course) one of them starts up that godforsaken song, and then they’re all singing it, and then they have it stuck in their heads all month. It’s horrendous. The lyrics aren’t even good. Not even remotely witty or true to life. Merlin is the only one in that entire accursed household that can make a bed properly, they just don’t like how he does it. That’s a them problem. 

But Hogwarts is blessedly free of that haunting tune, and that is something Merlin values much more than sex, because honestly, he’s missed just holding Arthur. Nights like tonight they end up staying up well past justifiable hours, just drinking each other in, unwilling to move. The fireplace could be any of the thousands they’ve sat before in all their lives, could even be the one in Arthur’s chambers in Camelot. They can speak in any of the thousands of languages they’ve known, and they can say whatever they like. This is where they find themselves now- Arthur settled in between Merlin’s legs, leaning back against his chest, playing with his earring and sharing his scarf (Arthur’s not used to being the smaller one, Merlin thinks he’s secretly enjoying himself).

“I am so not a Slytherin-”, Merlin protests for the millionth time.

“Remember that time you made a joke at dinner about the number of holes in my belt, which I asked you to keep secret earlier, so that I would get mad and believe you could not keep a secret-"

"Arthur-"

"-Which in turn would enforce my belief that you did not have any secrets-"

"-Arthur-"

"When in fact you had the biggest secret and it was all a ploy to hide that fact?”

“It’s been thirteen hundred years, get over the belt thing.” 

“Do you remember?”

Merlin rolls his eyes and sighs. “...Okay, maybe I’m a Slytherin.”

Arthur grunts sleepily, somehow infusing it with his particular brand of self-assurance.

It’s quiet for a while after that. A good quiet.

“...Do you remember when we were their age? ”, Arthur murmurs in the old tongue, the one they grew up with.

“Harry and them?"

"Mm."

"Yes and no ,” Merlin sighs.

“It’s a funny thing, Merlin. I don’t remember that much before you. Nothing really mattered I guess. But I remember after. ”

“Mm.” Merlin smiles. “I remember some things. But I wasn’t alive before I came to Camelot, not really. We can blame Destiny or something.”

Arthur chuckles. “ That bastard. ”

Another silence. Then-

“Do you think we’ll ever die?”

Merlin pauses. He brings his hands up to card through Arthur’s hair, marvelling at its softness for the millionth time. Arthur’s hair was made for the firelight, he thinks.  Merlin hums a little, to remind himself of the tune he’s thinking of. It’s very old now, but he still remembers the lyrics. So he sings them now instead of answering. 

“Turn me gentle when I’m dying, turn me gentle to th’ sun, let me see my last refading that will mark my journeys’ run. When my pulse is through beating an’ my limbs grow’in cold, dress me in some spotless wardrobe an’ my arms across me fold.”

Arthur stays quiet as Merlin murmurs through the rest of the verses, still carding his fingers through Arthur’s hair. He lets his eyes drop closed as Merlin finishes.

“...It will tell to all that passes that the soul will never die,” Merlin croons. “It will tell to all that passes that the soul will never die.”

Merlin has lots of different answers to that question, but this is maybe Arthur’s favourite.

Chapter Text

Arthur wakes up in the morning to more noise and light than is warranted, if you ask him. He cracks one eye open since the other is crushed, along with the rest of his face, into his pillow. That’s Merlin, in some kind of dress, he thinks. Someone else is there though, some red-headed twat pulling Merlin’s arm up by the dress sleeve in bewilderment.

“Git y’r hands off m’wife,” Arthur slurs in what he hopes is the right dialect. Both of them look at him. 

“Wife?”, some other voice says, and Arthur vaguely processes that there’s another boy there. 

“Hussband. Him, her, whuddever,” Arthur snuffles, dragging his tired body up from the ridiculously comfortable mattress, trying to remember where and when they are and who they’re supposed to be. There are kids… they are kids… at Hogwarts! Right. So Merlin is… neither his husband nor his wife. Ah. Whoops. 

“That one,” he amends, pointing at Merlin. He finally rights himself, sitting up and swinging his legs over the side, letting his hands lean on his knees. He blinks blearily at his- man. Boy. “What’s up?”

“We should’ve got more sleep. I forgot boys don’t wear these now,” Merlin explains in Italian.

“ They don’t?”

“Not in England.”  

Arthur grunts. This happens every so often. Mostly they don’t have to worry about sharing accommodations with other people, so if Merlin forgets she’s a woman when she is and walks around shirtless for a bit, it’s fine so long as Arthur pulls her back before she walks into any important meetings. Likewise, if Arthur forgets that the war’s over and no one knows he fought in it anyway, Merlin will explain that he is allowed into the country and no one will recognise him, so they don’t have to worry. They help each other out. It’s harder to keep track of the more you change, so they try to keep the discrepancies to their lives minimal, but there are going to be hiccups. 

“I think it looks nice,” Neville stammers quietly.

“Oh, thanks, Neville.”

“Just never seen a bloke in a dress before,” Ron says defensively. He’s the one who was looking like Merlin had just dropped out of the sky.

“I didn’t actually mean to wear it. I just grabbed something from my closet.”

“You must really be tired,” Harry notes. Arthur makes a mournful sound of agreement.

“What, you both stayed up? What were you doing?” Ron asks. 

Arthur’s immediate response is defensiveness. The only reason he doesn’t act on it is that in his tiredness, his brain, instead of arguing like it should and normally would, reminds him that they weren’t actually doing anything illegal, immoral, taboo, or even remotely entertaining last night. 

“Sitting in the common room,” Merlin answers, shrugging out of his dress.

“Hey, nice skirt, Em!” Dean teases. Seamus tilts his head around the side of his bunk to see for himself, then shakes his head.

“Nah, it don’t match ‘is scarf,” he proclaims.

“You know it’s a school day though, right? We have to wear our uniforms?” Ron clarifies. “You don’t have a girl’s uniform, do you? Mate, if you go out in that, you’ll be eaten alive.”

“Ah, shit. What day is it?”, Merlin asks, reaching for his actual uniform and sitting down on the bed next to Arthur.

“Thorsday,” he provides. 

“You mean Thursday?” Harry offers uncertainly. Arthur gives him a weird little ‘whatever’ wave.

“Thorsday,” Merlin huffs, not hearing Harry, tugging on his shoes. “Right.”

Albus has combed the forest. M was not exaggerating. 

He has come across nothing and no one, every living thing from squirrels to centaurs tucked away in hidey-holes or resolutely refusing to make themselves apparent. An overbearing silence has befallen the woods. 

The only things Albus finds are corpses. Two dead unicorns, their blood leaking into the decaying leaves. Albus tries to produce the list of potential explanations he usually constructs in response to such alarming discoveries. He comes up with only one.

Voldemort is in his school. 

