Merlin and Arthur tag along with Harry Potter (and the Chamber of Secrets) - SnufflesThePig (2024)

Chapter 1: Summer break

Chapter Text

Arthur wakes up short. He does not like it, but there’s probably a reason, so he puts up with it. He has to, anyway- his resident magic man is not in bed with him. That might be what woke him up, actually, they never did do well sleeping without each other.

Arthur drags himself up with an unhappy huff, determined to find his husband and/or wife and sit on him and/or her for this grievous insult.

It’s dark in their room, but it hasn’t changed in centuries, so it’s not exactly hard to find his way around. Because it’s cold as tit* he also locates a dressing gown- who’s it is is of no consequence- and pulls it around himself. Alas, the arms fall well over his hands and the end drags behind him on the floor, longer even than his cape was for royal ceremonies. Arthur’s too small for his own goddamned clothes now. Figures.

His bare feet slap against the floor as he rubs his eyes and sets off in search of his lost love. He better not be lost long if he knows what’s good for him. Arthur’s too tired to even remember his name this decade. He just decides to try a bunch. Statistically one of them will probably be right.

“MAAAAX, COME TO BED!” he yells into the hallway. Ugh, his voice is so squeaky. He grumbles when the stupid sleeves fall down again. He’s drowning in this thing.

“MELODY!” Arthur tries. He has a vague recollection of Merlin in a dress? Maybe she’s a woman? “Millie, where are you? Lynn! Mara!” He racks his brain for more. Ugh, why is he even doing this? He’s in his own home, he’ll call his wifesband what he likes- “MER— “

A bony calloused hand slaps over his mouth, and Arthur knows every callous even in his half-awake state.

“Arthur, the baby!” Merlin hisses. He sounds like a man. Wait, a boy. He’s young like Arthur, that makes sense. Where was that dress memory from, then? That… might’ve been from the sixteen hundreds, actually… wait, what baby?

“You’re pregnant?” Arthur asks behind his hand, so it’s more of a ‘yommm mprehaanm?’ Merlin removes his hand and cuffs him upside the head.

“No, Harry!”

Arthur blinks as it rushes back to him. He’s a bit more awake now, having been cuffed upside the head.

“Oh yeah!”

“Honestly. We have a baby now, Arthur. A sweet child in time. And I’m pretty sure he has insomnia.”

Arthur gruffs something bear-like. “I know, I remember. It’s not the first time we’ve had a baby.”

“A sweet child in time.”

“Sure. You pick them up like stray kittens.”

“You say that like you’ve put up any kind of resistance. You’ve loved every single one of our children.”

“I blame you for that too.”

“Course you do. You blame me for the sun revolving around the earth. I mean the earth- the- f*ck,” Merlin- Em, Mirridon or something, Arthur remembers now, stammers.

“Nobel prize winner, everyone.”

Merlin chuckles self-deprecatingly. Arthur feels more than sees him drag a hand down his face tiredly. With a sigh, Arthur realizes it’s about to get light. He just knows. Yeah, there’s no hope of getting Merlin back to bed now.

Arthur gives in. He’s up now too. Might as well get something to eat. He shrugs his stupid long dressing gown off and pulls it around Merlin’s skeletal shoulders- Arthur knows he’s not unhealthy, but he looks just how he did at eleven (unhealthy), so Arthur can’t help but fret- and scoops him up. He’s as light as a feather from his namesake. Maybe two. Merlin’s skinny legs wrap around Arthur’s back automatically, his arms coming to circle around him, and they’re off.

“Do you think he heard? Harry?” Merlin mumbles as Arthur marches them in the direction of the kitchen. He’s playing with something that sounds like a Rubik’s cube over Arthur’s shoulder, propping his chin against the curve of his neck.

“Do you know what my favourite thing about Harry is?” Arthur muses. “He never asks.”

Merlin snorts quietly into Arthur’s hair, bouncing with Arthur’s steps. Arthur focusses on not tripping on the dressing gown.

Harry wakes up slowly. He hasn’t done that in a very long time. It is a gradual, sweet thing, like pooling syrup. Harry slept well.

Still, he cracks his eyes open carefully, just in case. It’s quiet, but you can never be too careful. That’s what Harry tells himself, but he’s been feeling more and more like you can be, and maybe he is. He’s woken up alone every morning, undisturbed, and there’s been no sign that anyone’s entered while he slept. This is his space, after all, that’s what the house elf said.

Harry was amazed to find there was yet another person living in the castle (that’s what Em and Arthur’s house is called). He was astounded, having never met a house elf, when they were greeted at the door by a short little creature with chubby arms covered in bangles that tinkled when she moved, grinning like a kid at an amusem*nt park. She wore a silky purple slip and big blue eyes the size of tennis balls. Em and Arthur greeted her like family. She squealed when she saw Harry.

“Sir Arthur and Sir Em have brought Hobby a new boy!! A new boy!! He will be so happy here, Hobby will make sure!”

And she had. Harry has never been so doted after, so cared for. Every step of the way he worried that she would change her mind about him, or maybe go the other direction and overstep, coddle him until he couldn’t breathe. That was scary to Harry. He knew he wasn’t like other boys, he had lots of little things about him that he couldn’t explain, and he wouldn’t want to. What if Miss Hobby tried to fix him? He didn’t want to bother her.

“This is your room, if you likes, Sir Harry. Hobby’s boys tells her, they says somewhere close to the kitchen, so Harry can get there when he likeses,” she’d said when she showed him his room. “Somewhere small, oh yes, small is good, good for the brain, very safe here. Lots of things for Sir Harry. But if he likeses, Hobby has lots of rooms for Sir Harry, no, he doesn’t need to like this one.”

But again, Harry wakes up alone and safe. Miss Hobby has done the impossible again, walked the invisible line just right- she’s left him extra food to stash, but she’s left it outside the door. She wouldn’t come in without telling him. Harry smiles.

Maybe this will be the last day he is careful when he opens his eyes, just in case.

The room is the perfect in between as well. Well-furnished, but not too rich for Harry to feel uncomfortable. Everything is well made, but it’s cozy and small so Harry feels at home, like it was a place made to be curled up in the way he likes. There are things from all over, even Harry, who’s never been anywhere further than London before, can tell. Hand-made blankets with exotic designs in strange fabrics, lights that look like they’re out of an old-fashioned movie, talismans, and royal curtain hangings. There’s an origami dragon on one of the shelves, and lots of room for books and things that look like they’ve been cleared out for Harry’s things. But none of the things in this room, none of them are arranged or posed. The blankets fall haphazardly from under pillows. The picture frames are old and worn but well-loved. The wood is old too. Petunia would hate this room. It has life.

Harry wonders most about the pictures. Miss Hobby said they had so many in the house, and she didn’t want the room to be bare, but he could feel free to move them or put his own things up. Harry likes the clutter, actually. But he doesn’t know who the people in the pictures are. They don’t seem like old family heirlooms, but they must be, they’re all old and yellow, some black and white, some barely recognizable through the grain and wear. On a few there’s visible wearing where someone’s fingers ran over them time and time again. But the people in them are too happy to be posing for one of those old solemn historical pictures that you find in family keeps. They’re candid, things friends would take of each other. Thoughtless. Some of them make Harry laugh. Two men sharing a cigarette, a soldier sticking his tongue out and looking silly in his fancy uniform, a pair of women laughing as they push each other into a lake- and Harry’s personal favourite, someone stuck in a tuba.

Harry pulls himself up and into a green shirt that says ‘Kiss me, I’m Irish.’ Arthur thought it was funny. When he and Em found out the reason Harry never had anything that fit him aside from the school uniform was that it was all hand-me-downs from Dudley, they immediately set out to get him a whole new wardrobe. Harry protested, but only on principle. He has clothes that fit him now, clothes he picked in his favourite colours. He never has to wear another of Dudley’s XXXL monstrosities with pasta sauce down the front again, and it makes the world a brighter place. Harry feels lighter, pulls his shoulders back, uses his hands more now that they’re not trapped behind rolls of sleeves. And he smells less, too. Yay.

Harry turns around at a quiet hissing announcing that he’s not alone. He comes face-to-face with a Burmese python twining gracefully around his bannister.

“Good morning,” he says agreeably. She blinks. “Goldie, right?”

“Good morniiiing, Harry,” she responds.

Harry blinks back. This has happened before, he remembers. He hopes this doesn’t go as badly as then. He has a lot more to lose now.

Goldie must read something on his face.

“Don’t worryyyyy,” she hums, slipping down the bedpost, tickling the fringe by the old-school light. “It’ssss not a crime for us to sssssspeak.”

“Sorry. You seem very nice. I guess I’m just not used to talking to snakes.”

“It’sssss underssstandabllllle.” Goldie regards him with intelligent amber eyes, flicking her tongue out. “Do you like it heeeeere?”

The question brings a sense of irony to Harry. He feels like he should be asking her. He was the one to ask the last snake he spoke to, and the answer was no. But neither of them are behind glass now. Goldie is as welcome here as he is. They’re both free.

“Yes,” Harry settles on. “What about you?”

Goldie gives him the snake equivalent of a smile. “Very much sssssso. It is the besssst home I will ever finnnnd. I think you will find the sssssaaaame.”

“Oh, I’m just staying for the summer,” Harry refutes.

“If you sssaaaaay sssso,” Goldie purrs knowingly. Harry tries not to let hope leap through his chest too violently.

“Do you know about the pictures?” he asks, partially to change the subject, but partially because he wants to know. He nods at the ones scattered around his room.

“What about theeeemmmmm?”

“Well, just… who are they?”

“An interessstingggg quessstion. Not one sssso ssssimple to ansswwer, eitheeeerr… might I suggessssst, checking the baaack?”

Harry co*cks his head. He picks up one of them curiously. This one is tilted and a little blurry with motion. A woman is splayed awkwardly around a man like they’re… wrestling? Her leg is somehow up in the air over his shoulder and her face, barely visible, might be one of panic at the fall she’s about to take, determination to bring the man down with her, or both. They’re both in olden style swimsuits, flopping about on the deck of a jetty overlooking water as far as the eye can see.

Hesitantly, Harry pulls the picture out of its frame, being very careful not to damage it. He flips it over. He can barely read the elegant scribble on the back.

Sunshine Coast 1936

Sunshine Coast? Where is that? It looks sunny enough, anyway. They look very happy. Harry might have a new favourite picture.

He looks up to ask Goldie about it, but she’s gone.

Harry finds Arthur and Em by following the bickering. They don’t notice him for a while, so Harry gets to watch the whole exchange.

Em is wrapped around Arthur like a koala. Arthur is crunching on a piece of toast over Em’s shoulder and cooking bacon in a pan that he’s almost too short to see.

“If you get crumbs on me, I will… eat you.”

“Mm, is that a promise or a threat?”

“Ye- no. No.”

“Morning,” Harry chirps quietly. Both of them turn to look at him, but seeing as Em is at Arthur’s physical whim right now, Arthur turning means Em gets turned away, so he squawks and loses sight of him.

“Morning, shortstack. Nice shirt.”

“Whaddya want for brekkie, Harry?” Em asks brightly, hopping off of Arthur with no warning and nearly sending his bacon flying. Arthur scoffs around his toast.

“Oh, unreal, I carry you around all morning and I get what amounts to dry bread, and Harry gets breakfast?” he protests.

“Toast is breakfast,” Em replies without looking, already peering through cupboards for ingredients.

“No it isn’t.”

“It is.”

“If it doesn’t have an egg in it, it’s not breakfast.”

“Not if you’re an Olympic twat,” Harry hears Em mutter under his breath. He snickers and Em winks at him. “You know who you remind me of?” he asks more loudly so Arthur can hear, “Gaston.”

“Gesundheit.”

“No, it’s a name. From Beauty and the Beast. It’s a light show- what do you call the-? A FILM! It’s a film, you remember, with the pretty yellow dress and the great ugly brute of a prattish prince- yes, Arthur, and the poor little commoner girl who didn’t want a thing to do with him- no, it wasn’t our biography, before you ask. Remember now?”

“Ahhh, yes, where the poor beast got led on. She only liked him for his library. Sad, really, she was quite cruel.”

“She did not only like him for his library, she liked him because she saw through his prattishness and made him better, and she fell in love with him!” Em shoots back hotly. Arthur looks back at him smugly, raising one eyebrow, looking like the cat that got the cream. Em realizes what he said and clicks his mouth shut, sending Arthur a minor glare with a healthy blush. “Well, you’re not getting any pancakes, smart guy.”

“What!”

Harry can’t help it. He bursts into giggles like a five year old girl, doubling over and holding his tummy. His hand comes up to stifle the sounds, but then he remembers he doesn’t have to. He shouldn’t. He’s allowed to be happy here. So he just laughs.

This is how breakfast should be, he thinks. He wants it to be this way every day.

It isn’t like that everyday. Some days, Em grabs Harry from his room with a mischievous twinkle in his eye and leads him off to wake up Arthur by jumping on the bed. Some days the stained-glass knights wake everyone up with their hollering, having gotten stupid drunk on stained-glass mead. Some days Harry wakes up to a cat on him crushing his very sub-par lungs, and some days it's a dog that has no qualms about licking him to death. Or a wolf? Harry’s not sure what Ix is, actually. Harry really likes talking to Goldie. Pandora is lovely, although a bit haughty- she rarely deigns to swoop into Harry’s little room. Every day Harry wakes up to something special, though- a little cinnamon bun for him to keep, or a packet of pretzels outside his door. Non-perishables, usually. It makes him feel safe.

Harry gets on well with the knights and ladies. Hunith is terribly sweet, and Harry is once again terribly curious as to who she was to get put into a window with the knights of the round table, Lady Morgana, and Queen Guinevere. And Gaius, of course- never forget Gaius. He always seems to know and understand, even if he doesn’t say so. Harry likes Leon and Percival and Lancelot and Gwaine a lot, and Em is always saying how much Harry reminds him of Elyan. Morgana is very good to him too, and he likes her- she never treats him like a baby. She’s encouraging of mischief, actually, and terribly graceful about it. Gwen is so nice it makes him want to cry sometimes when no one’s looking.

Harry notices the changes in Em and Arthur too. Em wears his scarf less at home, not worried about his scars showing with his family. Harry does cry a bit when he realises that means him too. Arthur forgets to wear clothes more often than not, he’s rarely seen with a full outfit, usually neglecting to put on a shirt. The ones he does tolerate hardly qualify. They both wear dressing gowns that are clearly for adults three times their size more than anything else. Sometimes Em wears skirts or dresses. Harry tries one on and decides he likes pants better.

Em sticks herbs behind his ears and forgets them there. Arthur boils tea for Em and then forgets to actually make it, so Hobby has to do it. Sometimes he calls Em about six different names before he gets the right one.

One of Harry’s favourite nights of the whole summer, though, is about three-quarters of the way through it.

They’re all sitting around the lounge like they did in the Gryffindor common room, sprawled across the legs of chairs and staring into the fire. The knights and ladies tease each other in the glass windows.

“Lavendre?” Em asks, extending a parcel of something he’s been eating from for a while. Harry doesn’t notice, his eyes wide at the word.

“Em, we’re not supposed to use magic outside of school!”

Em frowns. “‘S not magic, Harry, it’s french candy. D’you want one?”

Oh. Harry takes a purple candy in the shape of a flower. It tastes like soap. He doesn’t hate it.

“Sing us a song, Gwaine!” Percival calls. Immediately the chant is taken up by the hoard. Em leaps up.

“Wait, Harry, can I borrow your pipes?! Hagrid carved you some for Yuletide, right?”

Harry races back to his room to grab them. When he comes back, Arthur’s strumming on his guitar.

“Oh, a sing-along! Yes, yes!” Hobby cries happily, clapping along. Gwen giggles.

“Who wants me to play?” Em demands like a sports player waiting for the roar of the crowd. The crowd cheers its part as if he were. “Do you, d’you want me to play? Gwaine!”

“Ready when you are, love!”

“Go on, then,” Arthur chuckles along, pausing in his plucking. Em gives him a nod though and Arthur picks a tune- something bright and quick and lovely. Em fits right along with it when he starts to play. Harry’s jaw drops. How does he have the breath for it? And he’s still smiling over the reeds, his feet tapping like they want to move.

Gwaine chimes in with some instrument Harry doesn’t even recognise. It must be from his time. They all keep up with each other though, bright and fast and bouncy. The ladies start to move together, and then the knights, moving to some old dance forgotten by time and Harry wants to join them. Elyan claps along and Gaius twirls Gwen around. Hunith does a funny tap twirl thing, holding the end of her dress out and smiling, brightening up the whole room.

Still playing, Em offers Harry a hand up. Harry’s eyebrows shoot up, but he takes his hand. Em looks at him over the pipes, nodding encouragingly down at their feet. Watch me. So Harry does. His feet tap in time in a lively way, barely touching the floor before they leap up again like they can’t stop themselves. Still, it’s an easy step, as happy as Em makes it look, so Harry follows along. Right foot, tap tap, up, back, tap, turn. Em almost breaks out of his song he’s so elated when Harry gets it, but he keeps up with the merciless pace he set himself somehow. Arthur laughs delightedly.

And off they go, trading partners and flying through the choruses at Merlin’s breakneck speed. Hunith teaches Harry the traditional step dance she did so he can join her. Percival picks Lancelot entirely up off the ground and swings him around like a ragdoll in what might be an attempt at a hearty waltz. Em jumps around like a grasshopper, sparkling. Hobby leaps around doing an impressive bellydance, bangles tinkling. Gwaine wolf-whistles for her. Arthur strums the guitar with more and more passion, laughing himself stupid. Gwaine takes over for a bit so he can dance with Em, and it’s like only the two of them exist as they circle each other in the firelight, matching each other step for step.

Harry doesn’t manage to keep track of when one song bleeds into another, and he has no idea how many they go through, but by the end they’ve exhausted themselves. Harry can hardly keep his eyes open, slumped back by the fire with a sleepy smile on his face and a warm feeling filling him up like he’s never known.

When Hobby takes Harry to bed, scooping him up in her stubby arms like a fair maiden with no trouble, things settle into an age-old familiarity. Quieter than the tavern music. They’re all tired.

Arthur doesn’t realise the sad, sweet tune he’s picking until people’s heads start to lift up to watch and listen with reverence.

“One more time, then?” Gwaine asks the same as he always does. “For old time’s sake.”

No one argues. No one really can once that tune starts playing. So on Arthur plays. Merlin sits back to listen. Arthur takes them through the first bit.

“I don’t know if you can see, the changes that have come over me. In these last few days I’ve been afraid, that I might drift away,” Arthur rumbles gently. Merlin picks it up from there.

“So I’ve been telling old stories, singing songs, that make me think about where I came from. That’s the reason why I seem so far away today…”

“Oh, but let me tell you that I love you, that I think about you all the time.

Camelot, you're calling me, and now I'm going home.

If I should become a stranger, know that it would make me more than sad.

Camelot’s been everything I've ever had,” they sing together.

Arthur takes them through the strumming again, and then Elyan pipes up in his quiet gentle voice..

“Oh and I have moved and I've kept on moving.

Proved the points that I needed proving, lost the friends that I needed losing, found others on the way…” he looks to Gwaine next.

“Oh and I have tried and kept on trying. Stolen dreams, yes there's no denying,

I have traveled far with conscience flying,

Somewhere with the wind…”

The rest of the knights sing the chorus with him.

“Oh, but let me tell you that I love you, that I think about you all the time.

Camelot, you're calling me, and now I'm going home.

If I should become a stranger, know that it would make me more than sad.

Camelot's been everything I've ever had.”

Arthur takes them through the strumming, and he sings the next part alone, because they all just want to listen to him. In an ineffable way, he is Camelot, and he still sings.

“Now I'm sitting here before the fire… the empty room, the forest choir,

The flames that could not get any higher-

They've withered now they've gone...

But I'm steady thinking my way is clear, and I know what I will do tomorrow,

When the hands are shaken and the kisses flow,

Then I will disappear…”

Then everyone sings. The ladies, the knights, Hunith, Gaius, they all sway together, sad smiles on their faces, remembering.

“Oh, but let me tell you that I love you, that I think about you all the time.

Camelot, you're calling me, and now I'm going home.

If I should become a stranger, you know that it would make me more than sad.

Camelot's been everything I've ever had.”

Arthur keeps strumming until the song is done, until the last sad and beautiful notes have been played, and then it’s just them and the fire. Merlin lays his head on Arthur’s shoulder, looking into it. Arthur sets his instrument aside.

That night, Merlin and Arthur fall asleep with their family around the fire, like nothing’s changed at all.

Chapter 2: Art interlude 1

Chapter Text

Arthur and Merlin's room:

Some photos I ran through a stained glass filter:

Chapter 3: Another Unexpected Dinner Guest

Chapter Text

There is a knock on the door. This is remarkable, because for all intents and purposes, there is no front door.

Harry wasn’t aware there was anything leading to outside except for the way they came in, but apparently there’s a lot he doesn’t know, because knock someone does. Merlin is startled enough that he drops his spork into his curry and watches it sink sadly out of sight.

“Arthur?”

Arthur grunts, having already gotten up to answer it.

“Were you expecting anyone?” Harry inquires.

“No. We get guests sometimes, but they usually announce themselves. Sort of have to, really, it’s not like our place is easy to find…” he trails off to himself. Harry’s noticed that Merlin tends to forget he’s talking to someone else at some point in his sentence and not just himself quite frequently.

“Maybe it’s your guardian.”

“Doubt it. Why would they bother knocking?”

Arthur returns with a guest in tow, and both Harry and Merlin turn to regard them.

A house-elf almost as skinny as Harry with great big doe eyes and nervously flapping ears tap-tap-taps his way in timidly. He’s shaking a little. He wears nothing more than a retrofitted potato sack and a miserable look as his huge eyes dart around the room, trying desperately to take them all in at once.

Arthur must’ve talked him out of going the whole hog (bowing and scraping and grovelling and all that nonsense). Instead he performs a sort of plié with his flat little feet, looking nervously between Merlin and Harry, hands fisting his rags.

“My lord! Sir! And Harry Potter, sir! So long has Dobby wanted to meet you, sirs... Such an honor it is… Dobby never thought he’d get to…”

He trails off, his eyes somehow going even wider as Hobby jingles her way into the room, humming. At this point Merlin’s worried they’ll bug right out of his head. Hobby waves kindly, bangles tinkling and skirt swishing. Dobby swallows with great effort and returns a pathetic little wiggle of his fingers, looking thunderstruck. Merlin internally coos. His brain short-circuits at how cute that is for a second. Dobby. Dobby and Hobby. By the goddess, that’s adorable.

“This is Dobby,” Arthur announces into the following silence, clearing his throat. Dobby’s bobbly head snaps back to attention and he pales a little.

“Oh dear! F-forgive Dobby, sirs! Masters! Dobby meant n-no disrespect! Dobby’s a horrible elf, truly, truly awful.”

“You don’t seem so bad,” Harry pipes up. Merlin flashes him a beaming smile. They’ve only had Harry for a few months, and if anything were to happen to him, Merlin would level a country.

Dobby lets out a wail, eyes suddenly shining, clutching his rags to his chest. “Oh, ohhhh, Harry Potter is too kind to Dobby. Dobby is beside himself, he is.”

Merlin swoops in to save the boy, because he looks quite unsure what to do with that, and also because Dobby looks like he may blow over like a twig in the wind.

“Well, first thing’s first, Dobby, are you alright? Did you travel far? There’s an extra seat if you’d like.”

A louder wail and Dobby all but collapses on the floor in supplication.

“Master Emrys offers Dobby a s-s-SEAT! Oh, ohhh… D-Dobby isn’t worthy of such kindness… to be treated as- as an equal! A seat at Master Emrys’ table, with his Lordship and H-Harry Potter! He offers it, just so! Ohhhh, his kindness truly is not exaggerated…”

Hobby bounces forward, producing tissues from out of nowhere and offering them to Dobby. He looks like she’s handed him the sun.

“Dobby mustn’t worry about such things,” she informs him smoothly. “Hobby’s boys is always kind. Dobby must focus now. What is it he wanted to say?”

Dobby blinks and nods fervently, as if trying to shake his brain into motion and manages to stop gaping at her, sheepishly blowing his nose like a trumpet into a tissue.

“That’s right! Dobby has come with grave news! Grave! Dobby isn’t… Dobby isn’t…” his lip trembles. Merlin’s face slackens.

“Dobby, you’re not allowed to be here, are you?”

Dobby shakes his head and wails, eyes shooting around for something to whack himself with. Merlin speaks quickly when he realises.

“You are safe here, Dobby. Your obligations do not bind you here. I release you. Speak freely.”

Merlin feels the older magical binding snap, and Dobby wilts like a flower, or a puppet with his strings cut. Merlin never liked those bindings between master and servant, they were too often abused, twisted into nothing more than slavery. But now is not the time to get… heated. Merlin takes a deep breath, half for himself and half to encourage Dobby to calm his insane heart rate.

Dobby would’ve collapsed right then and there in gratitude and happiness were it not for Hobby. She isn’t having it. She pulls him up by his rags and dusts them off like they’re as fine as her own clothes and gives him a stern but encouraging look.

“Tells us what Dobby came for,” she nudges warmly.

Dobby steels himself, swallows, and nods. “There is a plot, Master Emrys. A plot to make most terrible things happen at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry this year,” whispered Dobby, suddenly trembling all over. “Dobby has known it for months, sir. Harry Potter must not put himself in peril. He is too important, sir!”

“A plot?” Arthur intervenes, deadly serious, stepping forward, “What plot?”

“Dobby knows not! Dobby- Dobby only came to warn… Dobby will have to shut his ears in the oven door for this, for disobeying… oh, the things Dobby will have to do… but Harry Potter must be safe! He must be warned!”

“Please don’t stick your ears in the oven door,” Harry blurts.

Tell me your the family you serve, Merlin asks the elf mentally, sending waves of reassurance as he does. Dobby looks right at him, terrified- but answering to Emrys overrules any familial bindings. He must answer.

The Malfoys, sir. Dobby’s eyes are wide, his shoulders hunched- but he straightens them now, his gaze turning steely and determined as he works himself up to do something brave. You must protect Harry Potter, sir. Hogwarts School is not safe this year.

With a grounding hand from Hobby, Dobby manages not to hit himself for this slip, but he trembles like a leaf all over, gulping up Merlin’s mental reassurance like a drowning man would air.

Dobby isn’t lying, of that Merlin is sure. Hobby does not entertain liars, and house-elves can't really lie to him anyway. So where does that leave them?

Malfoy. Harry’s boy, he’s a Malfoy. His father’s one of Riddle’s mooks, then? Assassination isn’t Tom’s style, though, particularly not of this nature, so long and drawn out. It could be a secondary party with their own agenda for the Boy who Lived. That would imply that they’re aware at least in part of his significance. Unlikely. One of Riddle’s boys trying to take the initiative themselves and help with their own plot, then? Or- Dobby never explicitly said the plot was a murderous one. The setting of another trap, perhaps? Leverage with which to infiltrate the school, or gain access to Harry mentally? Is there something Riddle could want with him before killing him?

“You’ve been very, very brave, Dobby,” Arthur says, keeping Dobby’s eyes in that significant way of his, appraising him like one of his knights. “Well done. Thank you for telling us.”

Instead of throwing himself into another wail, or collapsing under the weight of Arthur’s warm appreciation, Dobby squares his shoulders again. Merlin is quite impressed with this house-elf.

“Dobby has heard whispers of Harry Potter’s greatness, sir. But Dobby sees goodness, too. Dobby could not let it die. Dobby takes heart, sir, to see m’lords take him in. It gives Dobby hope. For this, Dobby would shut his ears in anything!” Dobby vows. Merlin feels more than sees Arthur swell with pride in his own chest.

“Please don’t,” Harry reiterates automatically.

It hurts Merlin’s heart to send Dobby back to his keepers, but it would be too suspicious for him to be freed in such congruent timing. Dobby adds that he could still keep his ears out (he gives them a little wag) for anything important. Still, they make sure to let him know that he’s welcome in their home anytime.

“Hobby wants to thank Dobby for warning her boys. Dobby is very brave,” Hobby informs him solemnly as he goes. Dobby turns an interesting fluorescent pink and stutters something, tripping on his way out the door.

Arthur turns to put his hands on his tanned hips, raising his eyebrows at Harry.

“Well, I knew the git was determined to spook you, Harry, but not that determined.”

Merlin nods. Arthur must’ve recognized him as the Malfoy’s house-elf. He did his research on Riddle sympathizers and social standings thoroughly. Harry crinkles his nose.

“Sorry?”

“That was Malfoy’s house-elf. Trying to scare you out of going back to school, I suspect,” Merlin explains dismissively. He’s glad Hobby isn’t here to hear that. She never did like liars.

“That toad!” Harry gasps. Arthur’s startled into a laugh. “Wait ‘til Ron hears about this!”

“Oh, speaking of, Harry-” Merlin summons the letter that arrived earlier to his hand and pulls it onto the table as if it was in his lap the whole time. “Ron’s invited us over to stay, if you like.”

Judging by the way Harry lights up like the northern lights, Merlin thinks it’s safe to assume he’s got some packing to do.

Chapter 4: Off to the Burrow

Chapter Text

“Look what I found!”

Arthur turns to his husband, reluctantly reacquainting himself with actual clothes for the first time since summer break started.

Merlin’s holding up his most recent brown jacket. Every few decades he has to get a new one since styles change and clothes wear and tear. No matter what century they’re in, Merlin’s still Merlin, as constant as the sunrise, and his style has changed amazingly little in thirteen thousand years. This one’s a beat old leather jacket, simple as he could find, but it actually fits him most of the time, which is an improvement from his Camelot days. Arthur appreciates that, because Merlin looks bloody good and it’s a crime to hide him under a bunch of loose old rags. Yes, clothing design has come a long way from peasant rags and lady’s corsets. Thank Avalon. There were days Arthur felt like introducing Merlin as a wet rat that followed him home, he looked the part so much. Then there were days when he looked like poetry. It gives Arthur more whiplash than the gender swapping does.

Arthur jabs a finger at the offending garment threatening to cover up a work of art, but before he can start talking the work of art’s cutting him off.

“No pointing. We talked about the pointing.”

“You have to shrink that to fit you, it’s too big.”

“Still pointing. Stop it.”

“Merlin-”

“Pointing!”

Arthur gives up and puts his finger down. “You are not leaving it that big.”

“Oh yeah? Who’s gonna stop me?”

“I will give you three guesses.”

“Why can’t I leave it like this?”

“Because it goes past your thighs! Do you want the flappy hands?” Arthur demands rhetorically, gesturing at where the sleeves flop over Merlin’s hands.

“I like the flappy hands! They’re good for punctuation!”

“Shrink it!”

“Why!”

“Shrink!”

“No!”

“Shrink it, Merlin, or I will shrink it double with you still in it.”

“Fine,” Merlin groans like he’s actually five years old. His eyes do that delicious golden thing and the wrinkles smooth out across his shoulders as the fabric contracts over his muscles. He crosses his long arms with a pout. More importantly, the cut of the fitted jacket settles across his shoulders like epaulettes, proud and broad like Arthur knows he is, really. One of these days pride will come naturally to Merlin. Until then, Arthur will force it on him, because goddamnit if there’s one person on this earth who’s earned it, it’s his husband. He gives Merlin a proper smile and manages to tease one out in return.

Merlin tosses Arthur his own most recently chosen jacket, the red bomber that Merlin calls proof he misses his cape. Arthur rolls his eyes but shrugs it on without saying anything.

“How are we getting there?” he asks as Merlin fusses with his hair. He’s stopped protesting that particular slight. His hair needs all the help it can get in the mornings, even if it’s Merlin’s.

“We’ll just apparate, won’t we?”

“Merlin, we are children. Children can’t apparate.”

“We’re what?” Merlin blinks. “Oh yeah. Ummm…” he spins on his heel neatly, scarf whipping out behind him. “How do children get anywhere?”

“I don’t know, I’m not a child.”

“You just said-”

“Merlin.”

“Alright, I don’t know how we’re getting there. How are we getting there?”

“You’re lucky,” Arthur smirks, whipping out a letter from the pocket of his jeans. “I’ve been in touch with the twins. They’re picking us up. Should be here in twenty minutes.”

“Oh, brilliant, Arthur! C’mon then, you want an orange or something for the road?”

“No, try Harry.”

“Right, Harry!” Merlin exclaims with the brightness of someone who’s remembered something exciting. He forgot about Harry. This’ll be fun!

Fun is exactly the right word for a flying Ford Anglia.

The turquoise doors spring open automatically (though nothing about this car is automatic, it’s ancient in mortal terms).

“Hop in, kiddies and cads, uncles Forge and Gred are takin’ you home!”, George calls enthusiastically from the driver’s seat.

“About time too, I’m not sure we coulda wrestled Hermes from Percy’s claws again. Not sure how we did it the first time, honestly,” Fred notes from the seat beside him.

“Who’s Hermes?” Harry asks breathily, still trying to wrap his noodle around a flying car.

“Percy’s owl,” George replies as Harry and Merlin crowd into the back.

“That prat’s been acting very oddly this summer, very oddly indeed. And he has been sending a lot of letters and spending a load of time shut up in his room... I mean, there’s only so many times you can polish a prefect badge…” Fred muses.

Arthur finally stops whistling at the car and hops in, squishing Merlin in the middle so he doesn’t have to look out the window. He exchanges a look with him at the new information about the older Weasley brother.

“He’s got a boy,” he mouths knowingly. Merlin shakes his head though and mouths back.

“Girl.”

Arthur raises his eyebrows at his other half. Has he met Percy?

Merlin doubles his bet and they silently shake on it, then turn back to the conversation going on around them as George takes off.

“-Yeah, Dad’s crazy about everything to do with Muggles; our shed’s full of Muggle stuff. He takes it apart, puts spells on it, and puts it back together again. If he raided our house he’d have to put himself under arrest. It drives Mum mad,” Fred is saying.

Merlin frowns. “Oh yeah, isn’t a flying car illegal?”

“Yes?” Fred replies, waiting for him to make a point. Merlin shrugs. He doesn’t really have one, he was just curious.

“Illegal?” Harry bawks a little.

“Oh, sure. We’re very much not supposed to be doing this,” George says cheerfully. “But given our present company, we figure we’d be fine.”

“Present company?” Harry echoes, sounding a bit like a broken record.

“Yeah. Us,” Fred winks.

“We’d never let anything happen to ya, Harry,” George assures him with a private little chuckle.

Merlin tucks away a smile. Arthur resolutely looks out the window so he doesn’t laugh.

A few miles later Arthur starts squinting at the dashboard and, annoyingly, leaning over Merlin to do it. The annoying part is he definitely knows it makes Merlin feel better about being up so high. Prat.

George gives him a questioning eyebrow raise.

“Your temperature gauge is high. Your radiator probably just needs some water,” Arthur says by way of explanation, despite the fact that George was definitely inquiring about the greenness of Merlin’s face rather than Arthur’s sudden interest in the dashboard. Fred turns a little so Merlin can see him but Harry can’t, raising his eyebrows in his own question. Merlin gives him a little nod. He’ll take care of it.

He closes his eyes to let them flare gold. When he opens them the temperature gauge is settling back down to a reasonable level. Fred gives him a cheeky little thank-you nod, and even better, pretends Merlin doesn’t look like hell warmed over.

“That’s the main road,” George speaks up, peering down through the windshield. “We’ll be there in ten minutes... Just as well, it’s getting light...”

A faint pinkish glow dyes the horizon to the east something beautiful, making Merlin think of the old Greek myths. He read a book about them once, and they described the sunrise so beautifully he never looked at it the same. Then george tips the car a little lower and Merlin’s stomach has more pressing matters than Greek myths- namely, crawling up his esophagus. Arthur subtly wraps an arm around his chest, holding him in place, sort of like how Merlin held him at Camlann, and that’s a distracting enough thought that Merlin makes it through the cautious landing.

Ottery St. Catchpole, in the middle of nowhere. Brilliant red streaks over the blades of grass as the sun finally kisses the sky it’s been teasing.

This is a lovely meadow, but they’re not alone in it. A most marvellous house sits nestled in the grass, and the first thing Merlin thinks of is a nest. It looks quite like one. It’s old, old in the way Merlin is on his good days, loved and loved some more. The shingles that might’ve been vibrant red once rattle ominously against the roof at their landing. Built almost into the house- or maybe the house was built out of it- is something like a wooden pigpen, well past its working days. Lopsided expansions are built up and out from the original building, not much more than a shack, slanted out oddly with crooked windows and mis-matching planks of wood hammered in. Merlin counts at least five chimneys, none of them the same make, shape, or colour. A lively jumble of rubber boots, also in all different colours and sizes, take up the entire entryway alongside a very rusty cauldron. Several fat brown chickens cluck around the yard welcomingly, a few of them having found their way onto the roof somehow. A lopsided sign stuck in the ground reads THE BURROW.

Of course, Merlin thinks, that’s much more accurate. Not a nest. A burrow.

“Sorry it’s not Buckingham palace,” Fred says, sounding defensive, proud, and secretly worried all at once. George sneaks a glance at Merlin and Arthur. Merlin gets it- from Ron he understands the Weasleys are most protective of their home, which quite a few people stick their noses up at. The twins know Merlin and Arthur aren’t just any kids they’re bringing over, it would be reasonable to assume they’re accustomed to ‘better’. Merlin wonders what they’d think of the shack he grew up in, where he slept on the floor and in the winter shared with the animals.

“It’s brilliant,” Harry breathes appreciatively. Merlin concurs, and it must show on his face. This place is beautiful, and it tops Buckingham palace any day if you ask Merlin. There’s love seeping out of the walls. Honestly, it looks like a different approach to Arthur and Merlin’s house- also a humble little cottage in a big f*ck off field, expansion charms aside.

“Now, we’ll go upstairs really quietly,” says George, clapping his hands together for attention, “and wait for Mum to call us for breakfast. Then, Ron will come bounding downstairs going, ‘Mum, look who turned up in the night!’ and she’ll be all pleased to see you and no one need ever know we flew the car.”

“Right,” Fred hums. “Come on, we sleep at the — at the top —”

George has gone a nasty greenish colour, his eyes fixed on the house. Fred looks alarmingly like someone looking into the eyes of Death, something Merlin is quite the authority on. The other three wheel around.

A plump little woman with hair not unlike a lion’s mane and the sleeves of her knitted cardigan rolled up is marching across the yard, scattering chickens, and for a short, plump, kindfaced woman, it’s remarkable how much she looks like a saber-toothed tiger.

“Ah, “ says Fred.

“Oh, dear,” says George.

Mrs. Weasley comes to a military halt in front of them, her hands on her hips, staring from one guilty face to the next. Merlin has no idea if he is, in fact, guilty in this circ*mstance, but looking at Mrs. Weasley, he really hopes he isn’t, and it’s better to be safe than sorry. In all his years he has never encountered anything quite like the wrath of a mother.

“So,” she snaps.

“Morning, Mum,” George chirps hopefully, in what he clearly thinks is a jaunty, winning voice.

“Have you any idea how worried I’ve been?” Mrs. Weasley returns in a deadly whisper.

“Sorry, Mum, but see, we had to —”

All but Arthur and Harry are taller than Mrs. Weasley, but it gives them no advantage as her rage breaks over them all like a tidal wave.

“BEDS EMPTY! No NOTE! Car gone — could have crashed — out of my mind with worry — did you care? — never, as long as I’ve lived — you wait until your father gets home, we never had trouble like this from Bill or Charlie or Percy —”

“Perfect Percy,” mutters Fred.

“YOU COULD DO WITH TAKING A LEAF OUT OF PERCY’S BOOK!” Mrs.

Weasley yells, prodding a finger in Fred’s chest. She has quite the set of lungs on her. There is a difference between screeching and yelling. Mrs. Weasley yells. “You could have died, you could have been seen, you could have lost your father his job —”

It seems to go on for hours, hours that Arthur spends taking all of the abuse like a good stoic soldier and Merlin much more wisely spends trying to make himself as unnoticeable as possible, subtly shifting behind Fred, who shoots him a nasty look. Merlin does not feel bad in the slightest. Harry doesn’t seem to know what to do, looking nervously between everyone and jumping whenever Mrs. Weasley’s voice raises another decibel level (which is to say, quite a lot). When she finally turns on him he backs away on instinct, looking scared. Okay, now Merlin feels a little bad.

“I’m very pleased to see you, Harry, dear,” she coos pleasantly with a genuine smile. “Come in and have some breakfast. You too, Em, I see you, and Arthur, come in, come in!”

She turns on her heels, grinding the grass beneath her boots, and marches back into the house. Harry, after a nervous glance at Fred and George, who nod encouragingly, follow her.

“Thanks for the help, oh great and wise Keeper of Balance and all things good,” George mutters out of the side of his mouth at Merlin, who smiles innocently back at him.

“Oh, you guys are gonna hate this,” Arthur smirks. “He’s a Slytherin.”

“WHAT!”

Both of them are cut off by Mrs. Weasley yelling from inside for them to hurry up, and Merlin takes the opportunity to scamper off, chuckling to himself. Alright, he’ll be a Slytherin, if only for the shock value.

The inside is just as mismatched as the outside. The ceilings are low, low enough that most of the gangly Weasley boys can’t actually stand up straight. The kitchen’s sort of weirdly dispersed around the room, broken up into a cupboard over there, a pantry over there, and countertops on the other side of the room. In between them is a long thin table with a crooked plaid tablecloth and a fruit basket, lined with odd chairs ranging from a chipped red stool to an even more chipped brown dining chair. The windows are a fascinating blend of things, looking like many stained glass designs cobbled together into the frames. Sunlight streams through the entire place, highlighting dust mites and stained rags and striping the room with the shade from the rafters.

Arthur elbows Merlin and points out the marvellous clock over the mantelpiece that reads, rather than the time, the status of where each member of the family is. Books are stacked three deep underneath it, all very magical books, mind, and Celestina Warbeck’s on the radio.

Merlin is horrified to find himself almost tearing up. He must be getting emotional in his old age. He doesn’t think so often about how it used to be anymore, but every now and then it hits him, when he finds places like this, how far away this reality seemed. He never would’ve dreamed that magic could live like this when he was young, and here it is, nurtured in the best way possible. This is what Merlin fought for when people were still afraid to say the word magic out loud. When children burned for looking too magical. When sorcerers grew up afraid of themselves. The dishes are doing themselves, for Christ’s sake.

They really did it.

Mrs. Weasley clatters around, cooking breakfast a little haphazardly, throwing dirty looks at her sons as she throws sausages into the frying pan. She has to whirl around the room like a hurricane with how randomly the parts of the kitchen are spaced around the room. Every now and then she mutters things like “don’t know what you were thinking of,” and “never would have believed it.”

Merlin jolts himself into action, immediately shoving his ridiculous melodrama down to lend a hand.

“Sorry, Mrs. Weasley, let me help, I can watch these-”

“Oh, bless you, dear- SEE?!” she snaps behind her all of a sudden at her boys. “He offers to help! Take notes!” Merlin smirks at them behind her back and goes back to looking perfectly lovely the second she turns back to him. “Don’t you worry, you’re our guest, you just take a seat, you’ve been up all night, no wonder, I’ll just feed you up and you can go to bed. Harry and Arthur too. I don’t blame any of you, of course,” she assures the three of them, tipping eight or nine sausages onto Harry’s plate. “It’s not your fault my sons are completely brainless– flying an illegal car halfway across the country, really — anyone could have seen you —”

She moves onto Arthur, who looks quite happy to be plied with more eggs than most people would know what to do with. It’s not breakfast if there aren’t any eggs, after all.

“It was cloudy, Mum!” Fred protests.

“You keep your mouth closed while you’re eating!” Mrs. Weasley snaps. “Em, dear, don’t worry about that, I’ll handle it, you sit down, you’re as thin as Harry under that jacket, come and eat.”

At that moment there’s a diversion in the form of a small, redheaded figure in a long purple nightdress Merlin is a little envious of, who appears in the kitchen, gives a small squeal, and disappears in a flash of brown eyes and notably loud stomps.

“Ginny,” George explains in an undertone. “Our wee sister. She’s been talking about Harry all summer.”

“Yeah, she’ll be wanting your autograph, mate,” Fred says with a grin, but he catches his mother’s eye and bends his face over his plate without another word.

Merlin is just trying to convince Molly to let him help with the clearing up when Ron stumbles in from the steep and narrow staircase.

“Oi, you lot! Why didn’t you tell me you were ‘ere!”

“I didn’t want you stealing any of my bacon!” Arthur throws back easily, roping Ron into a headlock and rubbing his head with his knuckles.

“Careful with the kids!” Merlin calls over his shoulder. Fred snickers.

“Ah, ow- Why don’t you ever do that to Harry!” Ron grits from his compromised position.

“Can’t get past all the hair,” Arthur replies, finally letting up and shoving him toward the table for breakfast. Harry subtly starts unloading his plate a little onto Ron’s.

“Blimey, I’m tired,” George yawns, sensing a lull and setting down his knife and fork at last. “I think I’ll go to bed and —”

“You will not,” bites Mrs. Weasley. “It’s your own fault you’ve been up all night. You’re going to de-gnome the garden for me; they’re getting completely out of hand again —”

“Oh, Mum —”

“And you two,” she said, glaring at Ron and Fred. “You can go up to bed, dear,” she adds to the other three. “You didn’t ask them to fly that wretched car —”

But Harry, who’s eyes haven’t stopped resembling saucers since he caught sight of their ride, quickly interrupts. “I’ll help. I’ve never seen a de-gnoming —”

“Of course we’ll help,” Merlin agrees, giving Arthur an authoritative glare. Arthur looks offended at the lack of faith in his manners. As if Merlin hasn’t had thirteen thousand years to get acquainted with Arthur and his ‘manners’.

“That’s very sweet of you, dear, but it’s dull work,” Mrs. Weasley says. “Now, let’s see what Lockhart’s got to say on the subject —”

And she pulls a heavy book from the stack on the mantelpiece, a rather gaudy thing with gold trim that looks second-hand. George groans. Merlin raises his eyebrow, interest piqued.

“Mum, we know how to de-gnome a garden —”

Harry ducks his head horizontal to look at the cover of Mrs. Weasley’s book and Merlin mentally coos. He’s so cute. Mrs. Weasley flips the cover back to look at the handsome wizard on the front, who winks up at her and swishes his princely robes with a would-be subtle flourish. Merlin snorts a little at the similarities between him and Arthur- wavy blonde hair, bright blue eyes, and a dazzling smile. He has Arthur’s granite jaw and confident stance. You’d be hard pressed to find two less similar people in the world, but they share enough physical traits that Merlin can think up quite a few things to say about it that would make Arthur steam from the ears. He looks up to do just that and finds Arthur already looking at him with a warning look, knowing exactly what he’s thinking.

Written across it in swooping gold script are the words Gilderoy Lockhart’s Guide to Household Pests.

“Oh, he is marvelous,” Mrs. Weasley simpers, beaming down at the author. “He knows his household pests, all right, it’s a wonderful book...”

“Mum fancies him,” hisses Fred in a very audible whisper.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Fred,” Mrs. Weasley snaps sharply, her cheeks rather pink. “All right, if you think you know better than Lockhart, you can go and get on with it, and woe betide you if there’s a single gnome in that garden when I come out to inspect it.”

Yawning and grumbling, the Weasleys slouch outside with Harry, Arthur, and Merlin in tow. The garden is just what Merlin imagined, growing in patches, reeds stuck up around a big green pond full of frogs that ribbit at each other. Merlin bets there are fireflies at night, and if they’re lucky, maybe even dragonflies. Plenty of weeds in the uncut grass, gnarled trees with meandering roots melting out of the seams, mostly magical plants and flower bushes sprouting up around the place and a little herb garden. Really, the only thing Merlin would add is a strawberry bush.

“Muggles have garden gnomes, too, you know,” Harry tells Ron as they cross the lawn.

“Yeah, I’ve seen those things they think are gnomes,” Ron returns, bent double with his head in a peony bush. His Chudley Cannons pyjama top falls up to his armpits. “Like fat little Santa Clauses with fishing rods...”

Harry is quite shocked to find that they do not, in fact, look like fat little Santa Clauses with fishing rods. Arthur considers warning him when he catches his first gnome and attempts to peacefully drop it over the fence, but settles for laughing at him when it bites him and he sends it flying almost fifty feet.

Soon, the crowd of gnomes in the field start walking away in a straggling line, their little shoulders hunched.

“They’ll be back,” Ron huffs as they watch the gnomes disappear into the hedge on the other side of the field. “They love it here... Dad’s too soft with them; he thinks they’re funny...”

“Why don’t you offer them an alternative?” Merlin inquires.

“An alternative?”

Merlin shrugs. “Greener pastures. If you offer them a better place to live, or strike up an agreement with them, you wouldn’t have to do this all the time.”

“Oh, brilliant,” Fred exclaims, but he sounds completely serious, not at all sarcastic. It’s not like they haven’t thought of it before, but surely having a- whatever Em is, on their side would change the game a bit. “If you think of anything, you let us know. If I never have to de-gnome a garden again it’ll be too soon.”

“If Goldilocks Lockhart didn’t think of anything in his book, I doubt you’ll actually come up with anything that’ll work,” Ron grumbles.

Merlin shrugs. Maybe he’ll make a little gnome oasis they can move to later tonight.

Merlin’s eyes snap wide as something bangs.

“He’s back!” George crows. “Dad’s home!”

Arthur lets the others rush past him, quickly coming to Merlin’s side. It’s easy to tell he’s not here anymore. Where he is, Arthur’s not quite sure- they have far too many memories to guess at- but it must be something more recent, given the trigger. Ever since firearms were invented, loud bangs (doors slamming, cars backfiring, fireworks) can set either of them off.

Arthur murmurs quietly until he risks taking Merlin’s hand to place it against his chest. His heartbeat is familiar to Merlin, it’s usually enough to bring him back. Sure enough, after half a minute, Merlin blinks back into himself.

Merlin nods and squeezes Arthur’s hand when he’s ready to go in.

The man Arthur assumes to be Mr. Weasley, judging by the red hair, is slumped in the biggest kitchen chair, the chipped green one, with his glasses off and his eyes closed. It’s quite remarkable how incredibly opposite, and amazingly similar he and his wife are. Where she is plump and short, he is thin and tall, enough that he must have a hell of a time getting around his own house. Where her hair is thick and bristled like a mane, his is thin and balding, but not enough that it’s hard to tell his hair is as red as his children’s. He has a long pointy nose for his long pointy face, crinkled around the eyes with telling smile lines that do a good job of hiding the worry ones. His vest is a dapper brown plaid paired with long green robes, dusty and travel-worn, like he crossed the kingdom just to get home. Sorry, the country.

“Why would anyone bother making door keys shrink?” George is saying.

“Just Muggle-baiting,” sighs Mr. Weasley. “Sell them a key that keeps shrinking to nothing so they can never find it when they need it.. Of course, it’s very hard to convict anyone because no Muggle would admit their key keeps shrinking — they’ll insist they just keep losing it. Bless them, they’ll go to any lengths to ignore magic, even if it’s staring them in the face... But the things our lot have taken to enchanting, you wouldn’t believe —”

“LIKE CARS, FOR INSTANCE?”

Mrs. Weasley has appeared, a grim spectre in the doorway as if to block escape, holding a long poker like a sword. Mr. Weasley’s green eyes jerk open. He turns slowly, sheepishly, to look guiltily up at his formidable wife.

“C-cars, Molly, dear?”

“Yes, Arthur, cars,” repeats Mrs. Weasley, her eyes flashing. “Imagine a wizard buying a rusty old car and telling his wife all he wanted to do with it was take it apart to see how it worked, while really he was enchanting it to make it fly.”

Mr. Weasley blinks those expressive eyes of his, mouth working around excuses even as he discards them.

“Well, dear,” he starts very carefully, “I think you’ll find that he would be quite within the law to do that, even if — er — he maybe would have done better to, um, tell his wife the truth... There’s a loophole in the law, you’ll find... As long as he wasn’t intending to fly the car, the fact that the car could fly wouldn’t —”

“Arthur Weasley, you made sure there was a loophole when you wrote that law! Just so you could carry on tinkering with all that Muggle rubbish in your shed! And for your information, Harry, Em, and Arthur arrived this morning in the car you ‘weren’t intending to fly!’”

“Har- ” said Mr. Weasley blankly. “Who?”

He looks around belatedly, catches sight of the three extra children in his house, and jumps. At this point one or two more probably wouldn’t make that much of a difference.

“Good lord, is it Harry Potter? That’d be Em and Arthur, then? Very pleased to meet you, Ron’s told us so much about — ”

“Your sons flew that car to Harry’s house and back last night!” Mrs. Weasley shouts. Arthur has known drill sergeants with less intimidating lung capacities. “What have you got to say about that, eh?”

“Did you really?” Mr. Weasley gasps eagerly. “Did it go all right? I — I mean,” he falters as sparks flew from Mrs. Weasley’s eyes, “that — that was very wrong, boys — very wrong indeed...”

Merlin purses his lips so he doesn’t laugh. Arthur stands on his foot and puts on a beaming smile to distract them from his husband’s snickering. This is the man who was warning him about his manners a half hour ago.

“Let’s leave them to it,” Ron mutters to them as Mrs. Weasley swells like a bullfrog. “Come on, I’ll show you my bedroom.”

They slip out of the kitchen and down a warm narrow passageway to an uneven staircase that- surprise, surprise- is just as narrow and steep as it looked from the first floor. More haphazard, slapdash windows mark their progress, painting the wood a warm golden brown. Fred and George slip off from the crowd on the second landing with a wink.

“We’re just down this hall. You’re welcome anytime- even if you are a Slytherin," George whispers.

"We saw you first, anyway,” Fred says. Merlin gives them an enthusiastic nod. Oh, he’s definitely spending a healthy slice of time with the twins while he’s here, have no fear of that. He tells them as much and then runs to catch up with the Ron party.

On the third landing there is a familiar flash of brown eyes locked right on Harry before the door slams. Merlin flinches reactively, but he’s good this time. He keeps his breaths carefully measured as he follows them up the rest of the way, pretending to be out of breath from the stairs as Ron explains that Ginny’s not usually this quiet.

They climb two more flights until they reach a door with peeling paint and a small wooden plaque on it that reads RONALD’S ROOM.

They can’t all go in at once, so they awkwardly shuffle in single file. Just as well- Ron’s room is quite hard to parse.

Even Harry’s head nearly touches the sloping ceiling, so Merlin’s bent almost double. That’s not the half of it. Nearly everything in Ron’s room is a violent shade of orange, making walking in something like walking into a furnace. It’s mostly posters. Everywhere they look the Chudley Cannons team waves energetically back at them.

“Your Quidditch team?” Harry notes politely as Merlin tries to cough out the overload of orange assaulting his senses.

“The Chudley Cannons,” Ron confirms, pointing at the orange bedspread, which is emblazoned with two giant black C’s and a speeding cannonball. “Ninth in the league.”

Ron’s school spellbooks are stacked untidily in a corner (to match the house), next to a pile of comics that all feature The Adventures of Martin Miggs, the Mad Muggle. Ron’s magic wand is lying on top of a fish tank full of frog spawn on the windowsill. Merlin wonders at that- they have a frog pond right outside, don’t they?

Harry steps over a pack of Self-Shuffling playing cards on the floor and looks out of the tiny window. Merlin waves back at the quidditch players while Arthur does what he can to stride around a room that’s far too small and crowded to stride in. Ron watches them all nervously, as if waiting for their verdict.

“It’s a bit small,” he shoots quickly. “Not like Em and Arthur;s place. And I’m right underneath the ghoul in the attic; he’s always banging on the pipes and groaning...”

Harry, grinning widely, states, “This is the best house I’ve ever been in.”

“Ron,” Merlin whispers, leaning in conspirationally with a twinkle in his eyes. “It’s brilliant.”

“A place to be proud of,” Arthur concurs encouragingly.

Ron’s ears go pink.

Chapter 5: The Burrow II

Chapter Text

That first night, after losing yet another fight to Mrs. Weasley over dishes, Fred and George more or less commandeer Merlin. He’s happy to let them drag him up to their room, though- apparently it’s quite the honour, they don’t let just anyone in there. Given, that may be on account of the security risks, but Merlin’s not complaining.

“We used to have the room in the basem*nt,” Fred says as they climb the stairs with suspiciously quiet steps. When the twins aren’t making a show of themselves, they really are very good at slipping everyone’s attention.

“We like this one much better,” George continues. “Less room, but everyone used to bother us down there-”

“-Always coming in, yelling about the tremors– “

“And there was no quick out if something we didn’t mean to blow up, blew up.”

“Terrible fire hazard. No fresh air,” Fred agrees.

“Definitely didn’t play it like that to get Percy’s balcony,” George winks. Merlin chuckles.

“Did you ever consider joining me in Slytherin?” he asks.

Fred and George both start talking over each other somewhat lamely, but then they exchange a glance and Fred sheepishly explains.

“We did, actually. Don’t tell anyone, but we didn’t want to leave Ron on his own when he came.”

Merlin nods, knowing they wouldn’t appreciate him making a big deal of their decency. He expects no less of them, but they don’t seem accustomed to being recognized for all that they are. Instead he follows them into their little corner of the Burrow.

It’s an entirely different explosion of colour to Ron’s room. Organized chaos reigns. It’s a complete mess, but the kind of mess that you can learn the language of and know just where everything is. Sunshine pours in in a near perfect square from the open balcony, a colourful rug pulled back to keep it that way. The walls are jaggedly placed, making the room into a sort of untraditional zig-zag shape. An old gryffindor banner hangs valiantly onto its place on the ceiling. It looks like something’s taken a few bites out of it. Standing sentinel by the balcony is a little armour set that only comes up to Merlin’s chest because he’s currently pretending to be eleven years old. It’s half buried in the Gryffindor scarf it wears. It salutes at him sharply, falling sideways a little, and gives Merlin a grateful nod when he straightens it back up.

A surprising amount of books clutter the area, about a third of them being journals. Polearms- actual spears- lean against the back of the door. Jars and vats and cauldrons of all descriptions litter the space as well, mismatched and at hand. Hand-painted playing cards fly around the room like bumble-bees.

The most unamused Leucrotta head Merlin has ever seen snorts down at them from above the doorframe, eyeing Merlin doubtfully.

“That’s Snugshanks,” Fred says. “He makes sure that anyone who isn’t explicitly allowed in doesn’t get very far.”

Merlin’s eyebrows go up, knowing exactly how capable Leucrottas are at defending their territory. And if his tone comes out more impressed than anything, well, he’s not too bothered. “I’ll bet he does.”