After school they all pop off to Hagrid’s despite the disgusting weather. It’s not raining anymore, but Hogwarts is soaked, more mud than grass. Hagrid’s been really down since Norbert left- apparently Dumbledore took care of it and Norbert’s safe in Romania now. They’re all quite glad of it, really, though none of them would say that in front of Hagrid. 

When he opens the door tonight though, his face is grave and he doesn’t stand back to let them in.

“What’re you lot doin’ here? Yeh’ve got to go!”

“Sorry?” Harry says, bewildered.

“Hagrid, what’s wrong?” Ron asks.

“I don’t want yeh this close to the forest!”

Merlin nods at the wisdom. Albus must have confirmed the credibility of his note. Hagrid would believe the sky was green if Albus said so, it makes sense he wouldn’t want the kids near the forest- Merlin doesn’t either. 

“But you’re near the forest,” Hermione reminds him, trying to reach a conclusion before one becomes apparent.

“Look,” Hagrid hisses, bending down to bring his huge bristly face closer to them. It’s not an improvement, but it does emphasize the seriousness of the situation. “If you never listen to me, abou’ anythin’ in yer whole lives, you listen ter me now. There is somethin’ in the forest righ’ now that ought not to be, and you lot need to keep as far away from it as you possibly can. Dumbledore’s dealin’ with it, and he don’t want no one else goin’ in, not even me. It’s too dangerous.”

“Well what is it?” Ron demands at once. 

“I don’t know, but if Dumbledore says he’s gotta be the one to deal with it, then he’s gotta be the one to deal with it! Anythin’ that can kill a unicorn’s far beyond the like o’ you an’ me!”

“What?” Merlin hears himself say hollowly. The others are talking, but he can’t hear anything. His vision’s tunnelled in on Hagrid. “Hagrid, what did you say?”

“Nothin’, noth-”

“HAGRID!” 

Everyone freezes. They’ve never heard Em yell before. Come to think of it, they haven’t even seen him angry. His face is pale, set hard in features that look foreign to them in their harshness. 

“Somethin’-'' Hagrid licks his lips, eyes flicking nervously to Merlin. “Something’s killin’ unicorns in the forest .You have. To stay. Away.”

There’s a pervading silence brought on by that statement. Em is stiller than stone, his eyes a million miles away. 

“We- erm, we will, Hagrid, don’t worry,” Harry assures the giant absently. “We’ll go back up to school right now.”

“Don’t you go tellin’ no one, Harry. None of yeh.”

“We won’t,” Hermione agrees. She’s the one to pull on Em’s arm, turning him around and leading him off hesitantly, the others following. They hear the door shut behind them as they go over the squelch of wet grass beneath their feet. 

“What is it? Em?” Hermione hisses as soon as they’re out of earshot, her eyes scanning him worriedly. 

“What?” Em blinks, coming superficially back to them for a moment. “...Nothing.”

“What do you mean, nothing? !” Ron scoffs. “I thought you were havin’ a fit!”

“Em, do you know what’s in the forest?” Harry demands seriously. Harry, who’s always been the first to pull the others off the guy. 

“Nothing, I don’t know.”

“You do. You at least know something,” he challenges.

“Is it the unicorns? As soon as Hagrid said that something was killing them, you snapped. What is it?”

“Nothing. I was wrong, I was thinking something else.”

“What were you thinking?” Hermione persists.

“It doesn’t matter! I’ll see you guys in class, I’ve got to go.”

Ron calls out after him but Arthur gives them a warning glance and jogs off after a speed-walking Em. If anyone can bring him back down to earth it’s him, and even as desperate as they are for answers, they all recognise that. 

“He’s figured something out,” Harry states. “He knows what’s in the forest.”

“Maybe he just likes unicorns?” Ron offers, but Hermione shakes her head.

“No, Harry’s right, that was his thinking face. I mean, he was hurt too, but he’s put something together, he must know something that we don’t that made what Hagrid said make sense. Was it just me, or did he look... scared?” 

“Try livid,” Ron huffs. “If they weren’t so close I’d be worried for Arthur. I’ve never seen him like that before.”

“Maybe we can figure it out. There must be something, if we look for information on unicorns it’ll narrow it down,” Hermione shoots, suddenly alight. For once they all agree with her. Harry leads the way as they scurry off to the library, intent on getting answers. Harry shoots a worried glance back over his shoulder as he goes.

Merlin doesn't slow down for Arthur. He feels like he's lost a friend, the world's lost a friend, and he wasn't even looking. He just came back and they were dead at the hands of a jealous monster who took them as conquest, just took and took and took whatever he liked and Merlin just let it happen. And what? Does he yell and rage uselessly like the brutes he hates so much? It won't change anything. Can he even afford to mourn? No one else will. No one cares anymore. No one will think any less of the world for a couple of dead unicorns in the forest, but the world will be less for it anyway.

Merlin storms off without a spare thought for the long game they're playing, the kids they're protecting, the way it is. 

Within the first fifteen minutes of looking, Hermione knows all she needs to about unicorns, but it doesn’t help.

“The blood of a unicorn will keep the drinker alive, even if you are an inch from death- that’s loose, but- oh, they define it, look, but it’s not helpful- there’s a price… the effects on the soul… oh, this is horrible,” Hermione reads. “Who would do this?”

“Who? Don’t you mean what?” Ron asks. 

“None of this is helping us. Does it say what preys on unicorns?” Harry snaps. 

“Nothing,” Hermione replies faintly. “They’re too pure, the cost is too high. They have no natural predators.”

Ron’s eyebrows shoot up. “What? Seriously?” 

“No, Em definitely knows what’s killing them, there has to be something, where else would he get his information?” Harry insists, growing impatient.

“That guy gets information from thin air,” Ron argues. 

“You’re right Ron, he just knows things, but it’s not always about that,” Hermione throws back. Both of their gazes snap to her, amazed at such a statement passing her lips. “He’s clever, he must’ve figured something out from the information he was given. What else did Hagrid say?”

“Uhm… something’s killing unicorns, don’t go in the forest,” Ron offers. Harry goes quiet, replaying the exact words of the whole conversation in his head. 

“He said Dumbledore went alone, didn’t he?”

Hermione nods. “That is rather odd. Why wouldn’t Hagrid just deal with it?”

“Because it’s too strong?” Ron guesses, but she’s already shaking her head. 

“That’s not possible, there’s only one person wh-”

Hermione’s voice breaks off abruptly. Her eyes widen like dinner plates and a cracked little intake of breath sends her shooting up in place. 

“What, what, what is it?!” Harry demands scrambling out of his chair. Ron looks between them uncertainly.

“There’s only one person- that is to say…” Hermione breathes with breath she doesn’t have. “The only person that no one but Dumbledore can face, is…”

An iron fist clenches around Harry’s heart as he remembers something Hagrid said the night they met.