The two of them are obviously trying not to look like they’re waiting for him to react.

“This place is marvelous,” Merlin breathes, turning in place. And it is.

“Right,” George snaps the door shut with a devious look like he’s sprung his trap and there’s no way Merlin’s getting out now.

“Sorry for the theatrics, friend,” Fred says, sounding a mix between facetious and genuine. “Nothing sinister, we promise. We just wanna know who you are.”

“It’s a little off-putting, being chummy with someone whose name you don’t know,” George explains, advancing slowly.

“We’re curious cats by nature- too curious for our own good, some have said–”

“-Tossers, mostly–”

“-you can imagine it’s been hard for us, wondering all year.”

“And then we hear Harry’s successfully stopped the Dark Lord from rising and wouldn’t you know it- we can’t find you anywhere,” George finishes, looking a little manic. They are both very close now, but Merlin’s not about to back down. “It’s enough to drive anyone round the twist.”

“So, out with it,” Fred says, and George joins in-

“What happened?”

Merlin looks between them and hums seriously, but he can’t help but push one more button before he gives in.

“So, do you want to know who I am or what happened?”

Snugshanks snorts sharply and Merlin throws his thin little hands up.

“Kidding! Can’t blame me for that, can you? I’ll give, of course. Um, the first question is a little- you’ll want to sit down for that one. Let’s start with the second.”

Merlin clasps his hands together as they all sit down on the floor. This seems to be the default place to sit, there are literally marks of wear in the shape of butts in the rug (along with several burn marks).

“Are you familiar with the Philosopher’s Stone?”

They both nod, eyebrows creasing in surprise.

“That’s what Riddle was after. Harry and Albus both being in the school was a bonus. Everything he needed was in one place: The boy who lived, the man to watch, the Stone, and a lifeforce to feed off of.”

“The Stone was in Hogwarts?” George repeats incredulously, leaning forward, eyebrows flying into his hairline.

“The Philosopher’s Stone?” Fred echoes, eyes wide.

Merlin nods. “Nick knew I was going to be at Hogwarts, so he asked Albus to look after it. He put it into Gringotts first, though, that was nearly a disaster. I told him to move it but we just made it. Anyway, once it was in the school Arthur and I could keep an eye on it as well as Harry.”

“Hold on, Dumbledore knows you? Nicolas Flamel knows you?!” Fred demands.

“Eh, I’ve been sending Albus advice anonymously for his entire career. I only actually introduced myself properly after that little hiccup at the end of the year. Which I’m getting to, so-”

“What about Flamel?!” George interrupts.

“Nick and I are old friends,” Merlin says dismissively. “Anyway– “

“-Don’t think we’re not getting back to that, but you said something about a lifeforce.”

Merlin snaps his finger at Fred in agreement. “Right. Riddle’s a fractional being at best, these days, so he needed strength to pull something like hitching a ride on a human host. Strength like that’s not easy to come by, particularly not in a consumable form.”

“So where’d he get it?” George asks.

Merlin sighs heavily. He feels his body fall into something a little older, a little tireder, and this time he lets it. These guys know he’s not what he appears. “Apparently, unicorns. The forbidden forest is full of them… or it used to be.”

George blinks, maybe having trouble with the way Merlin’s eyes are creasing on his little kid’s face. But Fred’s stuck on Merlin’s words, looking horrified.

“Don’t tell me he killed them all.”

“Even if he didn’t, the rest would’ve run, right?” George guesses.

“I don’t think so. Unicorns aren’t just rare, they… it takes such a great amalgamation of things to bring and keep a unicorn in the world. They’re miracles. Every creature knows that. Unicorns have no natural predators, but that’s not the only reason they wouldn’t run. They believe in the best of everything and everyone, and they innately give everything and everyone the chance to prove them right. Running or fighting back doesn’t occur to them. It’s part of the reason that to harm or kill a unicorn is such a deeply monstrous act.” Merlin shakes his head regretfully. “And he was doing it all year. Living off their blood. While I was right there…”

The sun doesn’t falter, but the room temperature dips slightly as Merlin looks a million miles away. The twins’ faces fall, even as George peers closely at Merlin, wondering.

“Sorry, mate,” Fred offers quietly. Merlin blinks back to himself and seems to realise the effect he’s having on the air, splashing a smile back on his face.

“Ahh, that’s not your problem. Nevermind. All this to say, Hogwarts was the place to be for Riddle this year. This is where it gets a little fuzzy for us, too. Since Gringotts didn’t do it, Albus, in his infinite mortal wisdom, stuck the Stone behind a riddle, a big dog, some house plants, and a door. Can either of you tell me how that makes even a lick of sense?”

“Say what?” George blinks.

“Yeah, didn’t think so. So Riddle and Quirrel–”

“Can we call them Qriddle?” Fred interrupts.

“Yes we can. Qriddle could get to the Stone no problem, so Albus had Nick redesign it a little so that someone who wanted the Stone, but not to use it, could get it. Otherwise you’re out of luck. Qriddle needed someone who knew about the Stone and wanted to have it, but not to use it, to give it to him.”

“Good luck finding someone who doesn’t want endless riches and immortality,” George snorts.

“Honestly, if you find someone smart enough, it’s not hard. Maybe wise would be the right word. Whatever. Point is, Qriddle still hadn’t cracked that one by the time the answer presented itself on a silver platter in the form of one Harry Potter.”

“Harry? How could Harry help?”

“Harry, Ron, and Hermione went after the Stone in order to get to it before Riddle. They didn’t know about the indemnity clause, so they figured they just had to snatch it before Qriddle did. Hermione and Ron were stuck dealing with the various riddles and chessets and whatever other nonsense while Harry went ahead only to find Qriddle pacing around with empty hands. Which is when the Stone came to Harry, since he fit the qualifications. So now Qriddle had the boy who banished him and the Stone in one place, and Harry was of no use to him anymore.”

“Oh damn,” Fred breathes.

“Not good,” Merlin agrees.

“Wait, Harry fit the qualifications? I know he’s loaded, but who doesn’t want to live forever?” George argues, tucking his feet under him.

“The perks of immortality are greatly exaggerated,” Merlin chuckles wearily. “Harry’s a brilliant kid, and he’s been through enough to know that there are much more important things. Things you’re giving him right now, actually. Spending the summer here… it means a lot to him.”

George looks down thoughtfully. Fred’s cheeks pink a little as he looks at his brother.

“Arthur and I had realized where they’d gone by that point and went after them, so we got there just in time for me to deal with Riddle before he got the Stone. We knocked the kids out so they didn’t see and Albus told Harry he did it with the power of love or something. He probably made it sound really good, I don’t know, but it was funny hearing Harry try to make it sound believable.”

Both of them whip their heads his way. Merlin waits for them to say something, but they both just gape with twin expressions of dumb-struck.

“S- ah, sorry,” George annunciates carefully, digging a finger into his ear with a nervous chuckle. “It sounded like you said–”

“-almost sounded like–”

“-You said you killed the Dark Lord.”

Merlin scoffs. “The Dark Lord. Stupidest name I’ve ever heard, and I lived through the teutonic ages. Nicknames don’t count if you give them to yourself, and they double don’t count if they’re that dumb.”

“He’s right, you know,” Fred realises aloud. George shakes his head to dispel his wandering thoughts.

“You KILLED VOLDEMORT?!”

“SHHH, shut- shut it!” Merlin flaps his hands at him in a panic. “Thin walls!”

“Answer the ruddy question!”

“Yes! No! Sort of! Not permanently! He hasn’t crossed over, alright?”

“Did you say you lived through the Teutonic ages?” Fred asks belatedly.

“Who are you?” They ask together, turning their wide eyes on him.

“Merlin’s beard, would you lot keep it down in there?” comes Percy’s muffled screech from outside the door. No one even bothers to answer him, too caught up in the fact that Merlin just flinched at his name and the twins both caught it.

“MERLIN?!”

“I SAID KEEP IT DOWN!”

There's an incredulous stretch of silence. Then-

"But you don't have a beard."

🧔🏻♂️

Both Merlin and Arthur become more and more enamoured with life at the burrow with every passing day. Letting Merlin share a room with Fred and George is a fantastic mistake, but Mrs. Weasley believes Merlin to be incapable of wrongdoing, so it’s a mistake that goes uncorrected. Everyone suffers for it. The small explosions that are apparently normal coming from Fred and George’s room double. Things like windows and rugs have taken on lives (and attitudes) of their own. Ron’s frogspawn turns pink overnight. Ginny’s nice purple nightgown, the one Merlin really likes, has taken to teaching her to dance. But none of that could be little Em’s fault, of course, he’s just a boy. And no one can figure out how the twins are doing it, so they can’t stop them. Arthur (the smaller one) even wakes up once making elephant noises that don’t stop until lunchtime, when Em starts mysteriously chittering like a gopher.

Mrs. Weasley gets a fright one morning when she encounters Goldie, who’s snuck out of their trunk in Ron’s room. Em just manages to scoop her up before Molly makes her into a pancake, muttering sheepish apologies.

Mr. Weasley is more than happy to help shoulder some of Arthur’s piggyback obligations, and while Arthur doesn’t need the help, it’s nice to have it. On one particularly bold sunny afternoon when the stars align and give the girl enough courage, Ginny even proves herself to Arthur the exact right size for piggybacking.

Fred and George, who Merlin have let in on their little secret, have taken to abusing the knowledge in the worst way possible- torture. It’s gotten to the point where every member of the household, at some point or another, has asked them to find some other swear. The first breakfast after they found out was horrible.

“Merlin’s left testicl*!” Fred had burst out at the minor inconvenience of dropping his spoon in his soup. Molly had hit him. Arthur had spit his breakfast everywhere. Merlin had sunk so low into his seat that he had disappeared under the table and become one with the floorboards (partially out of mortification, partially so no one could catch him setting Fred's hair on fire).

It turns out Percy is seeing a girl.

Merlin and Mrs. Weasley discuss gardening.

Mr. Weasley and Harry discuss muggles.

The mornings are sunny and bustling, the afternoons lazy and warm.

All is well with the world.

Merlin finds himself pulling Arthur outside one lovely dawn, too enraptured by the dusty purple sky to not be a part of it anymore. Merlin always wakes with the sun, but Arthur’s had a bad night- a nightmare or a memory around midnight that’s kept him up since. Merlin woke to Arthur’s fingers stroking his hair, sleepy and happy, seeping into the waking world like light seeping into the sky.

They don’t say anything. They’re well past ‘good morning’s. There’s no need for sound here and now. Merlin just takes his hand, feeling the smooth skin that’s only just developing calluses at this age, and they step outside in their bare feet and sleep clothes.

Arthur stands behind Merlin, wrapping his arms around his thin waist, watching the sky over his shoulder. When they’re taller, Merlin leans back against his chest, and he fits there like it was made for him.

Merlin twists out of his hold, though, and slips through Arthur’s gentle, willing arms to turn and face him playfully. Arthur turns his attention from one sunrise to another, preferring this one anyway. Merlin makes the world far brighter than the lousy sun ever did.

Arthur’s eyes track his husband as he moves, one foot in front of the other, in a slow, wordless circle around him. It’s his movements that give him away, after all. He hasn’t even started yet, but the way he moves his shoulders, the angle of his hips- he’s dancing.

Merlin finishes his circle and Arthur takes his turn, right on the beat that isn’t playing. A slow circle around Merlin, keeping their eyes locked. A little bow. They step right, parallel to each other, then left. Back. Forward. A dip, and then a little spin.

This dance has been dead for almost as long as Camelot has, but they remember every step. Arthur feels the dewey grass under his feet and revels in it. The breeze kisses across their skin, batting a curl out of Merlin’s face, opening him up to his partner. They step together, closer, then apart, never taking their eyes off each other. Arthur feels himself laughing. Merlin’s eyes echo it.

Then Merlin changes it up. He never could just do it the way it was supposed to be done. He starts in the middle of an Austrian waltz- doing another circle around Arthur, skipping a little where he should be swishing the gown he’s not wearing. It’s a challenge, betting Arthur he can’t remember this one part of this one dance of the thousands they’ve danced from all over the world in all their hundreds of years.

Joke’s on him. Arthur remembers them all.

Round he goes, clapping softly, delighting in Merlin’s happy twinkle. He ends up in front of Merlin, and he steps forward once, twice, holding his hand up behind his opposite shoulder for Merlin’s where he knows he’s right behind him, pulling him forward in a spin, face to face again.

Arthur beats Merlin to changing it this time, offering his own challenge in the form of a french number that never made it out of the underground jazz clubs. Merlin tolerates it for a while and then trips him up in a Fijian tribal step, and before Arthur can think up another one to throw at him he’s changing it again to something from the roaring 20s, then Russia, then Africa, and Arthur can’t keep up, it’s too early and Merlin’s too fast.

The next turn Merlin goes into Arthur scoops him up with little to no grace and just spins him around against his chest, holding him up so he has to tilt his face to meet his surprised gaze.

“What are you doing!”

“I don’t know, you’re too fast,” Arthur laughs over the top of him still saying something, “I don’t know!”

Merlin laughs along and Arthur gently lets him touch down, his arms loosening and running down his arms to hold his hands.

“Good morning,” Merlin hums quietly into the minimal space between them, sharing breath, and that’s when the sun kisses the sky.

Merlin falls into his side and they each wrap an arm around each other, watching the sky split into strokes of soft orange, melting the mist over the fields pink, curling into unknowable purple around the edges.

“Good morning,” Arthur murmurs into his husband’s hair.

“I don’t know, Arthur. They’re rather young,” Molly Weasley comments. It’s the last line of her crumbling defense as she looks on over the two boys in her yard from the window with misty eyes, but someone’s got to be the voice of reason, and her husband certainly isn’t going to be.

“Molly, can’t you see they’re made for each other?” Arthur Weasley sobs. He blows his nose into his handkerchief, giving Molly deja-vu to the elephant noise incident. “That was so beautiful.”

“Ohhh, alright,” Molly sniffles.

Arthur leaves Merlin to start the chores outside and heads in alone only to find the Weasley parents trying to cover up their sniffles and pretending to be busy. He didn’t mean to interrupt a serious conversation. Were they having a moment or something? They’re probably not used to kids being up this early, this would be the time to do it.

“Sorry,” he says lamely, which makes Mr. Weasley sob harder and Mrs. Weasley shake her head with a stifled little whimper and pull him into a hug. She is very good at hugs.

Mr. Weasley stumbles outside with a wet mumbling of helping Em with the chickens or something. Arthur realises this might be perfect, actually, he’s been meaning to talk to Mrs. Weasley, but he could never get her alone.

“Um, Mrs. Weasley-?”, he starts, voice muffled by her apron.

“Oh, Molly, dear, don’t be silly.”

“Alright, Molly. Could I talk to you before the others get up?”

“Of course! Of course, love,” she fusses, straightening his hair and wiping her eyes none-too-discreetly. Maybe this isn’t the best time for this. Well, he’s stepped in it now.

“Is this a bad time?”

“No, not at all, in fact I was just going to put the jug on, would you like some tea?”

“No thank you, but Em will by the time he gets in.”

“Ohhh,” Molly simpers, and Arthur just decides to ignore whatever’s going on with her today. She moves around the kitchen to boil the water and gets to work.

“We received our Hogwarts letters yesterday. I expect you’ll get yours soon, too, I think our Pandora’s just a bit faster than Errol. Anyway, the list of books was quite ridiculously long and expensive, especially for a second year class. We ordered the sets for ourselves, but we also had a look, and it turns out we had a couple of extra copies banging around our place looking useless anyway. All this to say, Mrs– Molly… All this to say that we can’t possibly repay you for this summer, but we went ahead and tried anyway.”

Molly whips around to stare at him, face open and mouth in a little ‘o’. With her hair so frizzy, she honestly looks like she’s been struck by lightning.

“You don’t– you mean-?”

“Please don’t take it as charity, Molly, because that’s not what it is. You’ve been so, so generous with us- incredibly so. Harry too- if he’d had to spend the summer with his remaining family he’d have been absolutely miserable, and probably a lot skinnier. And while we’re happy to have him with us, he’d probably have gotten bored in a bit. You have such a marvellous, open home, and being here is wonderful. It’s been healing for all of us. Em nearly cried, I think, when you said we could stay. You’ve provided us with something irreplaceable that we couldn’t find anywhere else. It’s a bit sad, really, that all we can do in return is provide some lousy schoolbooks, but we didn’t want to impose. If you ever need anything else though, anything at all that we could provide- it’s yours, Molly. Just say the word.”

Molly straightens, her hand coming up to cover her mouth as new tears spring to her eyes. She just stares at him for a bit and then suddenly strikes forward to pull him into yet another hug.

“Oh, listen to you. It was our pleasure, honey. Our true pleasure. You don’t have to give us anything, we just love to have you. And- ohh, sod it- thank you. Thank you, baby. Thank you.”

Arthur grips her back, all of a sudden finding himself a little emotional. She truly is the sweetest woman.

“You’ve been so good to us, you know. Ron was so happy to have friends, we were so happy to hear, we were worried- and Fred, and- and George, they love your Em, they adore him. You are just the sweetest boys. You’re welcome here anytime, do you understand? Anytime. And don’t you go thinking you’re a trouble, because we love you, alright? All three of you. And Hermione too.”

Arthur looks back at Molly’s damp eyes and beaming face opposite him as she holds his own in her hands. He thinks, for the first time in many, many years, about Ygraine.

Arthur blinks away the mist in his own stupid, traitorous eyes, and nods, smiling back.

🎶👣

By the time Harry’s coming downstairs, Ginny’s doing Merlin’s hair into some twisty braid. Merlin always finds a way to be handy so she can hide behind him whenever Harry comes down. It minimizes the number of broken plates, as she’s prone to dropping whatever she’s holding when he walks in.

“You were right, Artie, those Hogwarts letters came this morning- here you are Harry, Ron, yours is over by your seat,” Molly warbles, handing Harry his letter along with a plate of buttered toast. “Dumbledore already knows you’re here, Harry — doesn’t miss a trick, that man. You two’ve got them, too,” she adds as Fred and George amble in cracking yawns.

“Oh, I’d say he misses a couple,” Fred mutters under his breath. Merlin hisses subtly at him to shut up.

George, who’s meantime finished reading his own book list, peers over at Harry’s.

“You’ve been told to get all Lockhart’s books, too!” he sniffs. “The new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher must be a fan — bet it’s a witch.”

At this point, George catches his mother’s eye and quickly busies himself with the marmalade.

“That lot won’t come cheap,” Fred sighs with a quick look at his parents. “Lockhart’s books are really expensive...”

“Don’t worry about that, we’ve got it handled,” Molly chuffs proudly, shooting a look at Arthur and Em. “You can thank these two for that.”

“Aaaallriiiight,” Fred and George cheer appreciatively, clapping each of them on the shoulders.

“What?” Ron asks, bacon dangling out of his mouth, looking mortified. “That’s not- we can’t…”

“You finish what you’re eating, mister,” Molly chides.

“Don’t worry, Ron, it’s not charity. We’d already bought them,” Arthur assures him.

“And we wouldn’t take no for an answer,” Em adds comfortingly.

Ron blushes to his ears, but he nods into his plate. If it were anyone else, maybe he’d fight some more, but it’s not.

Errol returns in a pitiful heap over breakfast with Hermione’s answer, which Ron reads aloud while Em tends to the poor owl’s wounds. Really, he’s a bit of a drama queen, but he still probably shouldn’t be flying so far and so long at his age.

“Marilyn, could you pass the salt?” Arthur asks absently. Merlin doesn’t really hear him, but the salt starts making its way merrily over the table to him anyway.

“Wicked,” Fred and George say together.

Mr. Weasley, who hasn’t noticed, frowns. “Who?”

“`Dear Ron, and Harry if you’re there,’” Ron interrupts in his best Hermione impression. It’s bang on. Em almost dislodges the braid Ginny’s been working so hard on laughing. “`I hope everything went alright and that Harry, Em, and Arthur are okay and that you didn’t do anything unwise without me, Ron, because that would get them into trouble, too. Em seems much too smart to get caught, but then he seems too smart to get in trouble in the first place, and here we are. I’ve been really worried about what you lot have come up with without proper supervision-’ Merlin, who does she think she is? ‘-so please write me back as soon as possible, but maybe with a different owl, because I think one more trip might finish yours off.

“I’m very busy with schoolwork, of course’— How can she be?” gasps Ron in horror. “We’re on vacation! —‘and we’re going to London next Wednesday to buy my new books. Why don’t we meet in Diagon Alley? Let me know what’s happening as soon as you can. Love from Hermione.’”

“Well, that fits in nicely, we can go and get all your things then, too,” chirps Mrs. Weasley, starting to clear the table. “What’re you all up to today?”

Harry, Ron, Arthur, Fred, and George were planning to go up the hill to a small paddock the Weasleys own. It’s surrounded by trees that block it from view of the village below, meaning that they can practice Quidditch there, as long as they don’t fly too high. Merlin was hoping to convince Ginny to come and watch with him. While everyone explains this to Molly, Merlin turns to Ginny with a little eyebrow raise. She gives him a hesitant nod. Brilliant.

So that’s just what they do. Molly and Em pack a picnic. The ones who are flying use apples instead of Quidditch balls, taking turns on Harry and Arthur’s brooms, which are by far the best. Em surrenders his too, since he’s not using it right now. Ron’s old Shooting Star is often outstripped by passing butterflies.

“What are you most looking forward to at Hogwarts?” Merlin asks the little girl beside him, biting into a treacle tart. “Anything?”

She shakes her head. “Only the stuff I can’t afford,” she mumbles into her knees.

“Come on, tell me. Please?”

She cards her hands through her bright red hair self-consciously. “I, um… I always wanted to fly. Dad let me once, when mum wasn’t looking. It was amazing,” she breathes reverently, eyes tracking the boys across the sky.

“Well why didn’t you say so? You can borrow my broom,” Merlin exclaims.

“Mum wouldn’t like it.”

“Well… she doesn’t have to know,” he offers quietly. Ginny leaps up, hands curled into excited fists, almost bouncing in place.

“REALLY?! For serious?!”

“Yeah! One of us could teach you.”

“You could teach me!”

“Uh, aha… let me tell you a secret,” Merlin chuckles nervously, beckoning her closer. “I’m sort of scared of heights.”

“What! Why!”

“I fell down once from really high and got hurt. And if I played Quidditch, they wouldn’t let me keep my scarf- it’s just easier to stay down here. I was never much one for sports, anyway. I like cheering.”

Ginny frowns, plopping down with a serious face across from him with her legs tucked under her. “Why do you have a broom, then?”

“Well, I wasn’t always scared. And sometimes it’s good to have one, just in case. Anyway, I probably wouldn’t be the best to teach you, but I know someone who would,” Merlin says, craning his neck and shading his eyes to seek Arthur out. He’s currently taking his turn on Ron’s Shooting Star, leaned back with his hands behind his head, looking about two minutes away from falling asleep. Merlin picks up a grape from their picnic, juggles it a couple of times, takes aim, and sharp-shoots it right at Arthur’s face. Arthur flails and snorts unattractively and almost falls off, catching himself with one hand and sending a disgruntled glare at Merlin as he dangles huffily about ten feet off the ground.

“See? He’s not scared of falling, and he’s good. He’s nice too, I promise.”

“Woooow,” Ginny breathes with stars in her eyes. Merlin smirks. He sees a lot of late night practices in Arthur’s future.

Chapter 6: Art Interlude numero dos

Chapter Text

Chapter 7: Back to School Shopping

Chapter Text

Despite having done it every day for the couple of months he’s been at the Burrow, Molly is still surprised to find Em up before her. The Burrow is essentially a small farm, and her children certainly act like animals, so she’s well used to waking with the sun to tend to it, but what’s his excuse? She thought at first it was him getting used to the new house he’s staying in, but he seemed perfectly at ease and he never stopped getting up early. Every morning she comes down to watch the sunrise in her bathrobe and he’s there, sometimes in a shirt and sometimes not, hair mussed from sleep but eyes sharp and intelligent as ever, and always, always with that scarf on. The scarf is more of an extension of himself than a fashion choice, she gathers. She’s never seen him without it, and from what she can tell, neither has anyone else.

Em looks over the fields in the blues and pinks and oranges of a new day with remarkable patience. He’s terribly quiet about it. He smiles at her warmly and politely leaves her to collect herself into something prepared for human interaction. He won’t say anything until she does. He makes her coffee, feeds the chickens, does the rounds. She’s asked him time and again if he’s not sleeping well, if he’s had nightmares or if he feels sick, but he assures her this is regular for him. It goes against everything Molly knows about children- and she raised eight (not counting her husband, who really should count).Since he’s up, though, she might as well take advantage of it. He can help wake the others.

“I’ll get the boys if you grab the twins- they’re more likely to listen to you than me.”

“Oh, that’s alright Molly. Um, that’s- I mean, I should probably wake Arthur. I’ll handle all the boys, I’ll bet Ginny will be excited, so you should go to her.”

“Are you sure dear? They’re real nightmares.”

“Oh, trust me, if I can handle Arthur, I can more than get by with the rest of them.”

He’s slipped out with a cheeky wink before she can think too much about it, but it’s his prerogative. She hopes he’ll be okay.

“Frrrd.”

“Mm.”

“Frrrrrrrd.”

“Nuhh.”

“Fred!”

“Wh’t!”

“Check the wake-up call.”

George cracks his eyes open with great reluctance, smearing the sleep and crust out of them as he goes. Where they can both read them, doing a happy little dance, there are golden letters waving like a noble flag through the air that read ‘good morning f*ckwits’.

“HAHA!” George barks, not mad to be woken for once. “What a twat!”

“He means you, you know.”

“No, you.”

“No!”

Fred flips out of his bunk on top of George’s like a cat and launches himself at his bastard of a twin brother with a cackle.

It is a true and honest shame to wake Arthur. He’s dead to the world, gold-spun hair splashed over the pillows with reckless abandon, drool smeared across his cheek and into his ear somehow. His face is smooshed into the mattress like he’s welded there. His limbs are splayed out like a lost starfish, and his body looks like it’s still searching for Merlin while he’s dreaming. Why is the bed empty? His posture says. Where is that half-wit?

Well, Merlin must be grateful for what blessings he has. At least this isn’t Arthur in his full and glorious form, the golden king of Camelot with his golden chest hair and his frankly absurd muscles; nor is it an older Arthur grown into a beard, honey-gold hair shot with unfairly becoming grey falling over his sculpted face and back, browned by the sun with too many freckles to count. Those Arthurs are unfathomably difficult to wake, and simultaneously almost impossible to resist waking in less than innocent ways. This Arthur’s just adorable.

Merlin smooshes his foot into Arthur’s cheek and jostles him into the waking world, musing on the many dimensions of the man he loves to himself.

“Nnnnrgh.”

“Get uuuuup.”

“nNNnnmm.”

“Riveting conversation, this is,” Merlin sighs, and resorts to depriving Arthur of his bedcovers.

“MUH-HUUHH!”

After a few bacon sandwiches each (about seven, in Arthur’s case) they all pull on their coats (Arthur still hasn’t noticed that Merlin drew a golden Camelot dragon on his red bomber jacket yet) and shuffle into the living room. Molly takes the flowerpot off the mantelpiece. It’s fingerpainted an ugly mix of purple and red with eager meaty toddler hands. There’s a kid’s scrawl that if you squint really hard might say ‘cHArLiE’. The R is backwards.

“We’re running low, Arthur,” she sighs. “Not you, Arthur. We’ll have to buy some more today... Ah well, guests first! After you, Harry dear!”

And she offers him the flowerpot. Harry looks around uncomfortably at them all, lost.

“W-what am I supposed to do?” he stammers.

“He’s never traveled by Floo powder,” Ron says suddenly. “Sorry, Harry, I forgot.”

“Never?” The bigger Arthur echoes. “But how did you get to Diagon Alley to buy your school things last year?”

“I went on the Underground —”

“Really? Were there escapators? How exactly —”

“Not now, Arthur,” Molly snaps. “No not you, Arthur. Floo powder’s a lot quicker, dear, but goodness me, if you’ve never used it before —”

“It’s not hard, Harry, don’t worry,” Em assures him.

“Yeah, you’ll be alright. Watch us first,” Fred chimes.

He takes a pinch of glittering powder out of the flowerpot, steps up to the modest fire, and tosses the powder into the fire.

The flames roar their appreciation and rear up to embrace him, melting from their brilliant orange to a sharp emerald green. Fred steps into them and announces his destination, and then he’s gone.

“You just say the place you’re going and it’ll take you. Step out when you see George. You think you can handle that?” The smaller Arthur asks.

“That was Fred,” Em corrects.

“You must speak clearly, dear,” Molly tells Harry as George dips his hand into the flowerpot. “And be sure to get out at the right grate...”

“The right- what?” Harry stammers nervously as the fire eats George, too.

“Well, there are an awful lot of wizard fires to choose from, you know, but as long as you’ve spoken clearly —”

“He’ll be fine, Molly, don’t fuss,” Big Arthur soothes, helping himself to Floo powder too.

“But, dear, if he got lost, how would we ever explain to his aunt and uncle?”

“They wouldn’t mind,” Harry reassures her in a decidedly unassuring way. “Dudley would think it was a brilliant joke if I got lost up a chimney, don’t worry about that —”

“Forget them, Em would strangle me,” Little Arthur hisses. “So if not for your sake, do it for mine.”

“Quite. You go after Arthur. My Arthur, not Mr. Weasley,” Em decides, and Molly nods.