“Some say he died. Codswallop, in my opinion. Don’t know if he had enough human left in him to die.”

Harry reels back as it hits him. Ron catches on a moment later and straightens like a pencil. 

“Voldemort,” Harry whispers. “Voldemort is in Hogwarts.”

Ron draws so pale that his freckles look dark. All three of them stand in the midst of this revelation, feeling the weight of it settle on their shoulders. 

“We don’t… we don’t know that for sure,” Hermione tries. 

“You saw Em’s face, he obviously thinks so,” Ron argues weakly. 

“Em,” Harry gasps, “We have to find them!”

The three of them fly out of the library, ignoring Mrs. Pince’s shout of disapproval. They storm down the hallway with no clear direction in mind. 

“Where’d they go?”

“I saw them go this way- wait!” Harry flings an arm out in front of each of his friends, looking down at the tiled floor. A trail of damning muddy boot prints all but lead them right to their friends, once they’d figured out which door they would have used. They lead right up to an empty classroom. Ron’s about to fling the door open, but Harry stops him, listening to the hushed voices inside. Hermione’s eyes widen as she realizes what Harry means to do. She looks like she might fight him until they hear a snippet of the conversation.

“-inking?!”

“Save it. You know you don’t want to do anything. You’re emotionally compromised.”

“HE’S BEEN KILLING UNICORNS ALL YEAR, ARTHUR. UNDER MY NOSE.”

“You’re proving my point. Think about it. He still can’t get the stone.”

“Oh, and what’s stopping him?!”, Merlin demands with a snort. “A Cerberus? He’s killing unicorns, one bloody Cerberus isn’t going to make a difference!”

“That’s not all that’s guarding the Stone, you know that.”

“You think they’ve got a four -headed dog back there, too? IT’S NOT EVEN HARD TO GET PAST, ARTHUR, YOU PLAY THE THING A LULLABY AND IT CONKS OUT. Every day that stone is sitting there while Riddle gets stronger off innocent blood is a day he could decide to take it!”

Harry throws himself back from the door and takes off back down the corridor. He’s heard enough. 

Hermione and Ron exchange a glance and race after him.

“-Every day that stone is sitting there while Riddle gets stronger off innocent blood is a day he could decide to take it!”

Arthur sighs, rubbing his temple. That can’t be it. “There’s a reason, I know there is. Riddle would’ve made a move by now. Maybe there’s something we’re missing. Maybe he’s not strong enough yet, or he needs Harry for something. He does have an unhealthy obsession with the boy.”

“Whatever it is, we can’t just wait til he gets ahold of it.”

“No, of course not. We have to find out what it is and make sure he doesn’t. And we will,” Arthur soothes, finally daring to place his hands on his irate husband’s arms. Merlin deflates a little and then a little more, and he just stares at Arthur until he’s calm enough to let himself be pulled into his chest. Arthur sways him a little like he always does. Merlin feels like a crushed can with the weight of those unicorns’ deaths on his shoulders even as Arthur tries to rub it away.

“We will check it out tonight. We can start by scoping out the Stone’s defenses. Meantime, I think you scared the kids.”

Merlin chuckles a little into Arthur’s neck. “I did, didn’t I? ...I didn’t mean to yell.”

“I know you didn’t. They’ll understand. Harry’s really good at that, have you noticed?”

“Mm. He’s good at appeasing people when he wants to. Learned it at that horrible home of his…”

“Ah ah ah, don’t think about that, come on now, we’re supposed to be cooling off. Harry never has to go back there.”

“He doesn’t?”

“‘Course not. You think we’d let him?”

Merlin smiles and shakes his head a little. It normally wouldn’t be a question, they’d already decided that, but he’s not thinking very clearly and right now he’s just so grateful for Arthur he wants to drown in any reminder of the man’s endless kindness he can tease out.

“He’ll come home with us,” Arthur asserts. 

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. We’ll have to clean up a bit… stick to a few rooms, debrief the knights and ladies, but we could do it. We could say our guardian’s off on a tour of the world or something, left us the house to ourselves.”

“That’s illegal.”

“We can say the knights are supervising.”

“Goddess help us, don’t tell them that, Arthur.”

They both chuckle a little. Merlin feels right enough to raise his head, and Arthur smiles, happy to see him. 

They meander back to the dorms, scheming between themselves. The regular crowd’s all there, but Merlin is surprised to find none of their friends are around. It’s getting late, they’ll have to be back soon or miss curfew. 

“Hey, Dean, did you catch the terror trio?” Arthur asks as they plod up the stairs and find their beds empty too. Dean snorts.

“Just barely. They raced in here, tore open Harry’s trunk like crazy people, grabbed something and scrammed. Well, not Hermione, obviously, she couldn’t get up here, but-”

Arthur frowns. “Why?”

“Don’t know, but they were like, super focussed on something. Didn’t even say hello. I had no idea Harry could run that fast.”

Merlin shoots forward to the trunk that’s been left open and in disarray in the middle of the floor, something Harry’s never let happen before. He’s a conservative boy, never wanting to draw attention to himself. Merlin throws himself to the floor and tears through Harry’s trunk, a horrible feeling clenching in his gut. 

“No, no, no, no-”

“What?” Arthur snaps, but it occurs to him in the next second. “No.”

Merlin huffs a sound of immense distress as he throws the trunk aside, throwing Arthur a look that confirms it. 

The invisibility cloak is gone. 

Merlin races out the door, Liz squawking behind him. 

Arthur catches up halfway down the second hallway. 

“Wait, Merlin, there’s no way they figured it out-”

“This is HARRY! HERMIONE, RON! Look, Arthur, LOOK!”

Arthur makes himself look around at the hallway flashing by and his heart sinks. The torches ahead all but roar into flames Aithusa would be proud of. Doors slam open one after the other, pointing the way. Hogwarts is screaming at them, and it all points to the third floor corridor. 

“Shit,” he bites, “Okay. Okay.”

Merlin nearly bowls head over heels as he realises something mid-sprint, only avoiding careening into the third-floor door by Arthur catching him. He grabs his husband’s arm, eyes frantic. 

“Nick said something!” he blurts, “He worked with Albus, they changed the Stone, made it so that- only someone who wanted the Stone, but didn’t want to use it for themselves could get it. That’s what the- ARTHUR THAT’S WHAT THE MIRROR’S FOR, HE NEEDS HARRY TO USE THE MIRROR!”

Merlin barrels through the door without another second lost, throwing himself inside. As always, Arthur is right behind him.

Chapter Text

The Cerberus is not happy to see them. Apparently he’s gotten over his reticence regarding Merlin now, having had time to think about it, and has decided he doesn’t care what he is. 

Merlin throws his hand up and asks for music. That’s all he does. He doesn’t usually play so fast and loose with his magic, setting parameters and exact specifications for what he wants, but right now he doesn’t want, he needs. The form it comes in is a surprise to all of them. 