“Now, when you get into the fire, say where you’re going,” she reminds him one last time.

“And keep your elbows tucked in,” Ron advises.

“And your eyes shut,” Em adds. “The soot —”

“Don’t fidget,” Ron says. “Or you might well fall out of the wrong fireplace —”

“But don’t panic and get out too early; wait until you see Fred and George,” Little Arthur says finally.

Harry swallows and hesitantly takes a pinch of Floo powder. Arthur has to commend his courage, given he’s an eleven year old who’s never stepped into a lit fireplace before. But then he opens his mouth and inhales quite a lot of hot ash.

“D-Dia-gon Alley.”

And Harry's gone.

In the resounding silence, Em drops his head into his hand and pinches the bridge of his nose.

“He did not end up in Diagon Alley,” he groans quietly, resigned.

“No,” Little Arthur agrees.

“No,” Em sighs.

Harry on his own would’ve been a nightmare to find. The boy sheds attention like a duck sheds water. But, by the grace of the triple Goddess- or, more accurately, Hagrid- they manage to locate him without too much trouble. In fact, he’s even a step ahead of them- he’s found Hermione, and he’s already where they need to be, right outside Gringotts.

“Harry,” Bigger Arthur pants, having sprinted over. He leans with his hands on his knees, relieved, adjusting his glasses back onto his long, freckled nose. “We hoped you’d only gone one grate too far...” He mops his glistening bald patch. “Molly’s frantic — she’s coming now —”

“Where did you come out?” Ron asks.

“Knockturn Alley,” Hagrid says grimly.

“Excellent!” exclaim Fred and George together. Em, however, looks mightily unimpressed, and Molly even less so.

“Of course you did,” Em huffs.

“We’ve never been allowed in,” Ron says enviously.

“I should ruddy well think not,” growls Hagrid- and he does it quite a bit better than anyone else.

“Oh, Harry — oh, my dear — you could have been anywhere —” Molly fusses, squeezing Ginny’s hand in hers. Gasping for breath, she sets on his soot-bathed jacket with a large clothes brush. Mr. Weasley takes care of Harry’s glasses, which he’s managed to break.

“Knockturn Alley. What a turn of luck. You’re impossible to keep out of trouble, no matter what he says,” Little Arthur grumbles under his breath, and Harry gets the impression he’s not really talking to him.

Hagrid says his goodbyes brightly after some handshakes and thank-yous and whatever else, and Hermione's snuck in her hugs with the boys in the meantime. Harry takes this opportunity to fill them in.

“Guess who I saw in Borgin and Burkes?” Harry asks them as they climb the Gringotts steps. “Malfoy and his father.”

“What!” Little Arthur barks. Really, what are the chances? It’s like the two of them are pre-ordained- but looking at Merlin’s face, Arthur knows better than to say the D-word in this instance, even as a joke.

“Did Lucius Malfoy buy anything?” Bigger Arthur asks sharply behind them, eyes flashing.

“No, he was selling —”

“So he’s worried,” he says with grim satisfaction. “Oh, I’d love to get Lucius Malfoy for something...”

“You be careful, Arthur. Not you, Arthur,” Mrs. Weasley chides as they’re bowed into the bank by a goblin at the door. “That family’s trouble. Don’t go biting off more than you can chew —”

“So you don’t think I’m a match for Lucius Malfoy?” Bigger Arthur scoffs indignantly, but he’s distracted just then by Hermione’s parents, looking around nervously, waiting for Hermione to introduce them. He makes himself content with accosting them over the muggle money they’re exchanging for knuts and sickles.

“He was talking about me,” Harry says absently.

“What?” Arthur grunts.

“Malfoy. He said… he was talking to his father about me. He does it… apparently, he does that quite a lot,” he finishes bemusedly. “What’d’ya reckon that means?”

Arthur manages, with great effort, not to roll his eyes.

Thankfully the Weasleys don’t make a big deal of it when little Arthur and Merlin are led off by another goblin, although Harry does give them a pleading look not to leave him. Merlin sends him an apologetic look and little Arthur snickers. Ah, the terrible curse of wealth. Although, to be fair, he’d feel pretty sh*tty opening his vault in front of the Weasleys if he had as much as he understands Harry to have.

Oh wait- he does.

In fact, there are several reasons they really need to take this trip alone. First of all, their vault isn’t opened with a key, but with Old magic- Merlin sealed it himself. They access it not by cart, but by stairs, since the journey is so short. And it would be a little hard to explain how they managed to lay claim to vault number four, the very first customer vault in the entire institution. And then if they managed to get a peek inside- well, that would be beyond the power of even Merlin’s most creative evasive responses.

Vault number four is like its very own ecosystem. There’s only so much exposure to Merlin- to Magic- that an inanimate object can have before it becomes animate. Eventually the house got far too crowded and lively. It was quite an endeavour, moving all the broomsticks and antiques and portraits and things out when they all already had their own friends amongst each other and they all had something to say about it. That was a hell of a decade. But they did manage it, and every now and then they move things around, take some things out and put some things in, rotate the cast and crew. And they seem happy enough in here, anyway- it’s like a little town.

So in they delve, greeting ballgowns and tractors and relics and easter island heads and jewelled skulls and sceptres and bookcases and chandeliers and that one chunk off the roof of the blue mosque in Constantinople- Arthur thinks it’s called something else now, though.He has to move quickly; if Merlin gets all caught up with everything in here they’ll never leave. Even worse, if Excalibur gets excited, he might as well clear his schedule for the week. By the time he's got what they actually need, though, he has his work cut out for him.

Arthur manages to detangle his husband from a string of christmas lights leading him along in a jig and brush off the Camelotian cape trying to do the same to him. A line of shoes try to follow them out like ducklings, and Arthur gives the red ones from the dancing plague in France that one time, still crusted with blood, a stern look.

Arthur cannot account for what he can’t see, though, and one little gem’s taken advantage of that. A raw, uncut red diamond has nestled itself in Merlin’s fluffy hair, taking shelter where Arthur isn’t tall enough to catch it, where Ron picks it out when they meet back up.

“Cool rock,” he says. “Must’ve fallen from the caves on your cart ride.”

“You can keep it,” Merlin shrugs.

Arthur glares at it for escaping his notice as Ron slips it into his pocket. He can’t remember who gave it to Merlin, but he remembers why, because it made him very jealous. Red diamonds are, apparently, the rarest and most expensive diamonds in the world. Uncut, though, they look like any old shiny rock. Whichever king or queen or whoever gifted it to Merlin had said that he was much the same- something entirely unique and marvellous and exceedingly rare hidden in a humble disposition, as common as anyone else’s. Which is stupid. That noble didn’t even have the faintest idea how special Merlin was. But Arthur never said pretty things like that, it was Merlin who was good with words, he was rubbish, and he wondered if it wasn’t disappointing to Merlin to have to spend his days with a glorified brute who fumbled his way through speeches and could never, ever put something so glorious as his own husband into words.

None of that is true, but Arthur’s still glad to see the stupid rock go.

Back outside on the marble steps, they all separate. Percy mutters vaguely about needing a new quill. Fred and George spot their friend from Hogwarts, Lee Jordan, and are gone in a flash. Molly and Ginny announce their plans to head for a secondhand robe shop. Big Arthur insists on taking the Grangers off to the Leaky Cauldron for a drink, to which Molly smiles and nods and rolls her eyes long-sufferingly once their backs are turned.

“We’ll all meet at Flourish and Blotts in an hour to buy your schoolbooks,” Mrs. Weasley sing-songs, setting off with Ginny. “And not one step down Knockturn Alley!” she shouts at the twins’ retreating backs.

As for the rest of them, they set off together. Harry buys them all large strawberry-and-peanut-butter ice creams, and Arthur ends up eating Merlin’s (he always does) because Merlin can’t stand still long enough to do it and it’s melting. It’s all Arthur can do to keep him from leaving the kids behind, because of course he wants to meet every single Owl in Eyelop’s, and blow through the Apothecary’s entire stock, and look at all the pretty quills on display and ‘can’t we go into the book shop, Arthur, we have to anyway and I promise I won’t buy too many I just want a look- ’, and Ron wants to look at the Quidditch shop, and Hermione actually wants to get their school things like they’re supposed to, and if Harry doesn’t keep up they’ll lose him again.

Arthur gives up and leaves Merlin to it once they find the twins in the resident joke shop- fighting that battle’s a lost cause. But if they don’t get their school things soon they won’t have time, so Arthur ends up being the functioning adult and backing Hermione up in her quest to get that done.

By some miracle, an hour later, they do manage it. They have to leg it to Flourish and Blotts to make it, but they do make it- only to find that even the Weasley’s unfailingly red hair isn’t going to help in the endeavour of finding them in this crowd. The place is packed full to sickening capacity. Arthur looks at the crowd, bunched in like chickens in an overfull coop, and finds ‘sickening’ is exactly the right word.

Just as he’s loosening his grip on Harry’s hand and flagging, trying to come up with an excuse to do anything but go in there, Merlin- beautiful, brilliant, angelic, always-has-his-back Merlin swoops in like the miracle he is.

“I’ll take them,” he whispers against Arthur’s ear as he slips through the crowd after the kids like a fish through the stream.

Arthur takes a big breath of appreciation for his husband. Crisis averted. What is with this crowd, anyway? He takes a step back to read the large royal blue and gold banner shimmering in the windows.

GILDEROY LOCKHART

will be signing copies of his autobiography

MAGICAL ME

today 12:30P.M.to 4:30P.M.

“Oh, Christ ,” Arthur groans in a language he doesn’t even remember the name of.

Merlin would like to take back every comparison he made between his husband and Gilderoy Lockhart. They were funny in theory, but the man he’s looking at now oozes shallow vanity to such a degree that Merlin can’t find a single thing they could possibly have in common.

It’s only on account of his height and his remarkable eyesight that Merlin can even see the man over the fussing flock of middle-aged women. He’s about half the size of Arthur at his age, his shoulders broadened purposefully by his many layers of expertly tailored and gilded robes. A red- goddess, they used to wear those to the balls at the palace of Versailles, Merlin blocked the name of them out on purpose- puffs so ostentatiously out from his collar that he resembles an exotic bird making itself bigger than it is. He’s quite colourful enough. The marvellous slice of his clinically bright smile is painfully practiced and entirely false, but beyond that, it’s like it’s held up by pins on either of his cheeks permanently. Like a doll. His makeup covers up all the parts of him that might’ve been interesting to leave him smooth. His terribly blue eyes, the ones Merlin teased Arthur for resembling, are very obviously- to him, at least- contacts over brown ones. And thank every god there is, Arthur’s true and brilliant golden hair has never swooped so genially with a little insufferable bounce over his brow in all the courts and dos he’s ever attended, and it’s certainly never looked like it came straight out of a bottle .

“We can actually meet him!” Hermione squeals, and Merlin tears his eyes away to look at her in abject horror. “I mean, he’s written almost the whole booklist!”

Harry, bless him, drags them all forward to grab their second year book copies and squeeze their way up to a familiar huddle of flame-red hair.

“Oh, there you are, good,” Molly clucks, sounding suspiciously breathless, patting her hair. She looks a little pink in the cheeks. Merlin almost lets out a despairing whine for all the respectable women falling over themselves for a cad . “We’ll be able to see him in a minute...”

Oh, Merlin wouldn’t make Arthur suffer this for anything. He can barely stomach it himself. Everywhere he turns, Lockhart’s shiny, airbrushed face stares stunningly back at him, blinding him with that searing white smile practically painted onto him and his pathetic attempt to mimic Arthur’s goldenness. All Merlin sees is a dirty bronze painted sunshine yellow a dozen too many times. A nasty little man dances around and jostles them around as if he’s the only person who matters on this earth and they’re in the way of his terribly important business.

“Out of the way, there,” he snarls at Ron, moving back to get a better shot. “This is for the Daily Prophet —”

Oh, the Daily Prophet , is it? This just gets better and better.

“Big deal,” Ron mutters, rubbing his foot mutinously where the photographer stepped on it.

Unfortunately, Lockhart’s attention follows the camera flash unfailingly, and therefore swings around them, being so close to the offending item.Merlin steps protectively in front of Harry a second too late.

“It can’t be Harry Potter?” Lockhart exclaims in the carrying boom of a practiced performer, leaping up from his seat at once.

“We’ll leave, Harry,” Merlin whispers to the boy who’s gone stock still behind him, but the words have barely left him when Harry’s wrenched out of his grip. Merlin’s head snaps up as the crowd bursts into applause and the bottle-blonde airhead yanks Harry up on stage, where his muscles promptly lock up and his eyes blow wide.

A few not f*cking happy sounds blow out of Merlin as the great buffoon shakes Harry’s hand heartily enough to rattle him and the bright flashes double and smoke from the old cameras chokes the air and sends Ron into a coughing fit. Harry looks f*cking terrified.

Merlin snarls quietly as the poor kid tries to escape and Lockhart throws an arm around his shoulders and clamps him tightly to his side.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he declares loudly, waving for quiet. “What an extraordinary moment this is! The perfect moment for me to make a little announcement I’ve been sitting on for some time!

“When young Harry here stepped into Flourish and Blotts today, he only wanted to buy my autobiography — which I shall be happy to present him now, free of charge —” The crowd applauds again and Lockhart ‘modestly’ waves them off. “He had no idea,” Lockhart continues, giving Harry a little shake that makes his glasses slip to the end of his nose, “that he would shortly be getting much, much more than my book, Magical Me. He and his schoolmates will, in fact, be getting the real magical me. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I have great pleasure and pride in announcing that this September, I will be taking up the post of Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry!”

Merlin makes a horrified noise in the back of his throat. f*cking what?!

Harry stumbles off somewhere with the entire works of Gilderoy Lockhart someone’s loaded him down with and Merlin fights his way in that direction, making frustratingly slow progress. At this rate, by the time he finds Harry, he’ll have ground his teeth to nubs.

“-got yourself a girlfriend!”

Oh, for the love of Camelot.

Draco Malfoy, hair as oily and slicked back as it ever was, jeers at Harry from over the railing. Merlin almost interrupts until he notices that the colour Lockhart leeched out of Harry’s face is returning to him in the form of a healthy flush. Both the boys’ eyes flash as they regard each other scaldingly, all but bearing their teeth, even as Harry seems to be struck by something new with the resurfacing knowledge that Malfoy talks about him enough to make his dad tell him to shut up, please , Draco.

“Oh, it’s you,” an oblivious Ron drawls, looking at Malfoy as if he’s something unpleasant on the sole of his shoe, effectively breaking the trance. “Bet you’re surprised to see Harry here, eh?”

“Not as– ”

“Whatever you’re about to say,” Merlin interjects a little more warmly than is perhaps warranted, “Don’t.”

“There you all are!” comes a familiar call. They turn to big Arthur, struggling over with Fred and George. Evidently he could smell danger. “What are you doing? It’s too crowded in here, let’s go outside.”

“Well, well, well — Arthur Weasley.”

Lucius Malfoy has materialized like so much grease beside his son. A green jewel, wreathed in intricate silver designs, gleams against his collar. His finely cut robes, lined in genuine black fur, melt off of him like oil. His eyes aren’t quite so startlingly grey as his son’s- a little darker, perhaps, and his nose is much more hooked (good for looking down over) but there is Draco in the sharp cut of his jaw, his stark cheekbones, and most prominently, the straight ironed platinum-blonde hair brushed impossibly flat and neat. Their sneers, though, are identical. The similarities aren’t so obvious yet, and Merlin hopes they stop there. Lucius Malfoy is a naturally cold thing, and Draco isn’t.

“Lucius,” Mr. Weasley acknowledges, nodding coldly.

“Busy time at the Ministry, I hear,” Lucius drawls, his voice low and slithering. “All those raids... I hope they’re paying you overtime?”

He reaches into Ginny’s cauldron and extracts, from amid the glossy Lockhart books, a very old, very battered copy of A Beginner’s Guide to Transfiguration.

“Obviously not,” he mocks smoothly. “Dear me, what’s the use of being a disgrace to the name of wizard if they don’t even pay you well for it?”

Mr. Weasley flushes darker than either Ron or Ginny, who both look about a second away from starting a brawl. Merlin watches warily even as he thinks to himself that it really is quite fortunate his Arthur’s not here after all. But surely Molly’s Arthur knows better, right?

“We have a very different idea of what disgraces the name of wizard, Malfoy,” Big Arthur intones coolly, and Merlin knows for a fact that he does not know better.

“Sorry to cut in, Mr. Malfoy, I know you and Mr. Weasley probably have quite a lot to disagree on and only so much time, but I was just wondering if you knew what a marvellous son you have,” Merlin enunciates coolly, stepping between the two of them in what he thinks might just be the nick of time.

Well, whatever Lucius was expecting, it wasn’t that. In fact, Merlin seems to have brought just about everyone in the vicinity up short, the subject of his praise included.

“Wha’?” Ron blurts.

“What?” The twins echo.

“What?” Draco gapes.

“What?” Lucius Malfoy inquires distractedly, flicking silver blonde hair out of his face.

“Your son, Draco. He gave even our own Ms. Granger a run for her money, a right good show. I make a note of everyone I think might really be special, and Draco outshone them all. He does the Malfoy name proud. Even Harry noticed, didn’t you, Harry? You told me about him, and for a while I didn’t make the connection that you must be talking about Lucius Malfoy’s son, the very same one I was thinking of.”

Merlin sends Harry a subtle look and he immediately starts nodding along. If Merlin thought Draco looked shocked before, he underestimated the term. At Harry’s endorsem*nt, his eyes practically pop out of his head.

Lucius narrows his eyes at Merlin analytically, reposturing himself.

“And who might you be?” he drawls in that slow, seeping way of his.

“I’m Myrridian Emrys. It’s good to meet you, Mr. Malfoy.”

Lucius stills like a deer in the headlights.

“Erm… pardon? You said…”

“Myrridian,” Merlin repeats steadily, “Emrys.”

And the look on Lucius Malfoy’s face is just about worth it.

Chapter 8: Back to School Whopping

Chapter Text

The Emrys ‘family line’ isn’t something Merlin tailored any particular way on purpose. He just did what he felt like. By happy circ*mstance, though, somewhere along the line it’s become a sort of choose-your-own-adventure. If you’re in the business of knowing about notable names from military history, you might say that’s what the Emrys clan is known for. If you’re more of an academic with a focus on advancements in the medical field, you might disagree. If you are, as Lucius Malfoy is, particularly prideful on your extensive knowledge of ancient pureblood lineages and their politics, well. You might recognize the name Emrys from your studies- not as one that cropped up very often, but rather one that’s so ingrained into the foundation of things that it’s more of a far off historical fact than a terribly relevant one. There’s a word for such things that applies pretty much no matter what your expertise is. To most anyone who bothers to know, and certainly to Lucius Malfoy, the most accurate word for the name Emrys would be legend.

This boy suddenly makes a lot more sense. His posture is impeccable, befitting a diplomat of the highest order, his blue eyes twinkling with intelligence. He is the picture of neutrality, expertly radiating benign politeness even as he steps between what Lucius now recognizes as an appalling display of unseemly lowness on his behalf. He never dreamed he’d ever encounter anyone of his standards within five miles of the Weasleys, and now he’s paying for it. In his carelessness he forgot himself, forgot what he represented, and that it does not become the Malfoy name to sink to such levels no matter who he’s addressing.

Here he is, staring down a legend, standing for the entire clan and history of Malfoy, and all he has to build an impression off of is the fact that he was just about fifteen seconds from goading Arthur Weasley into a brawl. Lucius looks into those sharp blue eyes and knows that Emrys knows it, too.

For the first time in a long time, Lucius feels like a failure.

An Emrys. An Emrys at Hogwarts. How did Draco miss this? How did he miss this? Luicus was brought up by his father and he’s brought up his own son to never find themselves in this situation, caught out gaping like a fish with the rug swept out from under them, looking stupid. It’s a disgrace. Lucius wouldn’t have thought there was anything on earth that could bring them this low- not if the Queen of England swept into Flourish and Blotts. He is meant to be distinguished, regal, worthy of being counted among the greats. But he finds himself beside his disappointment of a son, staring down at one of the greats, more than he’ll ever be by eleven years old. His voice hasn’t even dropped and he’s proven Lucius Malfoy a fraud.

He has to salvage this.

“It’s a true pleasure,” he finally lands on, gliding forward and extending his hand, heavy with silver, “and a rare treat indeed to meet an Emrys in the flesh. Do forgive the… unpleasantness. We are very proud, and Draco knows that he is expected to far outstrip all of his peers.”

Emrys regards him consideringly, and thank Merlin, accepts his handshake after a moment’s pause. Lucius was afraid he’d squandered that opportunity when he overlooked the boy’s outstretched hand before he knew who he was.

“I think where it counts, Draco already has,” Myrridian Emrys responds smoothly. “Although, permit me to say that I believe he’d benefit from a touch more familiarity with independence. While the Weasleys are, naturally, a very different family to yours with very different values, the methods applied in their children’s upbringing is something quite a few families would do well to implement. Different you may be, Mr. Malfoy, but you are still a family. We would all do well to remember that,” the little boy declares easily, soaking such courtly words in a casual flippancy, as though encouraging everyone to not take him so seriously, as if anyone could make that mistake. He flicks them out of the air with a dismissive wave of the hand like they’re of no consequence. Like he puts no stock in his own capable grace, having an unfailingly sustainable supply of it. It’s the kind of implicit power Lucius Malfoy has spent his whole life trying to manufacture. It oozes out of this… boy, like a natural thing.

Myrridian Emrys turns to the Weasley girl and lightly replaces her books into the battered old cauldron she’s struggling to hold up with a smile. Lucius doesn’t even remember handing her textbook back to him, but he no longer has it in his hand. And the diary…

Emrys has placed it into the girl’s cauldron along with the textbook. Right… right. Good.

Lucius gathers himself as Emrys smiles back at him brightly, sparing Draco a grin and a nod too. As tradition dictates, it’s cordial to acknowledge the head of the family before anyone else, but Lucius is glad to note that Emrys’ gaze is warm on his son. Maybe, somehow, Draco really did impress him. It could just be possible that where Lucius has failed, all he’s done to prepare Draco for excellence has finally paid off and his son has come through at precisely the right moment, proving himself worth all the headaches and disappointment he’s been thus far. Lucius prays it is so. He knew, he knew Draco would make them proud someday.

He watches the Weasleys file out, all too dumbstruck to even send their signature nasty glares Lucius’ way, Potter and Emrys behind them. The muggles have disappeared too. Lucius quietly tucks his son into his side and grips his cane, and he feels Draco’s wide eyed gaze on him and offers the slightest nod. They will be having a serious talk later. But for now, they’ll take shelter in here until they’re unlikely to bump into anyone of interest on their way out.

Things have just changed drastically.

📚

Merlin’s reluctant to slip out of his metaphorical court regalia until he’s out of the public eye, but he’s only a man. He forgives himself for giving in and returning the Weasley twins’ offered high-fives. They refrain from cheering, and that’s all he can ask of them.

Arthur feels the change in the air as soon as they catch up with him outside, looking to Merlin inquisitively.

“That was rather fun,” Merlin confides in him under his breath. “I’ll explain in a bit.”

“Fun like an inside joke, fun, or fun like Bolivia?”

“Oh would you get over that–”

“Em–”

Molly cuts between them with the floo powder and Arthur’s left at the mercy of his imagination, fuelled by 1300 years’ experience with Merlin’s bullsh*t.

He starts mentally constructing their forcible departure from England in the name of evading arrest.

Arthur comes out of the fireplace and into a living room filled with Weasleys that don’t look unlike meerkats at the moment, their heads all pointed at the fireplace even while Arthur climbs out of it. He searches their faces for clues. Even the twins look like they’ve been slapped upside the head, although chuffed about it. Harry’s gaping like he’s never seen him before in his life. What the hell did Merlin do?

They wait for a while in uncharacteristic silence and stillness for Merlin to come out, and then they’re all in one place and staring at him.

“Did you know?” Ron blurts in Arthur’s direction. Arthur thinks it’s meant to be more accusing than it comes out sounding.

“Know? What?”

“That Em was…”

“Your boy had a little chat with the Malfoys,” Fred crows victoriously.

George leans into Arthur’s other side to sing-song along. “Gave ‘em the most polite talking-to England’s ever seen.”

“Topped himself, did he?” Arthur mutters dryly as they snicker on either side of him.

“Is that what he did?” Bigger Arthur asks faintly.

“I think so,” Molly replies just as faintly.

“I don’t know, but it sounded good,” Harry offers his friend.

“Thanks, Harry.”

“But you…” Big Arthur shakes his head a little, taking a little step forward. “You’re from one of those families that… I had no idea, but you must be, mustn’t you?”

“Arthur!” Molly snaps, hitting him on the arm at his tactlessness.

“I do come from a very… interesting, family,” Merlin allows carefully. “We don’t have much to do with each other, but it comes up sometimes. I didn’t mean to make a scene. Unfortunately I’m not allowed to tell people like Lucius Malfoy what I really think of them. I do give it my best, though.”

“Yeaaah!” the twins cheer, elbowing Em like he’s just shouted them butterbeers or something. It does wonders to break everyone out of their trance.

“Right,” Molly says. “Right.”

“I thought it was brilliant, Em,” Harry says encouragingly. Merlin smiles at him.

Little Arthur rolls his eyes and ruffles his husband’s hair. “This one and his bloody speeches, can’t take ‘im anywhere.”

Bigger Arthur- there has got to be a better way to refer to him- takes Merlin aside just as lunch is being served.

“Alright there, Em? Right, good. Well… I, um… I’m sorry if I made you feel uncomfortable, before. With the Malfoys… I was just so surprised. I never imagined- I mean, I don’t even know what you said, and I work for the government! But I’m fairly certain you stopped me just in time from doing something Molly wouldn’t have liked, and I wouldn’t have been too proud of. And I just want you to know, son, no matter what your family’s like, we know you’re not like the Malfoys. You’re right decent, you are, and a sight smarter than me, and don’t forget it. Alright?”

Molly pulls him aside before he even makes it to the table and says something much the same, and Merlin tries in equal measure not to coo and laugh.

Percy’s been looking at him thoughtfully through narrowed eyes since his little stunt. Ron keeps sending him furtive glances when he thinks he’s not looking. Reading the room, Arthur leaves Em to deal with the fallout at bedtime, taking his shift bunking with the twins. They’ve gotten along even better with him since they found out war strategy can be applied to prank wars as well.

It's thick in the air as they get ready for bed, but Ron isn’t quite brave enough to go first, so Harry does.

“Why did you say all that about Malfoy to his father?”

Merlin looks up from under his unruly bangs. He should probably either cut them or grow them out properly soon. The first time he was this age his hair went past his shoulders, but it might be easier to just chop it this time. What do kids do with their hair these days?

“Draco’s dad… he’s a whole different creature to Mr. and Mrs. Weasley. What we said about him in front of his dad, particularly you and I, would have massive effects on his home life. Whatever disagreements you have with him, Harry, family’s off limits.”

Harry nods thoughtfully.

Merlin shrugs, deciding to push his luck a little further. “We do right by him, I truly think he might be salvageable.”

“Malfoy?” Ron gapes disgustedly.

“The little one,” Merlin confirms.

“He’s a– !”

“If your father was Lucius Malfoy, you would be too,” Em responds before he finishes. Ron’s mouth clicks shut.

“You’re not,” he challenges bravely. Harry’s gaze snaps between them, worried about Merlin’s reaction.

“I am rather, if you know how to look for it,” Merlin chuckles. “But I was lucky to have my mother. No, Ron, Draco Malfoy needs all the help he can get.”

They all take a while to consider that. Merlin hopes that’s the end of it, but it seems Ron’s curious enough to ask for details, so Merlin cuts him off as soon as he opens his mouth.

“Arthur was a lot like Draco when I met him,” he blurts just in time. The other two’s heads whip around in amazement.

“Like Malfoy?!”

“No, like the Queen. Yes, like Malfoy. Complete and utter prat. I caught him bullying one of the low-borns, and he was all, ‘do you know who my father is’ and ‘I could crush you with my little finger’. It’s almost uncanny.”

“Arthur…?” Ron repeats incredulously, flopping back, all the air whoofing out of him. Harry looks like he’s gone into shock. Merlin nods.

“He was the sum of his father. Honestly, Lucius Malfoy reminds me of him. Arthur would’ve turned out horrible if I hadn’t come along and tried to punch him. A bit like Harry and Draco,” he says innocently.

Harry stares. And stares. And stares. Ron makes enough noise to make up for Harry’s stock still silence, but none of it’s coherent. Merlin settles for laughing at them until they give up.

💬

The only real thing of note that happens after that all summer is Harry and Ron finding out why Arthur never plays cards with them. He walks in on them playing Em, looking mighty frustrated, and raises his eyebrows.

“Why’re you still playing Em? He cheats.”

Harry swings his head around to gape at Arthur, rocked by this news. Ron isn’t convinced, though.

“You can’t cheat at Snap,” he argues.

“Has he lost yet?” Arthur retorts. Ron clicks his mouth shut and frowns down at the cards.

No, the next big hiccup comes on the day of arrival at Hogwarts. The night before they have a marvellous feast topped off with Filibuster's fireworks (courtesy of Fred and George), and the next morning is a scramble worthy of Thermopylae, but they make it just in time. Well… most of them do.

The train’s leaving by the time they’re forced to give up on Harry and Ron ever getting through to the platform.