A harp someone’s left here begins to play itself. 

“That’s not theirs,” Arthur whispers worriedly, “It wasn’t there before.”

“No,” Merlin swallows, his fears confirmed. “It’s his.”

“He’s here?! ”

“He needs Harry and the mirror together to get the Stone. Get the trapdoor.”

There are no stairs or anything, so Arthur takes Merlin’s hand and they float down, shedding gravity and letting the door fall shut quietly behind them. It’s pitch black, but that never stopped Merlin before. For Arthur’s sake he lets his eyes glow a little brighter than his magic warrants. Unfortunately it just serves to distract him- he really likes it when Merlin lights up, especially his eyes, so Merlin gives him an unimpressed look and shuts it off. Let him fend for himself in the dark. As soon as he does and Arthur harumphs in complaint, though, they are assaulted on all sides- thick, rooted tendrils slinking over them like thousands of cat tails, winding through their legs and confusing their centre of gravity. 

Merlin blinks his eyes open again and lets them flame. The light flares across his cheeks and hair, setting his eyelashes ablaze with gold. Arthur drinks it in too with more than his eyes, absorbing and reflecting Merlin in his skin and blazing in response like the moon to the sun. 

Devil’s Snare. It cringes away as if burned, leaving Merlin and Arthur to traverse the flat stone ground freely. Water trickles teasingly down the walls in the gloom, and their feet slap against the wet floor. That’s all the sound they hear for a while as the cavern leads them downwards until a soft rustling-clinking sound greets them up ahead. 

“Wings,” Arthur identifies. But something metallic, too. When they reach the end of the passageway the source becomes apparent.

This room arches up like a cathedral. It’s lit quite as brilliantly as one too, providing enough light to splash up the walls and dare to reach the incredibly high ceilings, meeting together in points. Hundreds of jewel-bright birds flutter and tumble all around the room at different speeds and heights, playing. Merlin makes out the flash of insect wings, feathers as reflective as a hummingbird’s, and the glint of old metal. Other than that, they share the room with only a heavy wooden door, staring accusatorily at them from across the room.

“Keys,” Arthur says, looking up. Merlin follows his gaze to the birds. 

They’re not birds. Merlin looks between the flying keys and the door across the room.

“Why the hell would they provide broomsticks?”, Arthur asks, picking one up that was leaning on the wall.

“To catch the key to the door, Arthur.”

“I thought the point was to keep people out.”

“Well, they’d have to get in somehow, wouldn’t they?”

Arthur rounds on him and raises an eyebrow. “And they wouldn’t have a spare, non-flying key they kept for themselves, because…?”
Merlin sighs, exhausted and frankly quite over Hogwarts and its batshit security issues. Instead of providing any other kind of answer he quickly locates the proper key- really, the poor thing’s been abused enough that it’s practically air-limping- and casts a soft little glow on it. Without a word, Arthur dutifully hops onto his chosen broom and zips up to meet it. He’s careful with it, but he’s not wasting time. 

Once they turn the old key in the lock- something that requires considerable strength in and of itself- Merlin fixes its wing and lets it fly. It flaps happily up to join its siblings as the damning light fades around it.

The next chamber is as dark as dark gets, but only for a moment. Motion-triggered lights flood in like a spotlight as soon as they step inside, illuminating a giant chessboard scattered with rubble and dusted with chipped marble. Stone figures stand sentry to either side, their imperious features carved sharp and intimidating, but neither Merlin nor Arthur have eyes for any of it as soon as they catch sight of the boy on the floor. 

“RON!”

The moment Merlin’s boot touches the chesset, a black pawn unsheathes its sword with a horrible hollow SCREECH. He doesn’t let it slow him, knowing Arthur will meet the enemy head-on while he grabs Ron. He doesn’t watch his husband cross swords with the pawn, but he hears the reverberated CLANG. Without looking back he grabs Ron, levitating him with his magic high over his head and out of harm’s way, and makes for the door around the pieces, who have all turned on them. They aren’t all in commission, some of them missing stone legs or lying prone on the marble tiles, but the ones that remain advance with powerful purpose, heavy stone boots sliding across the ground.

But Arthur is not just a king. He is, first and foremost, a knight- Camelot’s finest. He has been at it a lot longer than any chunk of stone could claim, and Excalibur is a force beyond the likes of the great toothpicks these soldiers wield. These chess pieces were created with one goal in mind, and they are unable to think beyond the parameters of that goal. Man has an adaptability, a higher conscience, that exempts them from such limitations. And Arthur is more than a man.

He rolls neatly under a pawn’s downswing and blocks the glancing blow from the bishop as he goes with a now fully-formed Excalibur. As Merlin drags the door open and pulls Ron through along with himself, Arthur spins and slices clean through the black knight’s waist, toppling him into two and sending his horse careening into the rook.

“ARTHUR!”

Arthur darts after his husband without a second to lose and Merlin slams the door shut hard behind him. He doesn’t bother locking the door- they aren’t enchanted to pursue. 

“Ron?” Arthur demands, not even out of breath. 

“Mild concussion. He’ll be fine. He’s lucky to be out, actually, he doesn’t have to smell this.”

Merlin’s right. It’s rank in this chamber. Neither of them bother covering their noses, being used to the smell of death, but neither of them pretend it’s not disgusting, either. It would appear to be caused by the dead troll in the middle of the floor. His brain is leaking out of his ears in a slow grey-red stream. It’s hard to tell, misshapen as his head naturally was, whether or not it’s caved in, but it’s fair to say that he’s not in any shape to get up. Merlin closes his eyes and bows his head out of respect for the dead quickly. 

“OOF-!”

His head snaps up. They’re not alone anymore- someone’s just crashed into Arthur’s arms all of a sudden, stumbling out of the next room. Hermione.

She gasps, eyes wide, taking them all in, hair flying behind her in its massive way.

“Em? Arth- what? What are you doing here?”, she gasps breathlessly.

Merlin doesn’t bother answering. He snakes between her and Arthur with purpose, looking Hermione in the frazzled eyes, and slides his hand over the nape of her neck. 

“ Awefecung , ” he murmurs. He catches her as she falls, resting her next to Ron in the air.

The two boys left awake race through the next door together. 

The room is empty and unremarkable aside from a few bottles and a note. Two bottles are empty. The final door is awash in purple flame, licking menacingly at the frame. 

Arthur picks up a piece of paper, reading it through and looking between the vials. 

“Logic. It’s a bloody riddle.”

“Give me that,” Merlin orders, snatching the paper and reading it over. 

Danger lies before you, while safety lies behind,

Two of us will help you, which ever you would find,

One among us seven will let you move ahead,

Another will transport the drinker back instead,

Two among our number hold only nettle wine,

Three of us are killers, waiting hidden in line.