“I don’t know why I bother,” Merlin declares huffily for the sixth time in thirty minutes on the Hogwarts Express. “It’s always something!”

“I know, dear,” Arthur grits. “You’re a wonder, and I’m chopped liver.”

“I am!” Merlin agrees, employing his prolific selective hearing abilities.

Hagrid sweeps Merlin clear off the ground when he sees him, as if they didn't just see each other in Diagon Alley.

Hermione hugs them all over again and, when informed of the absence of the other two, quickly goes from worried to pissed and back again.

Festus sings his song with Arthur beatboxing under his breath from the Gryffindor table and Merlin providing occasional helpful record scratches or ‘wiki-what’s.

Ginny gets sorted into Gryffindor and they cheer loudly enough to actually scare the rest of the table quiet.

This is about when Helena floats on over from Ravenclaw to whisper to Merlin that a couple of second years he might know have been caught for flying a turquoise car into the Whomping Willow. Because that was always gonna go well.

“WHAT!” he screams at her, making everyone in a ten metre radius jump.

“What’s wrong?!” Hermione hisses. Merlin makes a lost sound in the back of his throat.

Half an hour later they're hot on her irate heels headed for Elizabeth’s portrait. They round the corner right on time to catch the late couple unawares. Liz is looking mighty unimpressed with them as Harry stammers, having not been told the password.

“Is it true?” Hermione snaps before any of them can stop her, if anyone would’ve anyway. “I wouldn’t believe it for a second if it weren’t coming from Em, but he says you’ve crashed– what, a flying car?”

“How the hell did you know that?” Ron asks. He turns on Harry, as he does sometimes. “How the hell did he know that?”

“We haven’t been expelled,” Harry assures them.

“That’s not the point– “

“Wattlebird,” Arthur nods to Liz. She gasps delightedly to see him, but he gives her a furtive assurance that they’ll come and see her soon, so just go with it. She gives him a would-be subtle wink that it’s a miracle no one notices.

No one can say anything after that because there’s a sudden storm of clapping from the common room. Just about the whole of Gryffindor House is still awake, packed into the circular common room, standing on the lopsided tables and squashy armchairs, waiting for them to arrive. Arms reach through the portrait hole to pull Harry and Ron enthusiastically inside, leaving the final three to scramble in after them, each less impressed than the last- but Arthur’s smiling.

So they lose their troublemakers to the crowd. Merlin stammers incredulously and Arthur gives him a look like ‘let’s just let ‘em have this’. Merlin does a double take at his husband, but his frown is already softening.

“Come on, you’re acting your age,” Arthur jests. Merlin chuckles.

“...It was pretty funny,” he allows after a minute. Hermione looks at him in utter betrayal. "I thought you'd be sad mad about the car. I thought you liked that car. I thought you'd be smad."

"...I'm trying not to think about it," Arthur admits.

The next morning they’re all over it. With some help from Merlin, even Hermione settles a bit. She’s in a tizzy over something else entirely by the time Ron and Harry come down to the common room.

“Don’t bother,” Ron says knowingly in the direction of the cards set between her and Merlin. “He cheats.”

“She knows that,” Arthur says. “She’s trying to figure out how. And good luck to her- but now it’s breakfast time.”

“Can you think with anything but your stomach– “ Merlin mutters a moment before Arthur scoops him up like a sack of potatoes.

“You know I can, but not before breakfast, and certainly not when I’m underage” he adds under his breath.

What business the mail has coming on the day after arrival, Arthur didn’t know until now. But he knows Molly Weasley, and he would not put it past the woman to move heaven, earth and mail days to send her son the Howler he has clutched in his shaking hands right now.

“You’d better open it, Ron,” Neville says in a timid whisper. “It’ll be worse if you don’t. My gran sent me one once, and I ignored it and” — he gulped —“it was horrible.”

“What’s a Howler?” Harry asks. Merlin covers his mouth to hide his grin. Arthur, ever the politician of the two of them, keeps his face carefully blank.

“Ah,” he says neutrally.

Neville finally coaxes Ron into opening it before it really goes up, and Merlin stuffs his fingers in his ears as Arthur waves away the smoke that’s begun to curl off the edges of the paper.

And then it screams as though to bring the castle down.

“—STEALING THE CAR, I WOULDN’T HAVE BEEN SURPRISED IF THEY’D EXPELLED YOU, YOU WAIT TILL I GET HOLD OF YOU, I DON’T SUPPOSE YOU STOPPED TO THINK WHAT YOUR FATHER AND I WENT THROUGH WHEN WE SAW IT WAS GONE —”

The cutlery rattles on the tables. Dust rains from the ceiling of the two thousand year old castle. The stone walls echo with Molly’s rage and Merlin’s snickers. People around the hall are swiveling around to see who received the Howler, and Ron sinks so low in his chair that only his crimson forehead can be seen.

“—LETTER FROM DUMBLEDORE LAST NIGHT, I THOUGHT YOUR FATHER WOULD DIE OF SHAME, WE DIDN’T BRING YOU UP TO BEHAVE LIKE THIS, YOU AND HARRY COULD BOTH HAVE DIED —”

Harry pretends, terribly, not to hear the deafening shrieks threatening to make everyone’s ears bleed.

“—ABSOLUTELY DISGUSTED — YOUR FATHER’S FACING AN INQUIRY AT WORK, IT’S ENTIRELY YOUR FAULT AND IF YOU PUT ANOTHER TOE OUT OF LINE WE’LL BRING YOU STRAIGHT. BACK. HOME.”

The silence that follows the letter’s self destruction is astounding. A few people laugh into the painful quiet and, all too slowly, talk begins to bloom back again.

Hermione closes Voyages with Vampires and looks superiorly down at the top of Ron’s head, eyebrows raised. “Well, I don’t know what you expected, Ron, but you —”

“Don’t tell me I deserved it,” snaps Ron.

“They’ve suffered retribution, ‘Mione,” Merlin soothes, wiping his eyes. "Hell truly hath no fury."

“Shut up,” Ron mumbles dejectedly. Harry pushes his porridge away, looking sick to his stomach with guilt. Merlin makes an internal note to make sure he eats today.

✉️

That horrible Lockhart rears his pretentiously beautiful head before any of them except for Hermione would’ve liked him to, harassing a disgruntled Professor Sprout through Herbology and pulling Harry aside for some delusional reason that leaves the poor kid looking even sicker.

“It’s good to see you,” their cheery teacher chuffs, leaning in beside Merlin with a twinkle in her eye. She loves Merlin.

“I’ve missed you too, Professor. And the plants. How are the bursnips?”

“Oh, just wonderful, dear, wonderful. Maple syrup, just like you said, worked a treat, you’ll have to come see. Ah,” she says, straightening her back so she’s only most of a head shorter than her favourite student, following his glare to Lockhart’s flowing-caped back. “You don’t care for him either, huh?”

“Professor, I don’t think you’ll make a greater understatement all year.”

Sprout chuckles encouragingly. “Good. I was worried he’d get you, he’s got all those silly witches fawning over him, I thought maybe you’d be taken in too. I knew you were smarter than that, but you never know, that Finch-Fletchley’s supposed to be bright and he’s completely besotted. Your Arthur’s not– ?”

“Oh no, no, we both hate him.”

“Good. You keep him that smart, Em. Now how’s your mandrake, giving you trouble?”

Professor McGonagall’s class brings more of the unexpected. Merlin and Arthur really should’ve expected that, given that the last time they saw her they sort of sent her running after the fallout of something they definitely should not have survived with the ease of those very used to such disproportionate displays of capability. It’s only when she gives them an intense look and pulls them out of the classroom to speak to them in private that it occurs to them that Dumbledore never actually told them what she knew.

McGonagall leads them briskly into her office and waves her wand. Merlin feels the magic that comes through- sound-proofing charms. Merlin can’t decide if her magic feels more green or red, but it’s as sharp and strong as she is. It suits her. He feels doubly stupid for forgetting about her with the reminder- Minerva McGonagall is not a woman to discount.

Once they’re well and truly insured, she turns to them. Neither of them sit, and she doesn’t ask them to. She looks over at them carefully from over her steel glasses.

“I have been informed,” she begins, her voice ringing in the smaller space, “that you two are here to ensure the safety of Harry Potter.”

Arthur gives Merlin a ‘you first’ gesture, because he is a terrible husband. Prat.

Merlin takes a deep breath and starts talking.

Chapter 9: Cornish Pixie Blues

Chapter Text

“What did Albus say exactly?” Merlin asks curiously. His tone isn’t scheming or suspicious, not unwilling to share. It would be enough for most people, coming from Merlin. Minerva is not most people.

“I want to hear it from you, first,” she invites, watching them through narrowed eyes and interlocking her gnarled fingers.

“I don’t mean to test you, Professor. I don’t think he’ll have told you much, is all, and you deserve more than that. Am I right in assuming he told you you could trust us?”

Minerva nods once after a moment’s pause. “He called you old friends of his.”

Arthur scoffs and her eyes snap to him at once. Merlin purses his lips and hums.

“Not as such. We’re old friends, but not of Albus’. Of Magic’s. And of Hogwarts. We’re here because an incident like last year’s was inevitable, and it’s only the beginning. Riddle doesn’t realize that there are forces in the world protecting the things he’s provoking. He believes he only opposes people when he commits the things he does. With our intervention last year, he may be rethinking that now. But we’ll stay. Just in case.”

McGonagall takes it all in stride, but her eyes are wide by the end. She keeps straightening her robes subconsciously. They couldn’t get any straighter.

“Why should I believe you over Albus Dumbledore?” she asks briskly, like she needs the information for practical purposes but it really makes no difference to her.

“You don’t have to,” Merlin shrugs. “Whether we’re old friends of Albus’ looking out for his students or on the side of Magic and standing against Riddle, doesn’t change much. Hell, you can think of us as imaginative students if you want. I just don’t see a reason to lie. Albus does, evidently, but I don’t care because as we’ve covered, I’m not here for him.”

Arthur coughs into his fist and Merlin tilts his head in apology.

“-We’re not here for him,” he amends.

Minerva is quiet for a while as she considers all of this. Merlin can hear her brain working. He knows she’s serious because her tight lips forget to purse.

“...Posing as students is quite extreme,” she says finally, voice trembling the tiniest bit, enough that no one else would notice. Her eyes cut between them and her brow gradually unravels as she comes to her conclusions. “...Who are you? Perhaps I should say, what, are you?”

Merlin looks to his husband and shakes his head stubbornly, stepping back.

“I took the twins, it’s your turn.”

Arthur rolls his eyes. It’s just like Merlin to throw him under the McGonagall bus. He steps forward and folds his arms over his chest. He opens his mouth to tell her the honest truth, and at the last second chickens out and rounds on his husband.

“Why do we have to tell her? She won’t believe us.”

“Because we like her, and we don’t like lying to people we like. There’s no need, anyway, she can believe what she likes. Just tell her.”

“Yes, do that,” McGonagall agrees sharply.

Arthur sighs. Clicks his tongue. Glares at his stubborn husband.

“I’m Arthur Pendragon. That’s Merlin,” he blurts tactlessly. “We’re immortal.”

Merlin whacks him upside the head. Arthur looks unrepentant. Eventually his husband will concede that it really is just better to get it over with.

“Come on, she needs to process and Harry’ll be wondering what’s up,” Merlin rolls his eyes, grabbing his useless husband by the arm to drag him out. Minerva gets herself together enough to choke something out before they disappear back to class, though.

“Merlin- ?”

She’s definitely not addressing him, they’re not there yet, but Merlin hears his name and looks up anyway. She blinks at the natural reaction.

“Why would they… you … come here and do this?” she asks faintly, sounding uncharacteristically clumsy.

The couple exchanges a look.

“Well it makes sense, doesn’t it?” Arthur replies, Merlin nodding along. “Riddle’s focussed on Harry and Albus. They’re both here. He’ll pop his head up at Hogwarts and we’ll be here to whack him back down again, right?”

“Like whack-a-mole,” Merlin offers.

“Whack-a-what?” Arthur asks.

“Whack-a-mole. Do you remember when moving pictures came out, there was a game palace beside the theatre, we’d go out to the piccies and go play at the game palace? There was, um–”

“The casino?”

“No, not the cards. Pacman. You remember pacman? No, wait, that would’ve been later. But there was whack-a-mole, where you hit the targets with a mallet, you won me a flying frog, remember?”

“...I thought that was training.”

“Oh, to hell with you,” Merlin grouses, giving up and slipping past them both back to class.

🕳🪧

Merlin and Arthur almost forget about Mcgonogall through lunch. It’s a little hard to think past the dead obvious tail they’ve picked up somewhere making itself known with short little breathless gasps and nervous fiddling with a very complicated camera.

“I think he’s Harry’s,” Arthur hisses under his breath around a mouthful of mutton.

“Well then Harry better deal with him before I do,” Merlin growls back. That much unabashed attention on them without reason is giving him the feeling of co*ckroaches crawling under his skin.

“Why,” Ron asks Hermione with mounting horror, “have you outlined all of Lockhart’s lessons in hearts?”

Hermione blushes furiously (they assume she does, her skin’s rather too dark) and stuffs her schedule hastily back into her bag, getting it crumpled like she hates. Merlin deflates even further, looking like someone’s stabbed his puppy and he’s about to be a John Wick about it.

Out in the courtyard, Harry’s shadow finally works up the courage to scurry into their lie of sight, clutching that ridiculous camera. He’s a mouse of a boy, and the camera’s about twice the size of his whole head, wavy brown hair and all. The second Harry looks at him he flushes a brilliant red almost bright enough to hide his many freckles.

“All right, Harry? I’m — I’m Colin Creevey,” he stammers out breathlessly, taking a tentative step forward. “I’m in Gryffindor, too. D’you think — would it be all right if — can I have a picture?”

“A picture?” Harry repeats blankly. The idea that anyone would want a reminder that he exists in any form is probably a novel concept to him. He’s probably wondering why. Well, that’s ridiculous, Merlin’s wanted one of the three of them for a while now, he’ll have to get on that.

“So I can prove I’ve met you,” Colin Creevey continues eagerly, edging further forward. “I know all about you. Everyone’s told me. About how you survived when You-Know-Who tried to kill you and how he disappeared and everything and how you’ve still got a lightning scar on your forehead,” (his eyes rake Harry’s hairline) “ -and a boy in my dormitory said if I develop the film in the right potion, the pictures’ll move.” Colin draws a great shuddering breath of excitement, “It’s amazing here, isn’t it? I never knew all the odd stuff I could do was magic till I got the letter from Hogwarts. My dad’s a milkman, he couldn’t believe it either. So I’m taking loads of pictures to send home to him. And it’d be really good if I had one of you” — he looks imploringly at Harry — “maybe your friend could take it and I could stand next to you? And then, could you sign it?”

Oh, no. This isn’t the kind of attention Harry needs. This’ll send him right back to square one, and he’s made so much progress since last year! Harry needs to know his value isn't in his fame!

Merlin’s stomach sinks as he catches Draco skulking around the edges of the courtyard, listening, watching. He’ll just eat this up, too. sh*t. sh*t, sh*t, sh*t.

But Draco doesn’t move. He watches the golden opportunity to dunk on Harry pass him by serenely, in an unpracticed, purposeful way, eyebrows knitting together unhappily, looking between Harry and Colin. And Merlin feels himself smile proudly.

His grin falls as Draco spurs into motion, striding across the square towards them, cutting Harry’s awkward stammers off and grabbing him by the arm without pausing–

“Don’t bother, I need to speak to your celebrity crush,” he snaps without so much as looking at Colin. Harry’s forced to start walking or be dragged off, but he’s too stunned to do anything but march. Ron starts forward with a shout on his lips, but Arthur stops him. Hermione chokes, but at Merlin’s look she stops herself going after them too.

Harry stumbles along in Draco’s vice grip as people stop and stare, jaws dropping, especially when Harry’s friends don’t go after them. Draco doesn’t slow down, not when they’re out of the courtyard, not until they’re on the other side of the stone wall overlooking Hagrid’s.

“What– w- stop, would you slow down? Draco– !”

The taller boy freezes and whirls on Harry all at once, who nearly falls over at the sudden halt, frozen by those silver eyes.

“What did you call me?”

Harry’s mouth gapes like a fish. He didn’t realize. He didn’t mean to. Since they talked about him at the Burrow, he must’ve forgotten to go back to calling him Malfoy.

He finally lets Harry go, turning around fully to face him, and Harry is forced to realise Draco’s taller than him when he squares his shoulders and stares him down. A couple of strands of shock blonde hair have wrestled free from his constraining slicked-back style. There are light bags under his eyes, made all the more prominent by how pale he is. It makes his cheeks and lips pinker, too.

“Why did you say that to my father?”

Harry blanks. He tries to summon the exact words Em used, knowing how much sense they made. It’s just hard to think at the moment. What does he say?

“ Why did you say that?! ” Malfoy demands, just keeping himself from shaking Harry by the shoulders.

Harry tries to square his own shoulders and stare him right in the eye. His reasons are good. He is in the right.

“Because family is off limits,” he says clearly.

It hits Malfoy so hard he actually takes half a step back like he’s been struck, silver eyes going wide. There’s a whole lot swimming in them that Harry can see better up so close. He never noticed. Draco looks nothing like his father, if you really look.

“I insult your family all the time. Weasley’s too. Why is it different for you?”

“Em thinks you’re better than that, and he’s usually right. I want him to be right. I don’t want you to be a pompous, arrogant, selfish git because your father is.”

“ My father is more important than –”

“I don’t care about important!” Harry spits. “There are more important things!”

Harry blinks. Malfoy blinks. That was a poor choice of words. Harry shakes it off and charges on.

“Slytherins have good qualities too, don’t they?” Harry demands challengingly. Malfoy snorts.

“We’re cunning, Potter. And loyal-”

“-To the right things?”

Malfoy’s voice stutters to a stop, brought up short. He stares at Harry until Harry thinks he might be about to get punched.

“You can hate me if you want to,” Harry says, finding himself short of breath like he’s been running, “you can call me names and give me sh*t. If you want. But do it ‘cause you want to. Just do what you want, Draco .”

And then he storms off just as the bell sounds, ears ringing, wondering what the f*ck he just did.

“This doesn’t mean I like you, Potter!” comes a defensive yell from behind him, and Harry finds himself laughing.

“If you say so, Em. I just don’t see it. Malfoy’s been horrible,” Hermione is saying as they all pile into Defense Against the Dark Arts. Merlin isn’t even listening anymore, rather preoccupied with the changes to the classroom.

Not one, not two, not three, but six separate portraits of Gilderoy Lockhart decorate the room, one of them almost too large to fit in the room (and it’s not an insignificant room). An entire bloody balcony straight out of Romeo and Juliet complete with dramatically sculpted pillars swirls up the wall to one side, overlooking the classroom. The complete skeleton of a bird twice the size of a man that Merlin knows never actually existed dangles from the ceiling, posed purposefully in such a way as to make it look regal and imposing. Nothing’s neck works like that, it couldn’t hold up its head. There are bloody peaco*ck feathers in the tailbone, for Avalon’s sake. Lining the walls are trophies- heads of marvellous beasts and the swords used to kill them, tribal spears with the carvings polished out of them, and a million framed awards for things like ‘most charming smile’ and ‘most blonde’. Seriously, that’s one of them. And then the ones claiming actual accomplishments- the creatures they name don’t even exist!

A wounded sound punches out of Merlin at the proud head of a Zouwu hung on the wall behind the teacher’s desk, framed in gold detail. The poor thing’s feathers and fur are repainted and brushed up to make them as brilliant as they were in life, but it’s a truly dead thing. Its glorious golden eyes that would’ve glowed like suns in life are forced open with discrete pins as it bares its impressive teeth, forced into a mimicry of fierce power. It just looks like a desecration to Merlin, but he is well familiar with desecration. He was familiar with the concept before he could properly read.

The four of them hurry to set up around Harry, who’s stacked all seven of Lockhart’s books in front of his face to block the man himself from sight. Merlin sets about copying him.

“What the hell happened? Did Malfoy pull anything?” Ron demands immediately, shoving himself over Arthur’s lap to get closer to Harry.

“No. He wanted to know why we said that at Flourish and Blotts. I think he’s as confused as we are,” Harry responds.

“Everyone’s confused at eleven,” Merlin assures them both. “Bet he comes around. Well done, Harry.”

When the whole class is seated there is a deliberate dramatic hush, and then Gilderoy Lockhart sweeps onto his actual, honest-to-gods balcony.

His robes are a shimmering turquoise today. He stretches out his arms grandly to either side of him, settling his hands on the bannister like a lord overlooking his kingdom, beaming. There are a few audible lovesick gasps from the students and a few snickers too.

Arthur gapes in morbid fascination at the luxury train wreck happening before him. Merlin props a book over his head, flat against the desk, like a hat. He can’t look.

“Me,” Lockhart begins, pointing at the cover of one of his books and winking in sickening tandem with it. “Gilderoy Lockhart, Order of Merlin, Third Class, Honorary Member of the Dark Force Defense League, and five-time winner of Witch Weekly’s Most Charming Smile Award but! I don’t talk about that. I didn’t get rid of the Bandon Banshee by smiling at her!”

He waits for the scripted laugh. A few of the girls giggle, and some others smile weakly.

“Order of Merlin, is he?” Arthur mutters out of the side of his mouth dryly.

“I order him to shut up,” Merlin returns in the exact same tone.

“I see you’ve all bought a complete set of my books — well done. I thought we’d start today with a little quiz. Nothing to worry about — just to check how well you’ve read them, how much you’ve taken in —”

Once he’s handed out the test papers he returns to the front of the class and declares, “You have thirty minutes — start —now!”

Some of the questions and Merlin’s answers include:

1. What is Gilderoy Lockhart’s favorite color?

A: The colour of his own eyes, probably.

2. What is Gilderoy Lockhart’s secret ambition?

A: To bottom himself.

3. What, in your opinion, is Gilderoy Lockhart’s greatest achievement to date?

A: I don’t care.

• For extra points: What is your favourite thing about Gilderoy Lockhart?

A: The generous time he spends away from me.

“Em,” Arthur mutters, “Play nice.”

“I am playing fair.”

“That’s not what I said.”

“I know.”

“ Em- ”

“No talking back there, please, just do your best!”

Half an hour later, Lockhart collects the papers and rifles through them in front of the class.

“Tut, tut — hardly any of you remembered that my favorite color is lilac. I say so in Year with the Yeti. And a few of you need to read Wanderings with Werewolves more carefully — I clearly state in chapter twelve that my ideal birthday gift would be harmony between all magic and nonmagic peoples — though I wouldn’t say no to a large bottle of Ogdeds Old Firewhiskey!”

He gives them another roguish wink that makes Merlin consider blinding himself. Ron has now bypassed hatred and fallen into complete amazement that someone this vain could really exist, looking at Lockhart like he’s a strange rare animal. Seamus Finnigan and Dean Thomas, sitting in front, are silently laughing themselves stupid, tears in their eyes. Hermione is listening to Lockhart with rapt attention and nearly falls out of her chair when he says her name.

“... but Miss Hermione Granger knew my secret ambition is to rid the world of evil and market my own range of hair-care potions — good girl! In fact” — he flips her paper over — “full marks! Where is Miss Hermione Granger?”

Hermione’s bristly hair seems to raise with her trembling hand, her eyes wide and full of stars. Merlin looks heartbrokenly at her and then murderously at Lockhart.

“Excellent!” beamed Lockhart. “Quite excellent! Take ten points for Gryffindor! And so — to business —”

But he freezes there, his stalwart smile flickering. His perfect brows crease together in confusion, staring at one of the papers. A delicious grin creeps across Merlin’s mouth. He’s found his paper.

As Lockhart’s face continues to fall until he looks properly perturbed (but still appropriately handsome, of course), the class starts to take notice. Whispers break out, and everyone looks up as he calls, “Myrridian Emrys?”

“Right here, Professor,” Merlin calls beside Hermione, not giving an inch. Arthur stops listening. This might as well happen. It was always going to. It’s a miracle Merlin made it this long, really.

“See me after class. Miss Granger too,” Lockhart calls. Hermione straightens, and he barrels on, grin fixed back in place as if nothing’s amiss. “ So , to business!”

He bends down behind his desk and lifts a large covered cage onto it.

“Now — be warned! It is my job to arm you against the foulest creatures known to wizardkind! You may find yourselves facing your worst fears in this room. Know only that no harm can befall you whilst I am here. All I ask is that you remain calm.”

Harry leans around his books to get a better look, successfully intrigued. Merlin raises an unimpressed eyebrow. Arthur tries to place where he’s heard the tittering from the cage before. It's making him uncharacteristically nervous.

“I must ask you not to scream,” warns Lockhart in a low voice. “It might provoke them.”

As the whole class holds its breath, he whips off the cover with a dramatic flourish he definitely practiced.

The cage rattles as about fifty little blue hands shake it violently, gnashing sharp little teeth and blinking black beady eyes.

Merlin falls off of his chair. Arthur reels back into a defensive stance.

“No,” he breathes in horror.

“Yes,” Lockhart says knowingly. “Freshly caught Cornish pixies.”

Seamus Finnigan snorts. Merlin scrambles around under his desk trying to make a makeshift fort out of his chairs with defensible infrastructure. Neville looks worriedly at his unshakeable friend and then back at the horrid blue beasts.

“You don’t think he’ll let them out,” Arthur scoffs unsurely to his husband. Merlin sends a look.

“You don’t help with the insulation, you’re not getting in.”

Arthur looks back at the pixies (fifty of them, holy goddess), looks at their twit of a Professor, and starts helping Merlin with his fort.

“Yes?” Lockhart addresses Seamus the unimpressed.

“Well, they’re not — they’re not very —dangerous, are they?” Seamus chokes.

“Don’t be so sure!” Lockhart booms, waggling a finger annoyingly at Seamus. “Devilish tricky little blighters they can be!”

One of them pulls their sharp little features into a bizarre face at him to prove it.

“Right, then,” Lockhart exclaims loudly. “Let’s see what you make of them!”

And he unlatches the cage.

Hell breaks loose in the Defense Classroom. The pixies explode like so many pinballs, whizzing past people, pulling them by their tongues, biting toes, breaking glasses, tugging hair. They snarl their sharp little fingers into anything they can grab, pulling and tangling and snatching and scratching. They also make liberal use of their teeth, which are exactly as sharp as they look. Lockhart’s portraits are the first casualties, but far from the last- pages and pages fly, shreds of paper float through the air, buffeted by passing pixies. Ink splashes across the walls and students. Bags are thrown out of the window still full. Shoes adorn the chandelier. The skeletal bird comes crashing down, narrowly missing the teacher’s desk. Down goes the Zouwu. Down goes Lockhart. And down goes Seamus Finnigan.

Neville, ever the exception, goes up. He’s hanging from the chandelier by his robes.

“Come on now — round them up, round them up, they’re only pixies,” Lockhart shouts, wrestling with one for his wand. He shakes it off rather viciously, rolls up his sleeves, brandishes his absurdly embellished wand, and bellows, “ Peskipiksi Pesternomi! ”

It has absolutely no effect; one of the pixies avenges his brother and seizes Lockhart’s wand and that goes out the window, too. Lockhart gulps and makes a mad dive for his desk, narrowly avoiding being crushed by Neville as the chandelier gives way. Arthur fights a pixie for the splintered half of a desk chair they’re using as the front gate of their fort. Merlin doesn’t bother with his wand and goes straight for biting back at the little buggers. It confuses them enough to give him an edge.

The bell rings over all that mess and a stampede makes for the exit. In the relative calm that follows, in which only Ron, Hermione, Harry, Neville, and the Destined Duo are left, Lockhart straightens up, fussing habitually with his hair.

“Well, I’ll ask you three to just nip the rest of them back into their cage,” he pants genially, and he sweeps past them quick as lightning and shuts the door behind him.

“Can you believe him?!” roars Ron as one of the remaining pixies bites him painfully on the ear. Arthur slams said pixie with his makeshift shield, stepping out from under the desks fluidly. He makes it look very easy.

“He just wants to give us some hands-on experience,” Hermione says, immobilizing two pixies at once with a clever freezing charm and stuffing them back into their cage.

“Hermione, if you still believe that, you’re not half as smart as I thought you were,” Merlin says harshly, snapping his wand aside with an impatient flick and freezing all the pixies in place at once.

She looks back at him with an astonished gape as hurt creeps in. Merlin returns her gaze with a clenched jaw and no mercy. His nostrils flare, and then he’s out the door behind Lockhart.

Hermione turns to Arthur, but the best he can give her is an apologetic shrug. She looks to Ron and Harry, but one by one, she realizes they’re all in agreement against her.

She whirls around and storms out of the classroom, hair bobbing behind her like an entire coral reef.

Hermione doesn’t come to lunch.

She sits apart from them all in Charms, and Harry and Ron’s grades suffer for it. Then again in History of Magic.

“Do somethinggggg,” Ron whines pathetically after an abysmally boring hour that felt more like ten.

“You’ve gotta talk to her,” Harry agrees desperately, underlining the gravity of the situation.

“I said what I meant, and I was right to,” Merlin replies stubbornly.

“We can’t go on like this!” Ron begs. “Arthur, tell Em to fix it.”

“I learned a long time ago never to get between Em and a brilliant woman. Besides, he’s right. She needs to come to her own conclusions, Ron.”

“Her own conclusions are stupid!”

“And yet they’re hers,” Merlin says finally, and that’s not a tone you argue with.