Choose, unless you wish to stay here forevermore,

To help you in your choice, we give you these clues four: First, however slyly the poison tries to hide

You will always find some on nettle wine’s left side; Second, different are those who stand at either end,

But if you would move onward, neither is your friend; Third, as you see clearly, all are different size,

Neither dwarf nor giant holds death in their insides;

Fourth, the second left and the second on the right

Are twins once you taste them, though different at first sight.

“Are you telling me he wrote the answer down? You just need to have a few braincells to get to the fucking Philosopher’s Stone? ”, Arthur chokes.

“Plenty of magic-users don’t have a lick of sense, you know, it’s really quite clever.”

“But why provide a solution at all?!”

“Ugh, I don’t know, Arthur, they put a three-headed dog in a children’s school! Come on!”

Merlin throws the paper away and grabs his husband by the wrist. They’re wasting time.

He charges right through the flames of the final door, not stopping to watch them leap from him as though he’d burn them .

“LIAR! ”

Merlin takes in the scene in a moment. Harry, bound by ropes and spitting into the smiling face of evil, of greed, of murder, sprouting out of the back of Quirrinius Quirrell’s head. 

Merlin takes two strides and feels the ropes around Harry disintegrate like snow in the blazing sun as he approaches. He catches Harry as he drops him, just like Hermione, and turns his attention to the man of the hour. 

Riddle is a disgusting thing. His face sprouts out from Quirrell’s head, too large for the surface it’s superficially plastered onto, a surface not made to house such invasions as this. It sits unhappily, at odds with itself and its host. Cracks run through his face, down the bridge of his nose like brittle stone. Where lips should be, the skin just sinks into bared yellow teeth and bloodless gums. Veins spiderweb out at odd angles instead of eyebrows. The skin folds awkwardly over itself where ears should be. The only clear thing that marks Riddle as human is the hatred in his eyes. Hatred is such a human thing.

Merlin keeps his face blank as he watches Riddle’s twist in shock and fury, those frozen eyes snapping to him.  He meets his icy stare with his own firestorm, but something about it is colder than death. He uses no conscious magic to hold Riddle and his puppet in place, but held in place they are, as still as an upright corpse. Riddle can’t look away, not even when Arthur’s sword slides through his host’s body and Quirrell starts to choke. Merlin lets him freeze, lets him burn alive in an ice storm, watches the panic melt into Riddle’s cracked shell of a soul. He waits to raise his hand. He waits until Riddle understands that he’s going to die.

There. There it is. Merlin can see it hit him. Then, only then, does he let himself raise a hand. He holds it up an inch from Riddle’s face, watching him choke, losing the use of Quirell’s vocal chords as his puppet drops to its knees, its strings cut. Merlin looks down on him through the spaces between his fingers.

“Afraid to die, Tom?”

Then he touches him. 

Riddle can’t scream, but he does, Merlin sees it. Quirrell’s dead before he hits the ground. Merlin’s hand melts through him like hot lava, like their shared vessel is a liquid thing. He keeps his hand there and watches the skin sizzle as he pushes further into the concave head until he can’t make out any of Riddle’s ugly half-formed attempts at features anymore, until his magic feels less like it wants to throw up. Riddle’s gone. Then he withdraws his hand, letting the remnants drip off of him like oil from water, shaking it off in disgust. As if suddenly cooled, the molten body hardens, turning grey and cold. Merlin blows the ashes across the floor with a flick of his hand. Quirrell and Riddle crumble and scatter like dust in a power fan, fading into the grey of the floor beneath them, not even a body left to remember.

Merlin looks up at his husband. 

“I think it’s time I had a chat with Albus Dumbledore.”

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

The first person to find them isn’t Albus Dumbledore. It’s not even McGonagall. Merlin is rather grateful. He’s not sure how shared his opinion would be if he voiced it, but he thinks they could do much worse in this situation than Severus Snape.

He comes sweeping in mere moments after Merlin’s done a full check on all three kids and confirmed that they’re all completely fine. Harry’s the most affected, but the disturbance is magical and entirely impossible to put into any kind of medical terms. It seems to be on account of exposure to Riddle. Merlin recognises it- it was there all year, every time Harry walked into Defense class, flaring up every so often. It’s sharp, exact, like a snake bite, leaving its venom in his system buzzing around even after the fact. It will fade and Harry will wake in his own time. He’ll have to ask Harry if he felt it, later.

Before he’s decided what to do with the other two, Snape makes his entrance, swishing in like a bat mid-swoop, footsteps uncharacteristically loud in his alarm. His black eyes take in everything in a matter of seconds, lingering on the ashen robes of Quirrel, smeared in blackened remains. Then he’s immediately concerned for the children.

“Are you alright? What happened?”, he snaps shortly. 

“Quirrell made a play for the Stone. I’ll explain everything to Albus first, if you don’t mind,” Merlin returns coolly. “We have a few things to discuss.”

“The kids are fine,” Arthur adds. “Ron’s got a concussion.”

Snape narrows his eyes dangerously at the pair of them. He opens his mouth to say something, but he doesn’t get the chance before Minerva McGonagall is bustling in, face set in a severe frown of concern.

“Severus, what is the- oh!” she cuts herself off, realising the situation. Her mouth gapes for a bit, her face pulling itself around the flabbergasted spectrum as she looks everything over silently. 

“They’re fine,” Arthur repeats before she asks about the kids. 

Merlin takes this opportunity while everyone’s still reeling to sweep past the teachers neatly, taking the floating kids with him in his line of sight. Arthur’s right behind. 

“Just- just a moment, Emrys! Penn!” McGonagall calls, trying to regain some semblance of order. Good luck with that.

They do not give her a moment, but Snape has a different approach to the situation.

“Revelio,” he bites. 

Merlin lets it hit him. He doesn’t slow down. It has no effect even when he lets the spell wash over him as intended. Arthur gets the same treatment. This gets them through the first chamber. By the time they make it out, Snape’s almost exhausted the entire list of known spells along the same lines, and Merlin and Arthur remain their focussed eleven-year old selves. He can hear McGonagall keeping furious pace and watching closely.

Without a word Merlin sends Ron, Harry, and Hermione floating gently down the hall toward the infirmary. He doesn’t need to accompany them, they’ll be just fine, but it will get rid of McGonagall, who will feel obligated to look after them. 

Snape is harder to shake off.

“Stop where you are,” he orders in a tone that would inspire meekness in seasoned veterans. When neither of them pay him any heed, still making their way through the halls to the headmaster’s office, Snape whirls in front of them, stopping dead in their way with his wand trained on Merlin. 

“Explain yourselves,” he grits out chillingly, eyes flaring. “Now.”

“We’re on our way to do just that,” Merlin replies calmly. He keeps Snape’s stare for a moment, then steps around him and keeps moving forward.