The next few days are miserable. Hermione avoids them all with single-minded determination. Arthur starts snapping at people, and forgets to check his strength more, resulting in a few accidental bruises as he slams into shoulders and steps on toes. Em’s no fun anymore, and he glares more than he smiles. Every now and then frustrated red and gold sparks fly out of Harry’s wand, singeing his wild hair. Ron’s prone to random outbursts, still convinced that Em could just fix it already but won’t.Harry and Ron both having detentions for their untraditional arrival at school puts them in an even fouler mood, Ron more often than not covered in polish from shining trophies and Harry spiralling from every second he has to spend answering fanmail with Lockhart, who requested him specially. Both boys think they have it worse than the other.

Hermione doesn’t say a word except to answer questions in class or sniff disdainfully. She lives in her books, most of them Lockhart’s, and shows off twice as hard as if to make up for something, particularly around Em.

It all comes to a head on Thursday. Harry stays after class to serve his detention, but Hermione and Merlin are made to as well, having not had the chance since they were called out in the first one and then promptly overrun by pixies.

“You just wait here then, Harry, won’t be a tick. Come on now, you pair,” Lockhart hums, leading the other two out. Hermione sniffs and marches out after him without looking at Em, who grimaces and follows much more reluctantly.

He leads them off to a nearby classroom, empty for the day, with a table set up in the centre and most of the lights off. Well, at least they won’t be doing whatever they’re doing under the doleful gaze of the Zouwu and the beaming grins of all those stupid bloody Lockharts.

The real thing spins tightly on his heels in something resembling a pirouette and claps his manicured hands together, leaning against the table and looking at Hermione with a conspiratorial wink. She ducks her head shyly and Merlin tries not to throw up in his mouth.

“So! I brought you two aside for a few reasons. I don’t normally impart this insider knowledge to my students, but I think it’ll benefit you to know that you are currently my best and worst students. Miss Granger,” he soothes, tilting his head in her direction dotingly. “You are a star. Full marks on all my tests. I can’t throw anything at you you can’t catch! And from what I hear, I’m not the only one. You’re absolutely brilliant, my dear, there’s no denying. You remind me of me when I was your age- fierce, intelligent–”

“Where is this going?” Merlin snaps waspishly, mentally dissecting Lockhart with relish. Hermione glares hotly at him as much as she can in her terribly flustered state.

“Ah. And then we have you, Mr. Emrys,” Lockhart continues with forced cheeriness. “You’ve made it very clear that not only do you not excel in my class; you don’t want to try. I can’t help but feel as if somewhere along the line I’ve led you astray. Don’t- haha, nice try- don’t try to deny it. I can read all the signs. Try as you might to hide it, I know you have something against me personally. Is it, perhaps, as the case has been many a time, that a lover left you to chase my legend? Young love can be fickle. Someone you knew and loved, perhaps, that was infatuated with me to a harmful degree? It’s understandable, it’s not uncommon at all my boy, so don’t be shy–”

“It’s much simpler than that,” Merlin interrupts with solid, unyielding steel lining his voice with devastating strength. “You disgust me.”

Lockhart stops short. His bouncy little hair wave wilts a little with the corners of his mouth. He chuckles weakly. Merlin doesn’t budge.

“You could show some respect!” Hermione bristles, puffing up like a cat, hands curled into fists.

“You’re sweet, Miss Granger. This is why I knew you’d be perfect for this little job,” Lockhart assures her, scooping up his bearings with practiced ease. “I have to work with Harry tonight, lots of fans to write to, you know, and I don’t want a single one of them to feel left out! But I don’t think Mr. Emrys needs my company right now anyway. I know just what he needs. Since I became a teacher I’ve developed a sort of knack for knowing these things, but I’ve always known how to read people. What Mr. Emrys needs, Miss Granger, is your expert tutelage.”

Merlin’s face goes slack and he crosses his arms. Hermione gasps.

“M-me? My–? ”

“You are just the witch to do it. I have the utmost confidence in you,” Lockhart says with a wink. He brushes out the door again and then they’re alone, Hermione making little indignant scoffing noises and Merlin glaring daggers at the door as if to burn it with his gaze.

Merlin moves first, rounding the table and flumping down in a seat with a heavy THUD.

“ YOU don’t need MY tutelage!” Hermione all but shrieks. “ TUTELAGE!”

“Really? I thought you were the Lockhart expert.”

“Don’t be nasty,” Hermione spits venomously. “After all he’s done– “

“All he says he’s done,” Merlin corrects.

“What?”

Merlin slams his book closed and spins to face her seriously.

“Yetis aren’t capable of human speech. The only subsect that is lives in Alaska, not the Himalayas. Werewolves aren’t savages by principle, and their instincts are animalistic, not malicious, under the full moon. They don’t corner people in telephone booths. The cry of the Banshee isn’t of a frequency audible to the human ear. He’s a fraud , Hermione.”

Hermione blinks. She takes a step back as if struck, and then one forward, puffing her chest out and gathering her ire.

“And I suppose you know better than our teacher?” she challenges.

“This isn’t about me, but you of all people know age has nothing to do with brains. I’m not smarter than anyone else, I just bothered to check. You could’ve done it just as easily, but you didn’t. Because he has a pretty smile ,” Merlin mocks cruelly.

“YOU’RE JUST JEALOUS!” she screams.

Merlin reels, taken aback. His brow softens in confusion.

“What?”

Hermione stares into his eyes and she must find something horrible. She gasps into her hands brokenly. Then she turns on her heels and runs, Merlin yelling after her.

Chapter 10: An interlude of the art variety

Chapter Text

Chapter 11: Fear and Love

Chapter Text

Hermione tears down the empty corridors as best she can through the tears in her eyes.

Why did she say that? Why? Jealous? What the hell was she on about?

Em should be jealous, but she doesn’t think he is. But why shouldn’t he be? Gilderoy is a brilliant man with thousands of accomplishments that he’s lauded for the world over. Everyone wants to be him, whether they’re academically inclined or jocks- he’s a legendary dueller, daring and strong, and he always knows just what to do with all his experience and wit. And so handsome! Why in the hell shouldn’t Em be jealous?

But the thought never occurred to her until now. Not consciously. Maybe it should have, but Em is just… jealous isn’t a word that belongs in the same sentence as Em. That would imply that someone else has something he wants, or is something he wishes to be. Em… Em floats through life without ever knowing that sting. He’s like his own solar system with his own gravitational field. He doesn’t compromise. He has no give. You can take him or leave him exactly as he is, no more, no less. Em thinks of himself in much the same way a wild animal does: need comes to him in fatigue, in hunger, in thirst- not in personal failure.

She wanted him to be jealous. It would prove that he isn’t so perfect, that he’s just a kid like her and he has flaws, that he gets self-conscious just like her no matter how brilliant and brave and unshakeable he is.

And, to her horror, she can’t run from it anymore- she wanted him to be jealous that Lockhart paid attention to her.

But when she said that—

YOU’RE JUST JEALOUS!

—the confusion on his face was so earnest it couldn’t be mistaken for anything else. Em isn’t jealous. Not one lick. The sun doesn’t want for the love of the planets that orbit it. He’s as incapable of insecurity as he is of coveting her attention, and never was that clearer to her than now.

She’ll never be as good as him. She’ll never be good enough for him. She’s just a stupid, insecure, jealous, scared little girl orbiting him with everyone else. Maybe that’s all she’ll ever be.

The only problem with this conclusion is Arthur.

Arthur, who Em tries for.

Arthur, who Em wants for the love of.

Arthur, who Em orbits.

Hermione can’t understand it. She knows he’s brilliant- almost enough to keep up with Em, but half of that’s familiarity and shared experience, she can tell. Academic brilliance is not who Arthur is. Arthur’s the guy on the sports field, the guy introducing his knuckles to people’s heads in some weird noogie bonding ritual, a man of the people, a physical force and not one to be reckoned with. Arthur has the same unignorable presence of a freight train. Em’s a scarecrow with an aversion to physical contact and a gentle soul. He puts no stock in Arthur’s easy power or leadership, but he orbits him anyway. It doesn’t make sense.

How Em can act disappointed in her for admiring the values she admires in him in another man, and not be jealous, she can’t comprehend. And then- then! To say she’s wrong to be impressed by a man for his pretty smile, when he looks at golden-haired Arthur like- like-

Well, like he’s the sun.

Arthur isn’t a stupid jock. She knows that. He’s a brilliant boy and a brilliant friend. But Gilderoy’s more than brilliant!

…Isn’t he?

Yetis aren’t capable of human speech. The only subsect that is lives in Alaska, not the Himalayas.

Werewolves aren’t savages by principle, and their instincts are animalistic, not malicious, under the full moon. They don’t corner people in telephone booths.

The cry of the Banshee isn’t of a frequency audible to the human ear.

He’s a fraud, Hermione.

…No. Someone would’ve noticed. He wouldn’t have just been allowed to publish lies without evidence, there are people to check that, experts.

You didn’t check, a quiet little voice in her head tells her. You didn’t bother. You could’ve, but you didn’t.

Because he has a pretty smile, Em’s voice sneers, and it echoes in her head, hurting her heart each time.

Hermione squeezes her eyes shut and sinks down on a step, pulling her limbs as far into herself as she can. She wants to disappear. She’s so stupid. So mind-bogglingly stupid. She just believes what people tell her without even thinking, as long as it sounds nice and someone handsome tells her. She’s as pathetic and pretentious as everyone thinks. She has nothing to be proud of, she’s just one of the mindless crowd, following, regurgitating, nodding and smiling and living and dying without having any effect on the world whatsoever. And she had the gall to think she was better than that. What a stupid little girl!

She’s pushed all her friends away. The only friends she’s ever had. She’s thrown them away in a matter of days for some liar with pretty teeth. They’ve gone through so much together, but it only took one poser to tear them apart- that’s her fault. They all tried to tell her how stupid she was being, but she wouldn’t listen. She just had to keep being stupid.

And now she’s mad at Em. Screaming at him, accusing him of random things that aren’t even true and she knows it. Because, what? He’s smarter than her? He doesn’t think of her like she thinks of him? Because she’s such a mess she can’t even admit that she’s the cause of all her own problems? She’s a disgrace. She deserves so much worse than his disappointment.

You’re not half as smart as I thought you were.

“Hermione?”

Hermione chokes down a sob like it’ll make her sound less pathetic. She’s hit with a sudden wave of deja-vu.

“What are you doing here? Last time you sent Arthur,” she mumbles into her knees. It’s barely coherent, but she doesn’t much care if he hears.

She feels him sink down beside her more than sees or hears it. He’s always terribly quiet when he’s not being ridiculously clumsy. So, like, 20% of the time.

“Tell me what’s really wrong,” he begs in the gentlest voice she’s ever heard. And it’s just horrible, because he does care about her. He’s too nice not to. She is a silly little thing to care for out of pity and obligation. Here he is after she’s been horrible to pick her up and make sure she’s alright to keep spinning around him, safe in his orbit, because she certainly can’t be entrusted to herself.

Hermione curls into his chest without a word and cries herself stupid. And Em sits there and holds her, brushing a hand over her hair and pressing his cheek to her head and murmuring softly. Safe again, she feels better.

Eventually even her tears fail her, and she’s left feeling empty and brittle like a dead leaf.

She almost lets herself fall asleep there. She knows Em would look after her. She doesn’t know what he’d do, where and how and when she’d wake up, but she knows it would be the best place and time to do so, and she’d feel looked after and well-rested and loved. He’d make it so she was right where she should be.

“You’re perfect,” she whispers brokenly into his chest instead.

He starts shaking, and for a horrible moment she thinks she’s made him cry. Then she hears the laughter.

“I’m so- I’m sorry, sorry… I’m not laughing at you, Mione. That’s just the most absurd thing I’ve ever heard,” he cackles. She snaps back and hits him indignantly.

“You are! You never do anything wrong! You’re not scared of anything! There’s nothing you don’t know! You never feel like you’re not enough because you’re always enough! You’re PERFECT!” she hurls accusingly, hitting him all the while.

He just laughs harder with every word she says. Laughs until tears spring into his eyes. Tears of laughter- but they might be a little sad, too. They might be very sad if he thinks about it.

“Ohhh, Hermione,” he breathes finally, pulling her back into his chest. She feels him shake his head and swallow, and she just knows what he’ll look like now, staring off into the distance like he can see the whole world and everything that’s ever happened in it right in front of him, but he can’t do anything about it.

“Don’t say I’m your favourite. That’s Arthur,” she mumbles preemptively.

“Arthur doesn’t count. And you are my favourite,” he argues, “But that wasn’t what I was going to say.”

She waits.

“Well say it then.”

“I’m trying to think how,” he admits, sounding very far away. “I’m trying to think of an example of when I did something wrong, when I was scared, when I wasn’t enough, but there are too many to pick from.”

Hermione pulls back to look at him, as much as she doesn’t want to, and she’s shocked to find it’s because he sounds small and she wants to fix it. That’s something she was just dead certain wasn’t possible, and here they are, roles reversed, her wanting to take care of him just because someone needs to.

“There was a time when I woke up every single day of my life and lied to Arthur. I lied to everyone, my friends, my family. Everyone. Every day. Because I was scared. Even when my secrets got people hurt, I didn’t tell. Even when people I loved died, I didn’t tell. Even when Arthur looked at me and trusted me with all of him, I didn’t tell. He told me all of his secrets, and I was too scared to tell him who I was. Sometimes I still wonder why he ever forgave me. Sometimes I wonder why I forgave me. And every now and then I have to do it again.”

Hermione shakes her head a little. She feels like she’s watching something impossible. Lying… Em wouldn’t lie. Why would he lie? He couldn’t, anyway, he’s terrible at it, as soon as he said nothing was wrong last year when he yelled at Hagrid they all knew something was. Lying every day? Lying to Arthur? What was so important? What could scare Em? Hiding, it just… it isn’t like him.

“There was one time I did something stupid and my friend got blamed. Even when he died I was too scared to say anything. Another time I didn’t listen to my father figure and he got hurt badly- well, that happened all the time actually. I got loads of people hurt."

Em’s hands creep up hesitantly to his scarf and he grips it in an uncharacteristically uncertain show of vulnerability. As he continues to speak he unwraps it. He’s never done that before.

“When I was really young there was this guy in my village. He hated me. Me and this other girl, especially. He thought we were the devil’s children. My mum always said to be careful around him. It was really stupid- one day we were playing and I turned a leaf pink with magic. She said that was her favourite colour, pink like the sunset. And that guy, he saw.”

Something chokes out of Hermione as the scarf finally comes loose and she sees his neck for the first time. It’s beaten ugly. Ugly where he should be beautiful. It’scruel. It's hard to look at, like a little bird someone's stepped on. Something that should never know the hatred of permanent violence broken viscerally by it and marred with proof.

“He grabbed me by the neck. She was so scared, but I- I was scared too. I screamed. I yelled at her as she was about to run. I said, ‘help me!’. And she stopped. She would’ve been fine if she’d just kept on running. But I asked her for help. And she was brave. She ran at him. She barely came up to his waist. He slammed her into a rock and crushed her skull, and she died while I watched."

Hermione gasps like she's watching it happen before her eyes. A tear rolls down her cheek, still cold from selfish sobbing. Em's voice is so gentle she could float on it, even as his words make her want to drown.

"Maybe I could’ve helped her, but while he was choking me I forgot I had magic. I forgot everything except fear and pain. I was too scared to die alone, and after that, I was too scared to ever ask for help again.”

“...That wasn’t your fault,” Hermione chokes out breathlessly. Her eyes sting with even more tears, and they’re worse this time. They burn.

“Yes it was, Hermione. Yes it was. But I didn’t mean it,” he whispers, guiding her back into his arms. It’s strange without the cushioning of his scarf, so integral to his persona. “I was scared.”

🧣

Merlin closes the door quietly behind him, slipping his shoes off and padding across to his and Arthur’s bed.

“So?” Arthur rumbles, voice low with tiredness, “Should I prepare to get expelled for excessive honesty by proxy?”

“What?”

“How’d it go with Lockhart?”

“Oh yeah. I forgot about him.”

“You what?”

Merlin sinks into bed beside him, closing the curtains and setting the charms with a wave of his hand. Arthur sets about helping him out of his scarf.

“Wasn’t just me, remember? Hermione stayed too. We had a talk.” he sighs, running a hand through his curls. One of Arthur’s joins it there and Merlin lets the last of his tension seep out of him, like it always does when Arthur does that.

“She thought I was perfect,” he mumbles.

“Perfect?"Arthur snorts, "She doesn’t know you at all.”

“That’s what I said. Well, I quickly cured her of that misconception, and a few others. I’m pretty sure she’s ferreted Lockhart out now.”

“Hallelujah, at last.”

“I’m a bit worried about her retribution, actually. Now that she knows he duped her and lied about all those ‘accomplishments’ of his, I fear for the guy.”

“Ugh, don’t bother. Come on,” Arthur urges, pulling Merlin down by his scrawny chest. “Come on, come on.”

Merlin lets out an amused sound tinged with false exasperation and falls right into his husband, who spits out the thick black curls that have just whipped him in the mouth. His hand doesn’t stop its ministrations- in fact the other one comes up to join it, running through Merlin’s hair with deep appreciation. Merlin hums his own.

Even if he had as much trouble seeing in the dark as anyone else did, he would know exactly how far Arthur’s nose is from his, where his eyes are and how they’re half lidded with sleep and love. He would still know how Arthur’s mouth is twisted up against the pillow so his lips are always parted a little and how it makes one of his cheeks look bigger than the other, and how he’s about to make that little noise–

Arthur makes a sort of grumble-snuffle.

–That one. Merlin expects that anyone could spend as much time with someone as he has Arthur and know all these things, but the beauty of it is that no one has. No one other than he and Arthur can see the other half of their heart with their eyes closed, and then open them and see it still.

“Have I ever told you that I love you?”

Arthur pretends to think. “Hmm… I think once.”

“Yeah? When?”

“I’m recalling an outpour of desperate confessions in a German bunker somewhere in the south of France–”

“Shut up, I was probably horny.”

“If horny I-love-yous count then I think you might have even said it twice.”

Merlin gives a lazy gasp. “No.”

“Yes, I’m distinctly remembering some very horny I-love-yous, but those might have been screams of pleasure, my my, it’s hard to tell sometimes–”

“You are such a prat,” Merlin cackles quietly, slapping Arthur on the chest. He gets a low chuckle in return.

“I love you too.”

“Oh I wasn’t saying it now. I asked if I had ever said it-”

“You sneaky Slytherin bastard.”

“You love it.”

“I do.”

“You love me.”

“I do.”

“Well then I guess I love you too,” Merlin allows with a resigned sigh, snuggling in close to his husband and melting into him until they’re a whole again. He’d never tell Arthur, but life feels like the intervals between the time they spend curled into each other.

♥️

“What’re you lookin’ so glum for?” Arthur demands, poking Ron in the side the next morning while Merlin makes the bed. He insists he’s the only one who knows how.

“What’re you lookin’ so cheery for?” Ron retorts dejectedly. “It’s just another day without Hermione, isn’t it?”

“Oh, that. Em fixed that.”

“Woah, hey, hey, I didn’t fix-”

Merlin’s forced to snap his jaw shut and focus on staying upright as Ron flies past him out of the dormitories in his singlet and superman boxers.

Merlin turns his glare on his husband.

“What?”

“What was that?”

“I thought you fixed it!”

“I didn’t say–”

A suspicious series of THUDs and a familiar yelp sounds from the common room and Arthur takes the excuse to avoid his husband’s ire as the opportunity it is, going to investigate.

Ron’s on his arse at the foot of the stairs to the girls’ dormitory. The girls themselves are rushing out in various states of ready-for-the-day to see who tried to get up. Arthur covers his laugh with a cough and the girls’ giggles as Ron pulls himself up, looking sore. He freezes when he sees Hermione there, and after a second she shakes her head fondly with a little huff and heads back in to finish her daily battle with her hair.

She’s waiting for them all by the door when they come out for breakfast (after Ron’s stopped and put on some pants). Harry looks like the sun’s come out again. Arthur scoops her up and spins her once in a bear hug, making Hermione seem about the same weight as a couple of grapes.

“Blimey, is it good to see you,” Ron gasps with feeling. Hermione blushes.

“You just don’t like doing your own homework,” she accuses, but there’s no heat behind it. “I’m sorry I was so thick. Really, I…” she shakes her head and all her mass of hair echoes the motion belatedly. She glances sheepishly at Em. He shakes his head.

“I was pretty mean,” he concedes, slinging an arm around her in an easy motion and confirming that all is forgiven. And off they go to breakfast.

Chapter 12: A RT

Chapter Text

Chapter 13: Bullying (from both sides)

Chapter Text

“Did I fall asleep on you yesterday?” Hermione asks as they head off to the great hall. Merlin nods. “Thought I might’ve. Sorry. And thanks, for getting me back to my dorm. Who helped you? I should thank her, too.”

“Helped?” Merlin asks, caught off guard.

“No one helped you?” she frowns, her pace slowing. The others stop and turn to see what the fuss is all about.

“C’mon, we’re here, can’t you smell the pancakes?” Ron whines, gesturing to the inviting door.

“Hang on, that doesn’t- you had to have help. Boys can’t get up to the girls dormitories on their own,” Hermione says, ignoring Ron entirely, squinting at Merlin, who chuckles nervously.

“Woah, what’s that over there?” Arthur snaps, pointing behind Harry’s head. They each follow his finger, Hermione a little less abruptly than the others, and Merlin shoots his husband a grateful look.

“What the hell are you talking about?” Ron demands, crabbier by the second.

“Thought I saw a… snake. On the… candles,” Arthur finishes lamely.

Trust Arthur to cover up something suspicious with something even more suspicious. Even when he tries to help, Merlin still ends up the one bailing them out of these slip-ups. Why does he always use snakes?

“I’m gonna do a thing,” he announces with finality, hopefully drawing their attention, and marches off in the direction of the Slytherin table to do said thing.

People stare openly. The entire room does, really. Merlin doesn’t give them the time of day or the satisfaction of looking nervous. He doesn’t even look back at his troupe of menaces to see their reactions. They’re Arthur’s problem now.

It’s not as unusual for Slytherins to sit alone at their table as it is for Gryffindors, who would find that concept appalling. So Merlin’s not terribly surprised to find Draco sitting on his lonesome, staring at him over his porridge and grapefruit, struck dumb.

He plops himself down opposite him and tucks into a cinnamon bun.

“Morning,” he greets cheerily.

Another slop of porridge drops from Draco’s spoon onto the table. He hasn’t noticed the steadily growing puddle for his shock. In fact, his jaw’s still on the floor. Eh, Merlin will give him a minute. They have time.

“What are you doing?” Draco hisses in a much more heated imitation of his father’s cold drawl.

“‘M having breakfast, what’s it look like?”

“ At the Slytherin table.”

“Yeah.”

“That’s not allowed!”

“Yeah it is, actually. There’s no rule. Did you think there was a rule? Is that why no one’s mingling?”

The entire Slytherin table’s gone silent to watch the exchange. There’s a low hushed whisper circling the other tables, and Merlin feels every open glance thrown their way. He’s pretty sure Fred and George exchange a handful of money, which makes him smirk.

“Your family’s more important than mine,” Draco spits accusatorily, just barely restraining his words so they stay between them. He leans over the table, eyes flashing, teeth bared. He’s not cleared to say this. If his father knew Draco was frothing at an Emrys like this, he’d be in fits. No, this is all Draco. It’s about time. “How can anyone respect you? Why? How can you come over here like this, ponce about with those shabby Gryffindors, Weasleys and Grangers and all the other nobodies? You don’t even care! You don’t even notice what you do, and still my father thinks you’re the holy f*ckING grail, and no one says anything, and you can do whatever you like and say whatever you like and be friends with whoever you like, and I can’t, and you need to tell me WHY! ”

Merlin pauses for Draco to heave in a few slightly manic breaths. Well, everyone probably heard that. Maybe this kind of no-holds-barred breakdown is exactly what Draco needs, though. If he doesn’t grow out of this conversation, which Merlin doubts, the reactions of the peanut gallery will force him to. Draco’s just solidified his development. So who can blame Merlin if he’s smiling behind his bun?

“Funny, I was going to ask you the same thing,” he hums genially.

“Don’t you dare mock me. Not about this.”

“I’m dead serious, Draco,” Merlin assures him in a solemn voice, holding the boy hostage with his challenging eyes. “Look me in the eyes and give me one good reason you can’t do what you want.”

Draco blinks like he’s been slapped, caught entirely off guard by something.

“Harry… Potter said that.”

Merlin nods. “He’s absolutely right. None of us have enough time to waste a second standing for things we don’t believe in. Life is too short not to be as happy as we can. Harry Potter is a name respected the world over, but the happiest I’ve ever seen him is when he forgot it for a bit. I don’t think you know who you are until you’ve been so happy you forget your own name. But you never know until you try.”

Draco stares back at him with wide eyes, taking every word with expert care, turning them over and fitting them together backwards and forwards and upside down, analyzing them through lens after lens, careful not to break them. Merlin leaves him to it.

“Always a spot at the Gryffindor table,” he throws over his shoulder as he goes.

Ron assures Merlin when he gets back to the gang that Malfoy’s a lost cause, but it’s not just Malfoy Merlin’s thinking of. At dinner, two Hufflepuff girls make a leap of faith and hurriedly dash over to their friend at the Ravenclaw table, who quickly makes room for them. They look over their shoulders for the first half of the meal, but no one stops them, and people notice.

Tentatively, gradually, the Great Hall becomes a veritable tapestry of tie colours. Merlin introduces Neville to Luna Lovegood. Arthur looks out for Ginny, who looks mighty alone in a sea of people, armed with a thousand Quidditch-related discussion topics.

The Gryffindors and Slytherins are hardest to budge. There’s some deep-seated stuff there, but it’s the Slytherins more than the Gryffindors who hold a grudge- the Reds are just quick to react. The Greens, on the other hand, are slow to forget.

In response to this surge of camaraderie, there’s a surge of hate. An equal and opposite reaction. Merlin’s seen it in every revolution, movement, and stand he’s ever lived through. He’s confident they’ll win this battle in the end, but they have to fight it first, and it gets ugly.

People start hiding Merlin’s things. He and Arthur aren’t always welcome in the Gryffindor common room anymore. Liz looks at them apologetically whenever she has to tell them someone’s given them the wrong password. Merlin suspects she’s stopped telling them and just started letting them in regardless.

Harry gets tripped going into every other class. The newest thing the crowd is calling him is ‘Greenie’ since he’s ‘so fond of Slytherin’. He’s broken his glasses twice from people bumping into him on purpose, and someone swaps his Gryffindor scarf out for a Slytherin one.

Some of the girls try to tell Hermione not to go near those Slytherins, convinced it’s a long con and she’ll be the butt of the joke. It’s true she’s a perfect target, between her buck teeth, insane hair, dark skin, academic drive and muggle parents, but she apparently didn’t know that until now. It hits her hard and she starts to wonder if she’s really that different from the other girls,if she’s that much worse, that everyone else can see it.. The worst of the Slytherins do nothing to disprove this theory.

Ron's no help. He'sparticularly protective of her, seeing every strike by the opposition as the entirety of Slytherin’s fault. He’s completely oblivious to the Gryffindor bullying, and out of respect for his brothers the bullies give him a pass. Merlin would be mad, but Ron’s gullible enough that he might genuinely not know it’s going on.

Draco Malfoy works his arse off staying out of it, and is surprisingly successful, until about half a month in.

Harry’s the only one that’s there for it, since he’s the only one on the Quidditch team. Malfoy’s been made Slytherin’s seeker, and he’s all ready to be an insufferable bitch about it until Marcus Flint accuses Harry of stinking like mudblood and being a disappointment to his distinguished parents.

Before either team even has the time to roar defiance, Draco punches Flint in the jaw.

Practice is cancelled. No one talks to Draco the rest of the day, one side considering him a traitor, the other still wary of him. He’s used to spending days and nights in the infirmary alone though (Flint punched back and he’s significantly bigger than Draco). Draco has eating problems, and anxiety problems, and sleeping problems, and pills to take, and checkups to have, and parents that won’t accept anything less than perfection. Madame Pomfrey is pretty much the only person he likes in the world, and definitely the only one he cares to talk to, except maybe his mother. He spends more nights in the infirmary than in the dorms. He likes the infirmary better.

But in all the time he’s spent in these medical cots, he’s never seen anyone else by his except Madame Pomfrey. It was like there was an imperturbable bubble around the space and other people didn’t exist within it. No one knew about this little corner except Draco and Poppy. He’s completely safe here.

Today that is disproven.

Harry Potter is dead asleep. He’s still in his muddy Quidditch robes, the outer coat slung over the chair he’s passed out in, barely visible over his massive bush of curly black hair. It tickles Draco’s legs, Harry’s head's slumped into the edge of the mattress by the bedside. He’s still got his playing gloves on. He’s all curled into himself in a bid to make himself smaller. Draco knew he did that, but even in his sleep? It’s like he wants to disappear.

Well, at least they have that in common.

Harry’s completely silent, even when he snuffles over in his sleep, his hair falling belatedly after him through the air like it’s waving. His glasses are smushed against his face at an uncomfortable angle. His eyelashes are dark and long and thick to match his hair- Draco’s always been jealous of Harry’s eyelashes, his own being white and wispy, barely visible. His mouth is in a stupid pout, like a baby doll, quiet little puffs of air escaping his lips in time with his deep breaths, his skinny back rising and falling.