In the end the great vampire just ends up following with his wand at their backs as if he’s escorting prisoners. Well, whatever helps him feel better. The kids have made it to the infirmary and Merlin lets his magic settle them into three beds beside each other. By that time he’s standing outside the old Headmaster’s office, face to face with an old stone friend. 

“Eadwig,” Merlin greets brightly. “How are you keeping? Still stubborn? Hope not, I’m really not in the mood tonight, and I don’t think Arthur is either, somehow. Arthur?”

“Not tonight,” Arthur confirms. 

“You can fake us out twice next time, leave us stuck halfway up again, how’s that sound, hmm? I’ll even bring you a lemon drop. I hear you like those.”

Snape watches the exchange with a (mostly) inanimate object in bemusement, but it pales in comparison to his shock when the griffon acquiesces, and they all have to step up onto the staircase as it ascends with its familiar rumble. Snape knows for a fact that the password this week is ‘Kettle Corn".

“Thank you,” Merlin says brightly. 

They’re barely up the stairs before they’re met. 

Fawkes’ cry is beautiful and heartening as it ever was, lifting just a little of the tension from Merlin’s shoulders. It has been a scramble of an hour. He was really worried about the kids. He knows they’re fine now, but despite his composure he is not a very happy vegemite. Fawkes is a reminder that it’s worked out for now, and that Albus Dumbledore must have SOME redeeming features to gain the trust of a Phoenix. 

The Firebird swans around them gracefully, never too ostentatious and never dull. He wastes less time circling now, feeling the tension in the air, settling himself quickly on Arthur’s forearm. He stares at the king with big brown eyes flecked in gold, tilting his head curiously. 

“Always the favourite,” Merlin mumbles, more out of habit than anything.

Fawkes is not the only thing to take note of their entrance. The paintings, to Snape’s astonishment, do not try to feign sleep. In fact, he’s never seen them all snap to attention so quickly. Depictions from stout little inventors to ingenious world-builders, historic lawyers, headmasters, writers, all acknowledge the boys as they enter. A few of them eye Snape accusingly. A couple even salute in the first years’ directions, faces serious. Some whisper among themselves, keeping their eyes on the group. Some call out to them, almost difficult to hear over the whir of contraptions that Albus keeps in his office, some of which he’s not even sure of the use for. Whatever they are, they react wildly and with great variation to Arthur Penn and Myriddian Emrys. One of them actually combusts, the wheel of it spinning itself right off its spoke and sending up a puff of golden smoke. 

If Severus didn’t believe them imposters before, this settles it squarely- but he still can’t parse all the factors. The paintings recognizing them? Accepting them? Fawkes? And how would they even get into Hogwarts if they weren’t welcomed by the castle itself? Are they some kind of agents Albus has planted without telling him? But he cast  Revelio . They can’t truly be children. What’s going on?

🚪

Albus is sure of these three things by the time he re-enters his office:

1. The children are safe and being cared for.
2. Voldemort has been forcibly removed from Hogwarts school of Witchcraft and Wizardry by way of spontaneous combustion along with Professor Quirrell, who it would seem was a bad hire on Albus’ part.
3. He is getting much too old for this nonsense.

His office is not the way he left it. For one, there are two children and a Severus inside, and Albus cannot fathom for one minute why Severus would willingly let them in, but that must have been what happened. For two, his portraits are in a tizzy. And for three, his illumascope is broken.

Sitting on his desk, casual as you please, is one Myrridian Emrys. He’s perch on the end of it like a teacher who’s called out a misbehaving child after class. It’s a funny, foreign look on an eleven year old. Not far from him, standing just as serenely with his arms folded over his chest looking very self-assured is his counterpart, Arthur Penn. 

Albus looks to Severus for clues. The man looks, in his own reserved way, blown away. 

Intriguing.

Then Nicolas Flamel enters after him and things become even more interesting. Both of the childrens’ eyes snap to him and light up with undeniable recognition. 

“Nick,” Arthur greets familiarly. 

“Arthur?” Nicolas replies just as casually. Albus raises his eyebrows at his friend. 

“I see you are acquainted,” he starts. He’s about to say more, but Myriddian beats him to it.

“Arthur, I’ll speak with Albus. Would you take Nick and Severus out with you, please? You’ll have much to discuss with them as well.”

Without question, Arthur moves to comply. Severus is sputtering- something Severus doesn’t make a habit of doing. Nicolas, on the other hand, seems nonplussed and happy to go along. 

“Yes, I suppose we do have much to speak of,” Albus allows, both as a sign to Severus and an attempt to regain control of the situation. He is suddenly desperately, hopelessly curious. It was always his downfall as a young man, his curiosity. He found himself in all manner of trouble at its whim. Now, he finds himself knowledgeable and capable enough to unravel these strings as he finds them without so much fear of the repercussions. Alas, he no longer finds any worth unravelling. He feels now something he hasn’t in a very long time- the tug of the string. And he is intrigued.  

Arthur takes Nick and Severus out and leaves them alone with the marble pillars, the quietly functioning bits and bobs, and Fawkes. 

Something comes to Albus then. 

Something about the way Myriddian is perched on his desk, legs swinging, makes Albus recall opening the occasional golden letter on that desk and wondering. Something about the tone of those letters matches the set of this boy’s shoulders. Something sends Albus’ mind back to him and Harry and their friends standing back from the Mirror of Erised. 

“Em, you stand there!”

And something clicks into place. 

“‘M’, I presume?” Albus tests the waters, watching the boy’s reaction. 

His eyebrows pull together a little in an innocent confused way, and his head tilts. His eyes are huge and wondering.

“...Sir?”

He’s got it wrong. “Nevermind. You must forgive an old man the occasional eccentricity-” 

A grin worthy of Salazar Slytherin himself crawls across the pale boy’s face. It’s too knowing to be set in a child’s features. 

“Kidding. It’s me. You know, I’ve been waiting to do that for a while, but as the year went on, I started thinking of other ways this meeting could go. In fact, were it not for Fawkes, I may well have lost my temper. There is no clear answer to how I have not reached my breaking point yet- really, it’s a completely inexplicable phenomenon, all things considered, against all logic- but by some lucky chance I have not. In the spirit of that, I have bided my time and waited until such a time as you were in a position to have this little chat with me, and then you could lay it all out for me and make clear everything up. State your case. That time has come. So I would love to hear it from your lips, Albus- how is it that a dead terrorist came to successfully infiltrate your children’s school, stay undercover the entire year, and get within arm’s reach of killing a boy and obtaining the Philosopher’s Stone?”

Albus always hated dealing with people who thought they knew more than him. When he was younger everyone thought that- no one believed a child could have their own thoughts, see. It’s part of what made Albus want to teach. Then, when he was older, clawing his way through wave after wave of academia, he was surrounded by those people until he could stand it no more. Having reached the point he has now, one would think the stream of such people would ebb, but it hasn’t. They simply come in the form of Ministry officials and irate parents now. 