Draco swallows. There’s sunshine coming in through the curtains… Potter will be missing something. Practice, class, lunch, something. He shouldn’t be here. Why is he here?

Draco does his best to straighten Harry’s glasses and then shakes him on the shoulder.

Harry rises as silently as he slept, eyes blinking open and focussing very fast. Draco didn’t think anyone woke up like that, he thought that was just for the movies. The eye Draco couldn’t see before is black and puffy, and Harry’s hand goes to his head gingerly like it’s hurting under all that hair.

“Draco. Er- Malfoy,” he says, his soft voice the only giveaway that he was just conked out with his glasses smushed halfway into his face. He settles them over his nose and there’s a mark where he slept on them.

“Potter,” Draco returns as smoothly as he can.

They stare at each other for a few awkward moments.

“I’ll go get Madame Pomfrey,” Harry mumbles at the floor, shuffling to get up.

“You’re not going anywhere,” Draco orders before he thinks about it. “What happened?”

Harry plops back down into his visitor’s seat like his strings have been cut, still only using the edge of the chair, clasping his hands on his knobby knees.

“There was a fight. Flint said something and you punched him, and everyone jumped you at once. It was a mess.”

“I know all that. Doesn’t explain why you’re here.”

Harry looks unsure of himself for a second. His eyebrows pull together and he winces as it tugs at his bruise. He bites his lip.

“What does that word mean?” he blurts.

Draco knows exactly what word he means. Potter’s… Potter’s never heard it before?

“As soon as Flint said it there was an uproar. It’s something really bad. What is it?”

Draco looks to the side and chooses his words carefully. He finds himself tracing patterns into the bedsheets as he talks.

“Mudblood. It’s bad,” he confirms. “It’s a slur for muggle-borns. Pure-bloods take great pride in their heritage, the direct magical line of their family. They think muggles marrying into a wizarding family taints the pure blood, makes it dirty. It’s not a nice thing to call somebody,” he finishes quietly.

Potter’s quiet for a while as he considers this.

“Why’d you punch him?”

Draco picks at the sheets. Summons his courage. He doesn’t have enough to look him in the eye, but he has just enough to say what he means. That’s what Emrys said to do, isn’t it?

“Because family’s off limits.”

Potter’s answering grin is as wide as his bruises will allow him, and then some. He doesn’t even seem to notice the pain. Draco feels something incredibly foreign and precious that he never thought he’d feel sitting in this infirmary- pride. It knocks him flat. He thinks he’s smiling too.

Emrys was right. It feels good doing what you want.

Then Harry’s smile dies all at once as something occurs to him, and Draco feels his own disappear too.

“Oh no,” Harry says with feeling.

“What? Disappointed I’m not a complete prick?” Draco challenges. He dares Potter to take this from him.

“Not you. You’re good. I mean you’re not a prick. Well, you are a bit, but I didn’t mean that. Was that the first time that you- I mean, did you ever- the Slytherins, do they know you-?”

“Which side I’m on?”

“Yeah.”

“They do now.”

Harry’s face collapses like that’s the worst news he’s ever received.

“Spit it out, Potter,” Draco orders, losing patience.

“Well if you stayed out of it before… no wonder they all lost it at you… but Draco, now they know, they’re gonna be horrible. They’re gonna eat you alive.”

“I can look after myself,” Draco declares over his fear.

“No, they’re really horrible! Seriously, what they’re doing to us is gonna look tame compared to what they’ll do to you! And your dad…”

“I’ll use Emrys to justify it. Father practically worships him, it’ll do,” Draco snaps immediately, anything to stop them talking about that and him thinking about it. “What’s this about them doing things to you? What kind of things?”

“Forget that. You have to watch your back,” Harry urges, suddenly full of determined fire, leaning in. “You can sit with us now. I know you probably don’t want to. I wouldn’t make you choose, Draco, I know you still don’t like me, but seriously, you need a friend right now, because it’s basically war out there. When this all settles down, you can leave if you want, but just take it for now. You can’t do this alone.”

Draco blinks. Is he… offering him his friendship? A seat at the Gryffindor table? Is he serious?

“Who are you to tell me what I can and can’t do?” he hears himself shoot back automatically.

“You can do whatever you like, but this is the best offer you’re gonna get! You don’t have to be our friend or anything, okay? But I promise you that we will have your back if you have ours. Can you say the same of Crabbe and Goyle?”

What a stupid question. Of course he can’t.

“Is it really that bad out there?” he asks, because he really doesn’t know.

“Yes,” Harry stresses.

Just do what you want, Draco.

Well… isn’t his father always telling him it would look good to be more chummy with Harry Potter? And with him and Emrys as a package deal, he can’t possibly be unhappy with Draco for this, blood feuds aside. It just has to look good.

And it just so happens that it’s what Draco wants to do.

“Alright,” he agrees. “Best of luck convincing Weasley.”

💥

Throughout this, regular politics continue as scheduled. Now that Hermione Granger’s lost faith in Gilderoy Lockhart, rumours fly.

Merlin has to admit that sticking it to him was fun, though.

“How about we have our star student come up and give a demonstration?” Lockhart said in the class following the whole ‘tutoring’ affair. “Will the lovely Miss Granger please pick a volunteer and come up to the front?”

She quickly picked Merlin, which made Lockhart falter for a moment, before he evidently came to the conclusion that the infallible Hermione had converted him and Merlin was now another die-hard hater who’d seen the light and become a fan.

“Marvellous! I can’t wait to hear from you both, you make quite the little dream team, so cute. Up you come!”

And up they went, proceeding to dunk on their professor with unmatched enthusiasm and ruthless abandon, because Hermione is not a girl to cross and Merlin was long overdue some entertainment.

In their dramatic recreation of the great Gilderoy besting a horrifying mountain troll (20 feet tall, he swears) Merlin, playing Gilderoy, managed to work in six different unsubtle product placement advertisem*nts for things like blinding white toothpaste and L’Oreal (because you’re worth it). He made it a ballet performance, flicking his hair so obnoxiously with his pirouettes it’s uncanny, speaking in a booming, pompous voice and swishing his robes around unnecessarily like a cape.

Not to be outdone, Hermione, as the troll, gave an entire lecture with verbal citations on all the fallacies in the source material, which, incidentally, Lockhart wrote.

Once all that was done, Merlin turned directly to the class with Lockhart’s exact brand of would-be roguish charm and said:

“I can’t wait to write this in my next book: Travels with Trolls, by Magical Me: Gilderoy Lockhart, Order of Merlin, Third Class, Honorary Member of the Dark Force Defense League, and five-time winner of Witch Weekly’s Most Charming Smile Award. Conditionsmayapply. Eachsoldseperately. Batteriesnotincluded.”

That’s the last time Lockhart let them up in front of the class, but the damage was done.

“I bet he rejected her and she got all huffy.”

“I don’t know, she knows her stuff. Maybe she’s right about him.”

“You believe Hermione Granger over Gilderoy Lockhart?! Your loss, honey!”

“What about Em? He’s smart too.”

“Not too shabby, either.”

“They were funny up there in class.”

“Have you heard him talk? I want to believe anything he says.”

“Em or Professor Lockhart?”

“...Both.”

“Yeah, but…”

And so it goes.

No one’s sure what to make of it, until Lockhart makes his biggest mistake.

Thinking that he just needs to try harder, Lockhart sends his next best student (read: biggest fan) to cure Merlin of his delusions through tutelage. After an hour with Merlin, Marie-Chantelle would sooner take a lecture from a spork than Gilderoy Lockhart.

So Lockhart sends in his third best student.

Jessica spends every lesson after that glaring at him like he’s dirt on her shoe.

One by one, Merlin converts the false messiah’s followers, and the extremely unbalanced measure of respect in his class dips. There are two unforeseen consequences of this:

1. Merlin has once again underestimated the wrath of the fairer sex. Lockhart now has what amounts to an angry mob for third period.
2. Apparently teenage girls need something to focus all that attention on, and they’re not too picky about where it gets transferred. The short version? They all have crushes on Merlin now.

Harry says it’s karma for leaving him at the mercy of Colin Creevey. Arthur, who swears up and down he’s not jealous (‘why should I be jealous of a horde of prepubescent girls, Merlin, don’t flatter yourself’ ) makes a full-time job out of ‘accidentally’ stepping on the girls' toes and scoffing loudly whenever they bat their lashes at his husband. Hermione doesn’t fare much better, actually. Ron reckons he’s some kind of brilliant woman-whisperer and that’s why Fred and George love him so much.

It’s a strange turn of events to coincide- a school-wide upheaval of pureblood ideals and the downfall of Gilderoy Lockhart at the hands of children. It’s almost a relief when Sam’hain rolls around.

Arthur laughs out loud when Harry tells them he’s volunteered them to go to Sir Nicolas’ Deathday party instead of the feast. That’s sort of their plan too, to reconvene and celebrate with those long lost to the mortal plane, isn’t it?

“Can’t go, sorry Harry,” Merlin says with a hand over his husband’s fat mouth. “But a word to the wise: eat before you go.”

“Why…?” Ron asks suspiciously, eyes narrowed.

“Have you been to a Deathday party before? Is there anything you haven’t done?” Hermione bemoans.

“He did say you probably wouldn’t want to come,” Harry notes. “He gave you a pass, for some reason.”

“Aaaand we’re taking it,” Arthur declares with finality. “Thank you and goodnight.”

Maybe Sam’hain is cursed. This happened last year too, didn’t it? As soon as they left, Ron, Harry and Hermione got attacked by a troll.

This year, while Merlin and Arthur are seeing their friends that are only mostly gone, the trouble trio find a message of doom written on the wall in blood and the petrified body of an innocent cat- a familiar no less.

And that’s not counting the fact that Merlin comes back to his bedsheets shredded and a word spray-painted that same alarming red on the mattress.

TRAITOR.

Chapter 14: Shiiiizcheeeen

Chapter Text

Traitor.

Merlin can’t think of anything worse. He’s been called things that history’s forgotten on purpose. He’s been abused and tortured and pulled inside out. He’s been the victim of war crimes before and after they were classified as such. There aren’t a lot of things you could say or do to him that would make him blink these days.

Traitor.

That still hurts.

It hurt him every time Uther uttered it from the throne room, condemning and hollow, following him through the day and stealing into his bed at night to crush him until it sounded like Arthur’s voice saying it. It hurt whenever someone spit it at him from the pyre, accusing him of leaving them to die out of pure selfish cowardice. It hurt even when he and Arthur transcended devotion, rewrote the spiritual and physical laws to be together as truly and eternally as it was impossible to be, and still people hissed it through their teeth at him with untempered hate in their eyes.

It hurt when he and Arthur had to leave the people they found along their way, taking their love and stealing away like thieves in the night, unable to grow old with them, and were cursed up and down for it. It hurt when they were hated by their children for outliving them. It hurt whenever it came up in their secret intelligence stints, when they were supposed to be fighting for their country but were fighting for good. With every lie Merlin told, it hurt a little less, and it hurt a little more.

Merlin’s told a lot of lies.

You can’t give anyone or anything your everything when your everything eclipses the sun and they’re dust mites. But that’s what everyone wants. Everything. What else are they supposed to tell them? They’ve lived so many lives, and each of them Merlin would give his all if he could. He can’t though. No matter where and when they are, whatever the circ*mstances, Merlin and Arthur are holding back. They never show all their cards. They are lying. They are faking.

T r a i t o r.

Merlin feels Arthur start to tremble ever so slightly beside him. Arthur. sh*t, he’ll be…

…Furious. Yep. He’s trembling with rage. In some ways, eternity has been fantastic for their patience. In others, it’s been quite the opposite. And this is a sore topic. Whatever that word means to Merlin, Arthur’s never liked it. Nothing gets him quite so enraged as him or Merlin’s loyalty being called into question. Both of them still equate that word with executions. Merlin still gets scared. But Arthur gets angry. Every time, he grabs Merlin by the face hard and burns him with his eyes, reminds him fiercely that it’s not true. And if he’s feeling generous, Merlin stops Arthur before he razes any buildings or dismantles any organisations that integrity comes in many shapes and sizes, and some people have trouble recognising it, but no one knows it better than them. That they have not, nor have ever been, traitors.

These children don’t know what they’re saying. They don't know what that word means. And they don’t deserve an angry Arthur.

Merlin whips the mess away with a thought as he turns to his husband. The last thing Arthur needs is a visual reminder.

It takes a lot of deep breathing techniques, soft murmurs in the old tongue, and gentle but firm assurances, but Merlin’s just about got his husband wound down when they realise the kids are gone and it’ll be past curfew in a minute. In fact, the entire dorm is strangely empty. There’s no one for Arthur to rage at anyway.

They get the news from Liz a minute before almost the entirety of Gryffindor pours into the common room all in a tizzy. Almost the entirety, except their Gryffindors. It’s always something.

“The chamber of secrets. I’ve heard that before, why have I heard that before?” Arthur asks the wall.

“It’s Slytherin’s, I heard. Salazar Slytherin’s. Or it was,” Neville explains, seemingly scared of the topic and simultaneously happy to be of use. “There’s a legend that he made a secret chamber in the school and trapped a monster in there to purge the school of muggle-borns. If it’s open now- well that can’t be good, can it?”

Merlin flinches at ‘purge’. Ah, another sore topic. Call him sensitive, Merlin’s always had a bit of a knee-jerk reaction against genocide.

“Salazar?” Arthur repeats, sounding unsure they’re talking about the same person. “Salazar Simon Slytherin, Salazar?”

Neville nods heartily, and then frowns. Simon? That’s not in Hogwarts: A History.

Merlin allows himself a long and drawn-out groan. This? Really? In the middle of a social revolution with blood purity and house elitism at its heart? Holy sh*t, Sal, Arthur told you that chamber thing was gonna bite you in the ass.

The story’s sure gotten twisted. At the time wizards were still the oppressed minority, and the wounds from the witch trials and burnings were still fresh. Salazar in particular came from a place with no stomach for magic unless it was God’s, and he suffered for it. He knew better than anyone what they were protecting. He didn’t hate muggles or muggle-borns indiscriminately, but he had more trouble trusting them, particularly with his home, this place he built from the ground up with his chosen family so people like him would be safe. He had trouble believing it wouldn’t be ripped away from him if he let his guard down for a moment. The chamber was insurance. It was just a safety measure. It was only a rumour, anyway, there’s no monster, that’s just where Sal kept his familiar, Basil. It was more like a big basilisk tank than anything. Merlin wonders how Basil’s doing, anyway. Are they still alive? Are they getting enough to eat? Merlin should check.

More pressing are the concerns regarding whoever’s responsible for the message. Someone’s stirring sh*t up and using Sal’s legend to do it. What’s the point? It looks just like throwing up smoke to Merlin, but to petrify a cat, a familiar, is no small feat. Basil might’ve done it, there’s always enough water in their chamber to reflect those lethal eyes of theirs, which would result in petrification, but how would Mrs. Norris have gotten in? Has someone actually opened it? Another parseltongue? That’s extremely unlikely, with all the renovations Hogwarts has gone through over the years, Basil’s chamber would be somewhere under the second floor girl’s bathroom by Merlin’s estimate, if it’s still there at all. This is so weird.

Supposing Basil did get out, though, they were always fond of using the pipes to get around. Well, when they were making a prison break. They were all too happy to tag along around Sal’s shoulders or legs if they were being taken for a walk, eyes shut like Sal trained them, but every now and then they got naughty and snuck out into the pipes. If they knew they were being naughty, that’s where they’d be. They’d still keep their eyes closed, though, wouldn’t they? They were a good basilisk, really, they never wanted to hurt anyone.

When the trio finally return, it’s with wide eyes and grim faces.

“Harry’s hearing voices,” is the first thing Hermione says.

“Hermione!” Ron chides.

“What? If anyone will have any ideas, it’ll be Em. Tell him, Harry.”

Harry shuffles nervously from foot to foot, looking up at them through his unruly fringe. “You promise not to think I’m mad?”

“Mad? Harry,” Merlin chides, a little disappointed he even has to ask. “People hear voices for all sorts of reasons, it’s never as simple as mad.”

“It’s just us,” Arthur adds. “What did you hear?”

So Harry tells them. It started after the party, and they followed it right to the message on the wall. Apparently this isn’t the first time he’s heard it either, but no one else can. Rip. Tear. Kill.

That doesn’t sound like Basil. Best to be sure, though.

“Harry, you’ve never spoken to snakes before, have you?”

Harry’s head whips up, eyes wide and frightened. “How did you know about that?”

“He knows everything, mate, I’ve stopped questioning it,” Ron sighs.

“You might’ve just been hearing a particularly aggressive one that found its way into the castle somehow. Sometimes they get into the pipes,” Merlin supplies.

“The snakes I’ve met so far have all been very reasonable,” Harry disagrees.

“If I got lost in a high school sewage system I’d probably want to rip, tear, and kill too,” Arthur shrugs. He makes an excellent point. Harry doesn’t seem convinced, but Hermione looked confident that the matter’s closed.

“It’s a good thing we didn’t tell anyone about your voices then,” Ron comments.

“Why?” Harry asks.

“Parseltongue- talkin’ to snakes- a bit creepy, but bloody brilliant, by the way- it’s a Slytherin thing. Salazar himself was s’posed to have the gift. Everyone would think you’re the heir,” Ron says.

“But I’m in Gryffindor.”

“People are stupid,” he shrugs. Ron also makes a good point. He shakes his head. “Don’t worry mate, you’re nothin’ like that type. I always knew Salazar Slytherin was a twisted old loony, but I never knew he started all this pure-blood stuff. Just goes to show. I wouldn’t be in his house if you paid me. Honestly, if the Sorting Hat had tried to put me in Slytherin, I’d’ve got the train straight back home...”

Harry looks faintly sick, and Merlin, through his own rising temper, remembers that he just talked Arthur down from an angry precipice, and this may just put him right back up on the edge.

“That’s enough, Ron,” Arthur bites hard. All of them snap to attention at the tone. Merlin makes no attempt to regulate the unimpressed expression on his face. “A house is just a house. It’s meant to support you, instil you with a sense of belonging and pride, nothing more.”

“It was different back then,” Merlin reminds Ron in a tone less biting, but more cutting for its blatant evenness. Merlin isn’t arguing this point, he’s stating it. “Your outrage at the unjust, baseless persecution of muggle-borns is understandable, but remember the roots of that thinking. At the time, wizards were the unjustly persecuted. Muggles burned sorcerers alive for existing. It had nothing to do with dirty blood. Salazar Slytherin had your same vehemence, for the same reasons. Now you condemn him. Worse, you condemn innocents that have nothing to do with your quarrel. People aren’t put in Slytherin because they are a certain way, it’s because Slytherin’s values would benefit their development most. Get some perspective. We can’t afford to be divided in this, and I won’t stand to hear your ignorance, not while we’re fighting to correct it in others.”

Harry hangs on his words like they’re sacred things. Hermione’s jaw has dropped. Ron’s has too, and his eyes are near bugging out of his head. He can’t even think of an argument, and that’s more proof than anything that it’s not one worth having- Ron’s a professional arguer.

Harry is the one to break the icy silence.

“The hat wanted to put me in Slytherin,” he says so quietly.

Merlin didn’t think Ron could get any more shocked, but he was wrong. He stares at his best friend like he’s a new, impossible species that defies known fact.

And with that, they say goodnight and take their leave.

🐍

Merlin is worried when Arthur’s up before him. That only happens under very certain circ*mstances, and he’s not sure he wants to know which category this one fits under. But he’s not here waiting for him, and he didn’t wake Merlin up, so he’s probably fine. He’ll find Merlin if he needs him.

Merlin’s distracted by a quiet shuffle and turns to find Harry already putting his shoes on. It’s still dark outside, for Avalon’s sake. But he can hardly talk, and it’s not like it’s that unusual for Harry, who Merlin suspects has insomnia. Where’s he going, though?

“Morning,” Merlin murmurs, keeping his voice low and wrapping his scarf around his neck habitually. Harry looks up from tying his shoe, forgetting the other one, so Merlin does it for him with a surreptitious flick of his wrist.

“Morning. Alright?”

“Yeah, yeah. You going out for a walk?”

“Yeah, thought I’d go before…” Harry trails off and his gaze strays to Ron’s bunk, where he’s in an uncharacteristically fitful sleep. Merlin nods.

“I was gonna… I told Malfoy he could sit with us,” he says hesitantly, checking for Merlin’s reaction. Like he’s asking permission. Merlin nods again with a happy smile.

“Oh, brilliant. He’s still in the infirmary? Yeah, you’ll wanna go get him, then.”

“Yeah, I always get nervous walking through the Great Hall alone in front of all the tables, you know, so…”

Merlin does know. And there’s a whole new dimension to it now that inter-house mingling’s been introduced. It’s like navigating a prison cafeteria- where you sit is a political statement. Merlin’s actually been in prison cafeterias less daunting than the Great Hall’s been lately. Draco shouldn’t have to do it alone.

“Do you want me to come with?” Merlin asks.

Harry shakes his head. “I mean if you want to. But I’m- I’ll be okay.”

“I know you will.”

Harry smiles at him, a genuine Harry smile, and makes his silent way out the dorm door.

Harry does take a walk first, since he’s up and out. The grounds are beautiful before sunrise. Everything’s so quiet and peaceful. The world is so big and yet so comfortingly small, and Harry’s got it all to himself in the early morning hush.

He nods respectfully to the ghost of the Grey Lady gliding along the bridge, looking out over forever. He waves at the early risers in the portraits, the occasional cat or owl that swoops or scampers past.

“I say, look at that!” Exclaims a particularly sociable old potioneer that lives in his frame on the second stairwell by the dungeons. “I must’ve finally gotten through to you. Both shoes tied, I never thought I’d see the day. Now we just have to do something about that hair…”

Harry waves him off. Looking down, he realises both his shoes are actually tied- he always gets in trouble for that.

Malfoy’s surprised to see him. He probably thought that Harry forgot about his offer, or that he’d meet them at the Great Hall. Maybe it’s just strange to see anyone up so early, but Malfoy’s up, so he can hardly talk.

Madam Pomfrey’s done a sterling job on him, as usual, and he bears almost no trace of the scuffle he was the centre of only a couple of days ago. He’s missing the gel he usually has in his hair and it makes him look a lot more human. He’s pulling on a rich green Slytherin jumper, bold as brass, when Harry comes in.

“Your hair,” Harry says stupidly.

Malfoy raises a sheer blonde eyebrow.

“You don’t- you usually have,” Harry clarifies, pressing his hands against his head to indicate the gel.

“I don’t have any product in the infirmary.”

“It’s good. I mean, like that. I like- it looks g- better. I think.” Gods above, Harry, stop talking.

Malfoy stills, his long fingers slowing where they’re tucking in his jumper and smoothing it down. Then he smirks a little.

“Like I’m going to take hair advice from you,” he jabs, eyes flicking up to Harry’s messy twists. He’s sort of like a human firework in the hair department.

“Yeah, best not,” he chuckles.

Harry learns a lot on the way to breakfast. He had no idea the Slytherin common room was under the black lake. The way Draco describes the windows, it must be really beautiful. He tells Draco about the Gryffindor common room in exchange, how it's always toasty warm, how the fire never dies, how the windows are super tall with long red and gold curtains, and you can see out forever like you’re at the top of a castle. Draco reminds him that it is. Harry feels stupid pretty often when he talks to Draco, but at least he doesn’t seem to mind.

Before they go into the Great Hall, Draco stops him.

“How’s Weasley taking it?”

“He’s being contrary,” Harry admits. “But Em and Arthur knocked some sense into him last night. He’ll come around, if he hasn’t already. You can’t really disagree with Em. Or Arthur.”

“No?”

“Mm-mm. Em’s always right. He knows everything. And Arthur, well. You just don’t argue with Arthur.”

Malfoy does something uncharacteristic then and look down at his shoes, scuffing them once against the stone floor.

“And if he doesn’t come around?”

Harry shakes his head. “He’s being a tosser. If he doesn’t come around… he will. Or he wouldn’t be our friend.”

Malfoy uncrosses his arms and smooths his hands over his Slytherin jumper again, like he’s regretting wearing it.

“...And Granger?”

“Pretty sure she’s already on board. If she wasn’t before, Em will have convinced her last night.”

“What did he say?” Draco asks curiously.

Harry blinks. A lot. He said a lot. Harry never gets anything across as well as Em does, he probably won’t do it justice, but...

“He called Ron out. Ron said something about not being in Slytherin if you paid him, and Arthur shut him right down. Then Em explained it all real calm. The history. Where the divide started and why. I don’t think even Hermione knew that…”

“Where it started?”

Harry nods. “He said it had nothing to do with blood purity. Wizards and witches were persecuted, you know, in witch trials. Executions and hangings and really horrible stuff. Em said that’s where the anti-muggle sentiment came from- the fear of persecution. This was supposed to be a safe place for witches and wizards, and at the time, that meant no muggles. Or at least, most muggles couldn’t know about it. And over time I guess it just… flipped. Now it’s the muggle borns who’re persecuted. It makes a lot of sense, but… it’s just really sad.”

Draco’s quiet for an inordinate stretch of time, and Harry starts to feel very self-conscious. Just as he opens his mouth to salvage it, or more likely, dig himself a deeper hole, Draco speaks.

“...I’ve never heard it told that way before.”

Harry deflates all the courage he’d plucked up that he no longer needs and shrugs.

“Told you. Em knows everything.”

💬

Arthur spends the morning in war council with the Weasley twins. When some anonymous little sh*t spray-painted their bunk with that ugly f*cking word, they committed to guerrilla warfare. Arthur can do guerrilla warfare. These kids wanna play elitist with the big kids? Then let’s play.

Luckily the twins only had their heads a little bit up their arses, not half as far as Ron has his, so once things got serious they drew up their conclusions and ended up on the right side. And on hearing about the vandalism, they were more than happy to provide their services. Arthur found their enthusiasm and intelligence refreshing, and the feeling was mutual- by the end Arthur got two sloppy salutes and ‘it’ll be our real and true honour, sire.” “Yeah, Those kids are f*cking toast.” By the sharkish grins across their mischievous faces, Arthur doesn’t doubt it for a second.

Having sent his champions off, Arthur heads over to breakfast. Merlin should be there with Harry and Hermione by now, if not Ron. The kids don’t like to go into the Great Hall alone, they find it daunting, so either he or Merlin always make themselves available at mealtimes to accompany them. It was just a luxury before, more to ease Harry’s horrible anxiety than anything else, but now they wouldn’t want the kids going alone, not with tensions so high among the houses. Well, Arthur’s on it, starting with addressing the infighting. He’s gonna shut that sh*t down quick so they can focus on the actual enemy.

Today Arthur comes into the hall alone to find Merlin, Hermione, Harry, and surprise, surprise, Draco Malfoy sitting at the end of the Gryffindor table. That shade of Slytherin green Malfoy’s so boldly got on sure does stand out. Oh, sh*t, where’s Ron?

Arthur scans around and catches him staring right at the crew, stuck in place. Hermione notices and nudges Harry, and soon they’re all looking back at him. Ron’s ears go pink and he straightens, and he starts moving stiffly, but not towards them.

Arthur catches him around the bicep before he can stomp off. It’d be a mistake. Ron whips back to look at him looking as confused as he is trying to look angry.

“Where you goin’?”

“Don’t worry, I can tell when I’m not wanted-”

“That’s stupid, Ron. Come sit with us.”

Ron hesitates.

“‘M I still welcome?”

Arthur works hard not to roll his eyes. Teenagers, honestly. “Duh, as long as you can be civil. So you gonna break out hearts, or what?”

Ron huffs and shrugs his hand off, but Arthur can see the defeat in his eyes. Arthur’s won the standoff. “No promises.”

All three of them melt with a mixture of pride and relief as they make their way over, and Ron’s ears go from pink to red.

Arthur claps Draco on the back as he passes, which startles him quite badly. He looks around like someone’s gonna call him out for it, but Arthur does it to Harry and Harry still jumps every time too.

Ron plops stiffly down across from him.

“Weasley,” Draco acknowledges with a little head nod.

“Malfoy.”

And just like that, it’s another standoff. Holy sh*t, teenagers.

“Boys,” Hermione bemoans.

“Hopeless,” Merlin agrees beside her.

“Anyway, you were saying, Hermione?” Harry encourages.

“Well, it’s just interesting, is all. Dumbledore couldn’t cure Mrs. Norris, and that makes me think that whatever attacked her might not be — well — human.”

“Why’re you so sure she was attacked?” Merlin asks, popping a grape into his mouth.

“I dunno, maybe ‘cause she was petrified,'' Ron offers. Arthur snorts.

“Plenty of things in this world can petrify passively. Active petrifications are more rare in the wild than passive ones, it’s only in heavily populated magical areas that it’s even recognized as an attack curse.”

“You don’t mean medical petrifications? For treatment?” Hermione shoots, leaning forward.

“No, that’s active too. It’s like anything else- if the right circ*mstances apply to a certain ecological biodome, it makes quicksand. That’s a natural occurrence. Same with petrification. It’s just things reacting to each other. There are also creatures with the ability. More often than not it’s a side effect of something else, rather than the main event. Mrs. Norris was probably just unlucky,” Merlin says, carefully avoiding reminding them that cats don’t get strung up by their tails naturally.

“But in a school? Surely Professor Sprout would be aware of something like that in Hogwarts?”

“I don’t know, she missed a great bloody snake moaning on about killing someone, didn’t she?” Ron reminds them.