But dealing with these people was always manageable, because even when Albus knew he didn’t know everything, he also knew that neither did they. In fact, most of them knew a lot less than they thought they did. This kept him going. 

Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore has never met anyone who he was absolutely certain knew more than everyone before. Looking across his office at eyes that outdate even Nicolas Flamel’s set into the frame of an eleven year-old boy whose legs have stilled as he stares Albus down like a misbehaving child, Albus is at a loss. He has never been confronted with such a thing before. He has no idea what to think. His honeyed words leave him like so much hot air in the face of something infinitely bigger than himself. If nothing else, it is abundantly clear that they will not serve him here. 

“Who are you?” he hears himself blurt. 

Myriddian’s head cocks, a child again in an instant. “You haven’t figured it out? That’s a shame.” He slides himself off of the desk. He barely reaches Albus’ chest, and his curly hair makes up most of his height. Even for a boy he’s small. Easy to miss. Albus never noticed his earring before, but he does now. It’s a very old symbol that he can’t quite place. 

Given a puzzle, Albus’ mind works on autopilot. It knows how to answer questions. He runs through his thousands of theories regarding the mysterious ‘M’ that he’s had over the years and discounts them in droves. He hasn’t been this focussed in a long time, and his old habits start rearing their heads, his hand flicking information aside as if it’s a physical thing. 

Only his most outrageous theories make the final cut. Jumping to the forefront is one in particular, and Albus gets a flash of some relevant buried memory- the earring. Where has he seen that symbol before? Whatever it is, it’s connected to a name he considered a long time ago… it’s embedded so deeply into magic itself it’s practically synonymous, he had to consider it once. He’s heard it said that if Magic had a name, then it was that one. Mythologists, historians, none agreed on what happened to the man or even if he existed. But what they did agree on fit. 

What was it that Emrys meant again, in the Old tongue?

Immortal.

“Merlin,” his traitorous mouth breathes aloud. He wants to take it back, wants to yell it out again, as soon as he says it. Then he’s at square one again, completely out of his depth, because the boy is smiling again. 

“A gold star to the man,” he says dryly under his breath.

⭐️

Arthur knocks Snape out as soon as they leave. 

Nick raises an eyebrow. Arthur shrugs half-heartedly.

“Merlin likes him, but I don’t have to.”

“Fair enough.”

Arthur sends him off easily to a side corridor until he wakes up and turns back to his friend, giving Nick a smile. He tries not to feel like it’s the last time.

“Walk with me.”

It’s cold out, and wet, too wet for a stroll, but they take to the grounds anyway. It’s easier to think outside in the fresh air. What’s it gonna do, kill them?

Nick seems to appreciate it. If Arthur knows the man, he hasn’t seen the daylight in as long as Nell’s left him to his own devices. Sometimes she decides he’s not worth the effort and leaves him behind. He has no idea when the last time she dragged him out was. It’s different walking with Arthur, anyways. 

“Nelly wants to die,” Nick says calmly.

“No she doesn’t, Nick,” Arthur replies with a serene smile. “She wants to die with you.”

“Well obviously, I wouldn’t let her go alone, you know what I meant.”

“It’s a big difference.”

“Yeah,” Nick hums quietly, kicking at the grass, deep in thought. “She’s better at thinking about that stuff than me. Making the decisions.”

“I know, that’s why I like her better.”

“Me too,” he laughs. Arthur sways into him playfully. His shoulder hits Nick's hip. “Well, I could never say no to her, anyway. If she says it’s time to go, it’s time to go. Surprised I kept her this long, to be honest, I thought she’d have left me for a better man centuries ago.”

“Oh yes, that sounds like Perenelle- a loose cannon, that one.”

“I have to know,” Nick says, suddenly sobering a little, “What you think about it. If you think about it.”

Arthur nods in understanding. “We could do it, we have the means, Excalibur would do us in no problem. And were it a question just for us, we may have tested that. But Merlin… he has obligations. Not to any one person, just… obligations. Things that the world needs of him. It must not be done with him yet. I have a feeling we’ll know when it is. Our friends are waiting for us, probably a mite frustrated with us for extending the wait for so long, but they’ll still be waiting. That’s what Merlin always says when I ask him if it’s time. Not in so many words… but that’s what he says.”

Nicolas digests this. It puts a thoughtful smile on his face. He was always better at thinking than talking. So Arthur lets him think.

🌾

Merlin watches Albus carefully as he picks his way around the desk to sit. 

It’s been a long time since he straight up introduced himself. Even when he does, though, people don’t usually understand the full repercussions of such a confession. It’s simply an ineffable thing. Albus Dumbledore, it would seem, is more well-equipped to consider all angles of a thing, ineffable or not. He may not understand, but he’s grasped enough to need to sit down. Merlin does hope they can get over this part quickly, though, because frankly, it’s not his biggest concern, and he’s still seething.

 “Let’s start at the beginning, shall we?” Merlin chirps, getting comfortable and clasping his hands together. “Why would you leave Harry in an abusive household? That blood-binding protection of yours may have kept him alive, but he was in a sorry state for the first eleven years of his life. And in the meantime Riddle has become strong enough to gather followers, stick himself to someone’s head, and drink unicorn blood. You knew he wasn’t dead. Did you think he’d just forget? Give up? And in those eleven years he’s been recuperating, have you made any progress on tracking him down? Figuring out his secrets, how he lived, how to kill him properly? What have you been doing for the past eleven years, Albus, besides leaving Harry Potter to suffer an abusive home?”

At this Albus finally looks up. Merlin lets himself feel a little bit of twisted satisfaction at the absence of a knowing twinkle in his eye. 

“I have been looking for his Horcruxes,” he says quietly.

Merlin’s jaw drops. 

“You’ve been- right. So, just to reiterate, in those eleven years , while Harry starved, you figured out that Tom split his soul and you need to find each piece separately. That’s what you’ve done.” Merlin pinches the bridge of his nose and takes a deep, fortifying breath. He will not lose it. He promised, and he won’t.

Okay, if he’s going to keep that promise, he can’t listen to this. 

“Harry is coming home with me,” he says in the voice of thousand-year-old stone. Avalon help Albus if he interrupts now. “He will never see the Dursleys again. I am watching over him, Albus, because you have let him down in that. A three-headed dog and a locked door is not the way to protect the world’s most valuable resource. I should not have to compromise my position as a Hogwarts student because you let it get this far. Riddle isn’t dead, obviously, so do better. You’re smart, I know you can. Think.”

Merlin doesn’t make himself stay a moment longer. He whips around and strides out the door. 

🚪

Nicolas returns from his walk in time to have a very long talk with Albus, who then finds a cranky Severus and has a very long talk with him. 

Harry Potter wakes up screaming. Usually, it’s Em or Arthur there when that happens. Today it’s Professor Dumbledore. They have a very long talk too. 

“How are Ron? And Hermione? Oh, what about Arthur- I don’t know if you know Em, but he’s Arthur’s wife...sband. How are they?”

Dumbledore assures Harry they’re all fine and well after he coughs a little at that statement.

Finally, finally, Harry wears Madame Pomfrey down until she lets the rest of the skeleton crew in. She’s really very fond of him- she sees him more often than any other student on account of his required potions and vitamin supplements, not to mention the Quidditch injuries. 

Hermione races in first, Ron tripping over her heels, somehow letting Arthur and Em glide by them while they’re tangled up in each other trying to get to him quicker. 

“Alright there, shortstack?” Arthur asks fondly. His arm is in a cast with signed names swirling over it and one of Dean’s patented lions batting at the letters. It makes Harry’s head swim a little, so he looks away. Thankfully, Arthur keeps his blinding smile to a reasonable level, so Harry looks at that instead. 

Em holds Hermione back from throwing herself on Harry, knowing his head must be very sore. Harry appreciates it. It doesn’t stop her babbling, but he appreciates that too. 

“Oh, Harry, we were sure you were going to- Dumbledore was so worried- “

“The whole school’s talking about it,” Ron interrupts. He’s got a little scrape across his face. “What really happened?”

So Harry tells them, filling in the blanks with what Dumbledore told him after the fact. And then Em and Arthur explain how it went for them- how they sent for Dumbledore and went after them as soon as they realised what was happening. That’s how Arthur broke his arm, apparently, one of the chess pieces got him good while he was dragging Ron and Em through that chamber, and that’s where they met Hermione. There must’ve been something in that potion she drank from Snape’s riddle, because she fainted almost as soon as they found her. Then again, it was a rather high-stress situation. Dumbledore caught up with them soon after that and they all went on to find Harry had, by the grace of his mother’s love, dispatched with Voldemort all by himself. Harry doesn't remember that part.

“Wait, so the Stone’s gone?” Ron says into the hush that follows. “Flamel’s just going to die?”

“That’s what I said, but Dumbledore thinks that- what was it? - ‘to the well-organized mind, death is but the next great adventure.’”

For whatever reason, that makes Em and Arthur smile. 

“I always said he was off his rocker,” Ron huffs, looking quite impressed at how crazy his hero is. “...Hey… D’you think he meant you to do it? Sending you your father’s cloak and everything?”

Em’s eyes narrow. Arthur’s face darkens.

“Well, ” Hermione explodes, “if he did — I mean to say that’s terrible — you could have been killed.”

“No, it isn’t,” Harry says thoughtfully. “He’s a funny man, Dumbledore. I think he sort of wanted to give me a chance. I think he knows more or less everything that goes on here, you know. I reckon he had a pretty good idea we were going to try, and instead of stopping us, he just taught us enough to help. I don’t think it was an accident he let me find out how the mirror worked. It’s almost like he thought I had the right to face Voldemort if I could...”

Em’s lips part as his eyes go distant, considering this.

“Yeah, Dumbledore’s off his rocker, all right,” Ron confirms proudly. “Listen, you’ve got to be up for the end-of-year feast tomorrow. The points are all in and Slytherin won, of course — you missed the last Quidditch match, we were steamrollered by Ravenclaw without you — but the food’ll be good.”

“Harry,” Arthur says over him, sounding much more serious, “Do you really think-”

Harry never hears the end of the question. Madame Pomfrey has had quite enough of them bothering her patient, thanks. Frankly, he’s surprised they got this long.

“A Slytherin, am I?” Merlin asks, sipping innocently at his pumpkin juice under the green and silver banners of the winning house at the end-of-year feast. “Does that mean I win?”

Arthur doesn’t get the chance to come up with a jab to match his glare before the hall falls into a dramatic hush.

Merlin slides over for Harry to squeeze in between him and Arthur, glaring openly at the people standing up to get a look at the kid. It’s been a mess, trying to keep them out of his business- Merlin forgot just how bratty snot-nosed kids could be. He shut that shit down right quick, so not many people are game to test his limits once Harry’s sandwiched between him and his husband. Good.

Merlin is happily tuning Albus’ speech out until Ron punches him to pay attention with wide eyes. 

“-few last-minute points to dish out,” Albus is saying. “Let me see. Yes... “First — to Mr. Ronald Weasley...”

Ron goes purple in the face, looking oddly like a radish with a bad sunburn. 

“... for the best-played game of chess Hogwarts has seen in many years, I award Gryffindor house fifty points.”

Gryffindor explodes. Merlin throws his hands over his ears. Arthur laughs and elbows him triumphantly.

“Second — to Miss Hermione Granger... for the use of cool logic in the face of fire, I award Gryffindor house fifty points.”

Hermione buries her face in her arms quickly.

“Hang on,” Merlin protests. They’re a hundred points up and the old man is still talking.

“Third — to Mr. Harry Potter...” Dumbledore announces. The room goes deadly quiet. “... for pure nerve and outstanding courage, I award Gryffindor house sixty points.”

“WHAT!”

Merlin’s jaw drops. Arthur scoops Harry up by the armpits and spins him in a full circle over his head like a kitten. If Madame Pomfrey could see them now. 

“We BROKE THE RULES. We almost got KILLED,” Merlin scoffs over the din. For once Hermione doesn’t agree with him, too busy hugging Ron like it’s her last day on this earth. Unbelievable.

Then Neville gets ten points for courage or some shit and the hall collectively loses it. Merlin loses the use of his eardrums. Ugh, children!

Not long after that, their wardrobes are empty, their trunks are packed- at least, those of them who don’t live in theirs. Neville’s toad is found lurking in a corner of the toilets, and the standard notes warning against using magic outside of school are handed out. 

“I always hope they’ll forget to give us these,” Fred sighs sadly. 

“Well, you know… doesn’t count if it’s not you explicitly performing said magic, is it? Hypothetically,” Merlin comments offhand. The twins light up like Christmas. 

“You’re coming over this summer,” they say at once. Merlin grins. 

Meanwhile, Arthur taps Harry on the shoulder and jerks his head, leading him away from the crowd for a quiet moment. 

“How you doing, shortstack?”

“You know, you’re not much taller than I am,” Harry replies, trying not to be offended. 

“What a ridiculous falsehood. You need to eat more, Harry, build up some of that muscle.”

Harry deflates a little, his wild hair wilting. He shoves his glasses up his face self-consciously. “Fat chance of that happening this summer.”

“About that...” Arthur starts with a smile.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

(One of y’all requested I update this fic to let you know when the next one’s been posted. It has!)

that’s all luv u xoxo