“She what?” Draco blurts, reminding them all that he’s not quite up to date.

“We’re pretty sure there’s a killer snake loose in the pipes,” Harry explains quickly. “I heard him in my head.”

Yeah, Draco’s reaction to that is… fair.

“Harry, never go into PR,” Arthur advises.

“He’s not crazy, it’s a whole thing, you had to be there,” Merlin waves dismissively.

“Why don’t we have a poke around?” Harry suggests.

“‘Cause that went so well last year,” Arthur huffs.

“Just a look. There’s gotta be something. If we can figure it out we can stop whoever’s scaring everyone. It’s just making things worse.”

He’s right, of course. If it was bad before, it’s awful now. Tension wrend the air like a tangible thing. Glares and suspicious looks dart around the room constantly. The Great Hall is quieter than a Great Hall full of teenagers has any right to be. If things don’t improve soon, the staff might think about imposing an actual rule about house tables, and then it’ll be a lost fight.

Well, Merlin did say he wanted to get to the bottom of it. There might actually be something there. The bathroom’s up that way too, they can question Myrtle about it, maybe even get some answers about Basil.

“Come on,” Draco says all of a sudden, shooting up from the bench. “There’s still time before class, and that twit Filch will be indisposed for another forty-two minutes.”

The rest of them start following him out.

“How d’you know what Filch’ll be up to?” Ron asks suspiciously.

“He’s got a meeting at this time every Wednesday for his Kwikspell e-course,” Draco says. Ron’s eyebrows shoot up.

“He’s a squib? Ron yelps.

“Ron,” Arthur clips warningly. “There’s no shame in that, but keep your voice down if it’s not common knowledge.”

“You’ll find it’s rather handy keeping a Slytherin around, I should think,” Draco smirks. “We treasure our knowledge; particularly the uncommon kind.”

"Uhh, what's a squib?" Harry asks.

Hermione explains on the way until they find themselves staring down the cheerfully painted hall of anti-muggleborn propaganda that no one's been able to wash off yet.

Ron looks surprised to see Draco get down on his hands and knees in the newly cursed corridor, like he didn’t expect him to want to get his pants dirty or something. But Draco’s searching as eagerly as Harry is before any of them even decide what they’re looking for.

“Scorch marks!” Harry cries triumphantly, and Draco scrambles over to see. “Here — and here —”

“That’ll be from the candle holders. They usually stand along the wall,” Draco surmises.

“Come and look at this!” Hermione calls. “This is funny...”

While Arthur’s busy glaring at the message on the wall, Merlin comes to have a look at what she’s found and finds his face doing something interesting.

Spiders. About thirty of them, quickly scampering out of the topmost window pane like they can’t get out fast enough.

Right. It’s definitely Basil, then. But Basil didn’t write a socio-political statement in the name of eugenics on the wall. Someone’s using them for their own agenda. How distasteful.

“Have you ever seen spiders act like that?” Hermione asks wonderingly.

“No,” Harry murmurs. “have you, Ron? Ron?”

But Ron is unresponsive. Arthur waves a hand in front of his face and gets little to no reaction.

“What’s up?” Merlin asks.

“Nothing,” Ron says with the tension of an elastic band pulled taught.

Draco looks between him and the spiders. “Arachnophobia?”

“What?” Harry asks.

“He’s scared of spiders,” Merlin finishes.

“Really, Ron? I never knew that,” Hermione says in surprise, straightening to look at him. “You’ve used spiders in Potions loads of times...”

“I’m not-!” he tries to defend. Then he looks at Draco once and seems to find something on his face that makes all his posturing deflate. “...I don’t mind them dead. I just don’t like the way they move...”

Hermione giggles.

As that fight breaks out, Merlin takes the opportunity to slip over to Myrtle’s bathroom, brushing past Arthur as he goes.

“Get them out of here,” he whispers.

He closes the door to the girl’s bathroom and tries not to close his eyes in dismay at the muffled “woah, is that a snake?” he hears his husband cry unconvincingly behind him. Arthur will figure it out.

Merlin makes a quick change, melting into a form most people tend to find more girlish than her original one, and just in time, because Myrtle comes shuffling gloomily out of the last toilet stall, picking a spot on her chin.

She matches her bathroom, which looks like it was set up by a movie crew to inspire depression. Everything is washed out into a dull yellow-grey. The high windows are too dirty to allow in any light, thick with cobwebs and grime. One toilet stall door is hanging off its hinges. They were all probably green at some point, but now they just look sick. And Myrtle is always sick. Her pigtails droop like wilted flowers, putting emphasis on the notion that she’s melting, her face an uncanny impression of the Scream mask. Colour is not welcome here, and neither is Merlin. She’s very glad of it. This place feels inescapable.

“Hello,” Merlin greets softly, and her voice comes out as a little girl’s. She is a little girl now, she supposes.

“I’ve never seen you here before,” is what Myrtle says, her words dragged out into long low moans. She reminds Merlin of the traditional ghostly stereotype. Myrtle is like the word ‘haunt’ in ethereal form. She’d be great at a Deathday party.

“I’ve never been here before, but I thought I’d visit.”

Myrtle snaps to look at her suspiciously. “Me? Visit me?”

“If you don’t mind.”

“Come to see how ugly, stupid, pathetic I am?” she spits venomously. “Heard the rumours, come to laugh at silly little Myrtle?”

“Quite the opposite, actually,” Merlin assures her. “I was wondering if you could help me. And I’m always glad of company.”

“You’re lying,” she accuses uncertainly. “What could I-” she sniffles- “possibly help you with?”

“You know this bathroom better than anyone else, don’t you? It’s safe here. No one bothers you. But someone did something quite horrible right outside your door on Halloween. I know you’d remember something like that. It was so rude of them, wasn’t it? They were being horrible.”

“I wouldn’t know,” she drags her sleeve across her snotty nose. “People are always being horrible to me. Halloween, you said? On Halloween Peeves upset me so much I came in here and tried to kill myself. Then, of course, I remembered that I’m — that I’m —”

“I’m sorry, Myrtle,” Merlin croons genuinely. “Not being able to kill yourself is terribly disheartening. Have you given any thought to trying to resolve what’s keeping you here?”

“How can I?!” she wails all of a sudden. “I was miserable in life, it’s just as well it’s my destiny to be miserable in death! I can’t even do that right! I’m too sad to even die.”

“No one’s too anything to die,” except her and Arthur, “if we figure out what’s keeping you here we can give you peace. Do you have unfinished business? It might have something to do with your death, what were the circ*mstances?”

“Oh, well,” she blushes coyly, flattered by the question. “It was dreadful. I was hiding in here, crying- Olive Hornby said my glasses were stupid. She regretted that, she did. Anyway, I was crying right in that stall over there, and I heard someone come in. It was a boy. He said something in a weird language and I popped my head out to tell him to buzz off and… I died.”

Parseltongue. The chamber can be opened from here.

“What did it, d’you think?” she asks, just to make sure.

“Dunno. I just remember a pair of big, yellow eyes. Over there, by that sink,” she gestures.

“Who was the boy? Do you know?”

“No,” she sighs. “Told you I couldn’t help.”

“You’ve been a tremendous help, Myrtle,” Merlin says. “Thank you so much. And we’ll figure out how to help you move on, so don’t get too dejected. Right now I have to go find a giant snake who’s in big trouble. I’ll be right back.”

And off she stomps.

The bell’s rung for class, but Merlin’s on a mission now. He doesn’t even notice himself melting back into his male-er counterpart. This has all gotten completely out of hand and it’s such an easy fix, he just needs to ask Basil to stop. Why would they even listen to the first random pureblood that comes along that speaks a lick of parseltongue? It’s not like them. And opening their eyes? They’re a good basilisk, they haven’t done that since they were a baby!

Merlin marches right up to Eadwig.

“Let me in or I will eat you,” he promises. Eadwig knows not to argue with that tone. Merlin will find a way to do it.

Albus’ eyebrows jump up at his entrance.

“Mr. Emrys. What can I do for-”

“Not here for you, actually, Albus,” Merlin cuts him off, weaving right past him and up to the founders’ portraits. He stops right in front of Salazar’s.

Sal looks just the same as he did, but he would do- Arthur painted him. Merlin wanted their kids immortalized as he remembers them, with gaps in their teeth and squeaky little voices, all intent on fitting in Arthur’s lap at once, and somehow managing it. Alas, they stand in their frames fully grown, and Sal’s silver beard brushes his velvet-cloaked chest. At least his eyes never changed- they’re still that piercing intelligent silver-blue they always were.

“It’s been a while, old man,” he sasses. Merlin crosses his arms.

“Oh, don’t pretend I don’t visit. Now, you’ve heard about this chamber business?”

“Of course. Don’t tell me you don’t remember-”

“Basil, yes, I know, but that’s just it. You left the door closed, right?”

“Yes.”

“No secret kids running ‘round you neglected to mention?”

Sal arches an eyebrow. He’s not the kids type.

“Stop, I had to ask. Basil’s got a new owner.”

This incites a flare in those diamond eyes, and Sal gets serious.

“They’re my familiar. They don’t have an owner, and if they did it would be me,” he snipes tersely.

“I know that, Sal, I just mean someone’s running around faking it. Basil’s opening their eyes.”

A sharp intake of breath and Sal’s arms uncross. “Basil wouldn’t do that.”

“I KNOW they wouldn’t, but they are. It doesn’t matter, clearly you have no idea about any of this. I’ll deal with it. Just, can you tell me where they might be right now?”

Sal huffs worriedly, eyebrows furrowing and forehead wrinkling, his hand coming up to hover over his mouth like he always did when he was thinking.

“They always liked wet places- flooded bathrooms, sinks-”

“They’re a bit big for sinks these days, Sal.”

“They’re supposed to be in their chamber. You know that. If they’re not, then they’re probably in a bathroom. That’s assuming you haven’t heard of any kitchens being raided by giant basilisks. And the pipes. They like-”

“-the pipes, yeah, I know. Okay. What’s the word in parseltongue to open the door?”

“Shiiiizcheeeen.”

“Shiiiisheeeen.”

“Shiiiizcheeeen.”

“Shiiiizheeeen.”

“Shiiiizcheeeen.”

“Shiiiizcheeeen.”

“Yeah.”

“Okay, thanks.”

Merlin’s mostly out the door by the time Albus speaks up from where he’s now standing behind his desk looking disturbed.

“Mer-”

“I’m handling it, bye,” he calls over his shoulder, already gone. He quickly doubles back to poke his head back in and hiss at Salazar, “I told you about that chamber!” and then dashes off again.

Basil is not in any of the bathrooms. Merlin even checks the sinks, just in case they’re lucky and Basil’s developed some rare condition that’s stunted their growth, but he finds no Basils.

Finally, Merlin skids back into Myrtle’s bathroom. She’s not around. Good, this would be hard to explain.

“Shiiiizcheeeen.”

It’s all very dramatic. A great rumbling as the sinks separate, grinding against the floor to make way for a great gaping opening–

Would you look at that. Big, yellow eyes.

Merlin dies.

Chapter 15: The Next Great Adventure

Chapter Text

Arthur’s heart stops in first period.

The world goes dark as his brain stops receiving blood and oxygen. His body shuts down. A multitude of black moths fill his head and he drowns in their thousands of fluttering velvet wings.

Awareness returns to him slowly, consciousness as fluttery as the loss of it was. The moths are still fuzzy, still all-encompassing, but Arthur can see the light through their wings now. They’ve gone white. They fade like spots out of his vision, bringing existence back with their departure. Arthur’s fingertips tingle as feeling returns with his circulation.

He puts a shaky hand in the air.

“Mr. Penn,” comes the cold drawl.

“May I be excused?”

The class titters around him. No one’s allowed to interrupt Snape’s lectures, particularly not for bathroom breaks.

“It can’t wait?” the great vulture man sneers dangerously, advising Arthur to think carefully about his answer.

“No,” Arthur replies as solemnly as he can, trying to impress the importance of it into Snape with his gaze. “I have to go.”

“Go,” Snape bites shortly, to the shock horror of the class. Arthur hardly notices, already halfway out the door.

Arthur flies through the halls, following the screaming of the castle. He doesn’t even pause to draw breath, skidding after falling portraits and wildly swinging chandeliers, trusting Hogwarts to see him true.

He ends up right back where he lost him, and he throws the bathroom door open with a great SLAM.

Arthur’s heart stops again when he sees Merlin lying prone on the floor, stiff as a post, those clever blue eyes staring sightlessly forwards. Empty.

All logic leaves him. This is it. This is finally the time he’s been terrified of, that makes him melt with fear every time he feels the Merlin half of him die. No matter how many times it happens, and Merlin wakes up and teases him stupid, he still worries that this will be the time he doesn’t wake up. And here he is… not waking up.

Arthur blanks, and then he’s on the floor gathering him up in his arms, hands snapping over him mechanically because it’s what he knows. Eyes. Hands. Pulse.

Please, please, please.

Please please please please pleasepleasepleasepleaseplease–

–Oh gods he can’t tell if it’s his heartbeat or Merlin’s since they match–

–Is the beat in his head or is it Merlin’s–

He can’t tell, he can’t tell, he can’t tell, but he thinks it’s there. It has to be. He doesn’t know what he’d do if it’s not, so it has to be, that’s…

Calm down. He won’t know until he calms down.

Merlin’s alive, he tells himself. He’s not sure, but he has to say it to believe it and calm down. Merlin’s fine. He’s fine. He’s fine. He’s fine. He’s fine. He’s fine.

Arthur pulls Merlin’s cold hand into his own chest, kisses it clumsily, and bows his head into it, rocking back and forth and focussing on the weight of it and his breathing. Just like Merlin does with him to calm him down. He’ll be back soon, there’s no need to worry. He can card his hand through Arthur’s hair all day and call him stupid names that he made up but insists are real. He’ll wake up any minute now. Any second.

Arthur keeps rocking. Arthur keeps breathing.

Merlin does not wake up.

But unless his brain is lying to keep him sane, that heartbeat is real. Merlin has a pulse. He is alive.

THUD.

THUD.

THUD.

Right in time with Arthur’s own, same as it always is.

So, then. Just unresponsive.

He’s fine.

All the air rushes out of Arthur as he lets himself believe it and he touches his forehead to Merlin’s chest.

“You… do not get to do that to me,” he hears himself say shakily. “Swear to God, Merlin…”

He sniffles thickly, sounding like the snotty, lost little boy he is, and thinks about it for a second. Well, actually, he curls into Merlin's chest like he can fit into it if he tries hard enough, hoping he gets snot all over Merlin's stupid shirt but not willing to pull back to check, and then he thinks about it.

Merlin’s unresponsive, eyes wide open, body stiff and stone cold. Even his hair has frozen solid. No signs of frost. Not a curse. Petrification?

Right, the cat was petrified, wasn’t she? Another wave of relief washes over Arthur. That settles it. Merlin must have figured out this chamber monster or whatever and, of course, rushed in without a plan or even telling Arthur, the absolute twat.

Arthur hits Merlin hard on the chest. It should make him feel better that Merlin can’t react, but it just makes him sick to see the blow land like he’s hitting a plank of wood. Lifeless is not a word that should ever be associated with Merlin. Not his Merlin.

“Some WARNING next time, you f*cking idiot!” he yells at him for good measure, missing his grown man's voice that made sure everyone in the country heard him when he wanted them to. “Serves you right!”

Which is about when Peeves swoops in, delighted by the ruckus, and stops short on the scene. If ghosts can pale, Arthur believes Peeves does then. His eyes go wide as they snap between Merlin’s b- Merlin and Arthur.

“Is- Is he-?” the Poltergeist stammers.

“Go tell them to get a bed ready in the infirmary, and tell Albus I want to speak with him.”

Peeves shoots one more disturbed look at the prone Merlin and then all but disappears.

Arthur looks back down at his useless husband. Time to figure out how to carry him from point A to B, preferably in the most humiliating way possible.

It’s illogical, but Arthur still gets Pomfrey to check Merlin’s pulse.

“I’ve seen this before. He’ll be the second. He’s petrified, but he’s alive.”

Right. Right. Arthur knew that. If Merlin was dead, he’d be dead, but it’s still good to hear.

Arthur’s hesitant to give Merlin up to her, but a voice sounds in his head that sounds like Merlin’s: I’m fine, youpossessive old clotpole. You’re being suspicious.

Arthur stands back, but only enough for her to work, keeping his eyes on Merlin and watching the healer's every move. He doesn’t care how protective he’s being. He’s f*cking earned it after that little heart attack.

Albus strides powerfully through the infirmary doors in another few minutes. Arthur hardly spares him a glance, busy glaring at Merlin, who will be going absolutely spare about the fact that he can’t glare back. He hears the headmaster’s steps stutter, though, upon catching sight of the very dead-looking Merlin in the cot.

“Albus,” Pomfrey gasps as soon as she catches sight of him, looking horrified. “Another petrification!”

“You’re sure?” Albus snaps.

“Positive.”

Arthur is still not happy to leave Merlin, but they can’t have this discussion in front of Pomfrey. He steps past her and meets Albus’ confused eyes, guiding him aside and away from the Matron and her patient. When Albus speaks, he keeps his voice low so it doesn’t carry.

“Tell me what happened.”

“He died.” Arthur sighs. “He must have found your monster.”

“But he lives.”

“He always does. Whatever killed him must have had a petrifying effect on the body as well, so when he woke up he couldn’t move. Mentally, I’m pretty sure he’s awake.”

Albus’ eyebrows twitch in a complicated blend of things, amazement most prominent.

“He died and returned? How do you know?”

“I felt it.”

Albus goes very still and Arthur gets the disarming impression that he’s listening with every atom of his terribly curious being.

“No one noticed. When my heart restarted I asked Snape to be excused and went after him, found him on the floor of the second girl’s bathroom, the one by the message.”

“When your heart-?”

“We were wed by the Balance itself. If he dies, I die. I don’t usually have to wake up to find him un-f*cking-responsive, but such are the joys of being married to a royal idiot,” Arthur explains with a sarcastic smile.

Albus blinks, looking rather like he’s been slapped across the face with a heavy book.

“He will be fine. He said Sprout was working on something to reverse it, he was going to help her. It won’t be ready for a while, though. I could try, but he’s the doctor, and it would be suspicious if he up and recovered from petrification anyway. Still, it bothers me that we don’t know what he knew. What hit him. Clearly he figured it out, but he was in his focussed little frenzy, and I’m not allowed to talk to him when he’s like that, so he didn’t tell me anything either. He was in the same place as the first attack. Something to do with that corridor…?”

Albus straightens and pulls himself together succinctly.

“I believe I may have some of those answers, or at least a place to start.”

💀

Albus does well to keep up with Arthur’s speed-stomping. Even Merlin at his gangliest has trouble doing that. To follow him all the way through the castle to his own office and up Eadwig’s stairs, no less- quite a feat.

“Salazar!” Arthur barks, slamming the door open and striding in. He vaguely processes Helga shoving the guilty party forward and ducking for cover behind Godric. He doesn’t mean to scare his kids, but he’s rather low on patience right now. Well, Sal always did deal with that best.

“Da,” Sal replies, snapping to attention and mirroring Arthur’s seriousness without question. “How did it go?”

“I don’t know, I died in the middle of Potions class, and I found your mother petrified on the floor of the bathroom. Albus says he popped by. Enlighten me.”

Sal’s eyes widen, flying back and forth as he parses this information. He seems totally bewildered and… hurt. Arthur hears Helga gasp and Rowena drop her book, Godric letting out a loud ‘WHAT!’

“Is he alright?” Rowena demands.

“Alive but unresponsive. Sal,” Arthur encourages a little more gently.

“...Basil,” Sal says thickly, running a wrinkled hand over his beard, eyebrows furrowing in disbelief and concern. “He came to ask about Basil. Said they had- that someone was misguiding them. That they were opening their eyes.”

Arthur feels his own eyes slip closed. Of course. A basilisk’s eyes kill with the effect of petrification. Mrs. Norris must’ve seen them indirectly, and Merlin directly.

But, Basil? They’re still alive? Killing people? That’s absurd. Almost enough that Arthur can’t believe that’s it, but it must be.

“Why would they be doing that?”

“I don’t know. That’s what I told mum. He said he didn’t know either. He wanted the word to open the chamber. I think he was going to go see them and figure it out, because it’s just not like them, you know it’s not.”

“I know, I know,” Arthur assures him. Sal almost sounds like he did as a kid, begging Arthur to let him keep the little snake he found in the gutter, promising he’d train them real good, just please let him keep them, pleeeeaaase. And every time Basil made a mess or killed a bat and left it in their nice clean bed, Sal would get this whine in his voice and beg Arthur not to take his friend away, they didn’t mean it, he promises. At some point it stopped becoming a real concern, Basil having been inducted into the family, becoming an undisputed fact. Arthur never thought he’d hear Sal whine like that again, like Arthur might actually take Basil away.

“We’ll figure it out, Sal," he promises.

So, it’s safe to say that tackling Basil is out. If Merlin couldn’t do it, Arthur has no hope. Basil always liked Merlin better. Arthur thinks they never stopped holding a grudge for that time he turned on the shower and got in only to step on a snake that was happily asleep a moment ago. Arthur maintains it was their fault for sleeping in the shower.

Arthur’s going to have to tackle the other half of the threat- this ‘heir’. Which is bullsh*t, by the way- Sal never had any children, biological or otherwise. It’s an effective fear tactic, but that’s all it is. Which brings Arthur no closer to figuring out who they are. But that’s what he’s gonna have to do.

Classes are still going, so he takes the time to trudge up to the greenhouses in search of Professor Sprout. He pulls her aside from her lesson prep to ask her about the cure for petrification.

“Oh well, that’ll be the mandrakes. It’s early stages right now, we just got them all repotted last week. Everything’s on track though. With Em’s help it should go quicker, if he still wants to spend his breaks with his stuffy old teacher gettin’ his hands dirty,” she chuckles. “You tell him he can back out anytime, I won’t be offended.”

Arthur has a lot of practice informing friends and families that their loved ones aren’t coming home, but it never gets better. Even when it’s just temporary. Even when it’s Merlin. Maybe it’ll actually be worse. Everyone adores Merlin.

Sprout drops her watering can when he tells her. Then she pulls him into a shaky hug, tells him they’re going to fix this, and promptly races off to see her favourite student.

With that out of the way, Arthur sets to work.

He identifies the most strategically beneficial paintings to inform and informs them, fully expecting the whole school’s furnishings to be buzzing with it within the hour. They’ll all be on the lookout for the culprit now. He handpicks certain trusted portraits with certain jobs, sending this one to that corridor specifically because he knows it better than anyone, and that one to the tower because she has an excuse to hang around, etc. The founders, he sends to prepare for special missions that will come into effect later tonight. He gathers the ghosts, debriefs them, and sets them their duties. They are out for blood. He canvasses the area he found Merlin, interrogates Myrtle, traces Merlin’s flight through the castle and puts together a timeline of events. And he’s not finished.

“I’m holding council at seven tonight. Tell Gryffindor, and make sure everyone’s present. No absences,” he notifies the twins.

“Council?” one of them says. Arthur’s stopped trying to figure out which.

“House meeting,” he clarifies.

“We don’t have those, except when McGonagall calls them,” the other refutes.

“We do now. Seven. No. Absences.”

“Yes chef!” they both snap automatically and make themselves scarce.

Now comes the hard part.

He swings back around to the infirmary. Pomfrey and Sprout are conferring in the corner of the wing. Pomfrey looks up at his entrance and makes like she might stop him, but Sprout catches his eye and gives him a solemn nod, and keeps her back.

Arthur approaches Merlin’s bed and makes sure to lean over him to stay in Merlin’s rigid line of sight.

“Hey,” he says softly under his breath. “I’m putting an end to the infighting tonight. Basil won’t talk to me, so I’m working on the heir. We’ll sort this out. Meantime, I’m gonna bring the kids to see you. If that’s not okay, slow your heart rate.”

Arthur keeps his fingers on the pulse at Merlin’s wrist for a few solid minutes before he surmises that it is okay. Arthur knows Merlin won’t want them to see him, but they both know there’ll be no keeping them away once they hear. At least this way Arthur can go with them and make sure… well, nothing, really, but he’d like to be there anyway.

“Don’t worry, class will be over in fifteen minutes, so by the time I get there they won’t be missing anything. I’ll make sure they bring their bags. Just slow your heart rate if you want them gone.”

Arthur hopes Merlin doesn’t get hot under all those layers. Or cold. He frowns and taps a gentle charm into him just in case.

Last thing, Arthur checks Merlin’s scarf. If it’s not frozen to his body, Pomfrey might try to take it off, and that’s a no-go. Mm, not frozen. Arthur will have to keep an eye on her, then.

Arthur puts his hand up in surrender, because he can almost hear Merlin hitting him and saying ‘stop fussing’. Then he hears himself snort.

“Kings don’t fuss, Merlin. Certainly not over dollopheads who get themselves petrified. Right, not starting this argument now, I’ll be back with children.” He ducks back with a cheeky wink after another second because the opportunity’s too good to resist and adds, “Don’t go anywhere.”

🏥

Harry’s getting worried.

None of them have seen Arthur since he marched robotically out of Potions without a glance at anyone. It was freaky. He looked dead asleep, so much so that Harry was starting to think Snape would notice any second. Then all of a sudden he shot up like he was on a hinge, and without blinking, asked Snape to go to the bathroom in the middle of a lecture. And Snape let him.

No one’s seen Em either. At first Harry was certain they’d come in bickering as usual through the day with some great story to tell them all, but it didn’t happen. Not through second period, break, third, lunch, fourth or even fifth.

Draco’s been getting quieter and quieter all day, his face getting more and more serious, and it makes Harry scared that he’s putting something together they won’t like.

As they walk tensley out of last period, it’s hard to ignore the whispers. Something’s wrong. It takes Harry a few corridors to realise it, but the ghosts are gone. He hears people talking about how they’ve gone missing. The few occupied paintings they pass are in too much of a rush to answer any of their questions. There are even rumours someone saw Dumbledore striding about looking grave earlier. No one knows what’s going on.

“I saw Professor Sprout crying,” someone hisses as they pass by, and Harry finally cracks.

“OKAY, that’s it, what’s going–”

“Arthur!” Ron yells over him.

Sure enough, there’s their solidly built friend trekking boldly through the stream of kids to meet them, missing his characteristic smile.

All of them scramble over and he juts his head off to the side and leads them on, ignoring Hermione’s mouth already going a mile a minute.

“Did you find him?! Nothing’s wrong? No one knows a thing, we’ve been so worried, what’s Em said? Where have you–”

“Come with me,” Arthur says, and his tone does nothing to soothe Harry’s worries. He exchanges an alarmed look with Ron. If Arthur’s freaking out, it’s bad.

“Tell us if he’s alright first,” Draco demands.

“He is. I’ll explain when we get there.”

As unsatisfactory as that is, they all make the rest of the trip in charged silence. Harry’s gut sinks with every step they take in the direction of the infirmary until he can’t deny that’s where they’re going. But Em’s alright, isn’t he? Arthur said so…

Arthur nods them all in first, and Harry looks as hard as he can, but he can’t see anything in Arthur’s face that gives the situation away.

Hermione shrieks and Harry’s head whips forward. All of them race to the only occupied bed after her, and it isn’t until they get there that Harry sees why.

Chapter 16: Art interlude I dont give a sh*t I do what I want

Chapter Text

Chapter 17: La Revolución está Muerta. Viva la Revolución

Chapter Text

Hermione bursts into tears. Draco slowly lowers into the chair Arthur set beside the bed in abject horror, looking… lost. Harry and Ron scramble forward, blinking disbelievingly at the occupant of the cot.

It’s true Merlin looks a bit… hollow. His limbs are locked in position solidly, just how he must’ve been standing. His blank eyes stare straight through the ceiling without so much as a flutter of his eyelashes. His chest doesn’t rise or fall. Only his scarf has remembered gravity, having not been touching his skin directly at the time. With how expressive he always is, it’s… stark.

“Petrified, but unharmed. They’re working on the cure now. He’ll recover once it’s administered, but that won’t be for a while yet. He’s going to be fine,” Arthur informs them almost casually.

“Oh, Em,” Harry breathes. It sends Hermione into another flurry of sobs, her head in her arms on the cot.

“Who found him?” Draco asks distantly.

“I did. Second floor bathroom, first period.”

“That’s why you left?” Harry asks, tearing his eyes with difficulty from Merlin to look at Arthur. “I was so worried.”

“How did you know?” Ron asks.

“That’s not the issue!” Hermione explodes. Arthur frowns at her. He’s starting to worry she’s figured something out about them, or thinks she has. She’s covering for them. He’ll have to keep an eye on that.

“He’ll stay here,” Arthur informs them, folding his arms, subtly keeping contact with Merlin’s pulse. If it slows, he’ll drag the kids out. “There are no other side-effects expected. Visiting hours are flexible, given his condition, but typically kept between three and five pm. Don’t spread it around, if you can help it. The mandrakes are estimated to be five weeks away from maturing. Factoring in recovery, he should be functioning at full capacity by exam time.”

“What about the suitcase?” Harry blurts. “Shouldn’t he… wouldn’t he be better off, if… at home?”

Arthur shakes his head. “He needs to keep an eye on you. He’d go out of his skull home alone for that long. Oh, he can hear you, by the way.”

You did that on purpose, you prat, Arthur can practically hear his husband snap. He smirks.

“He can? But victims of petrification are typically rendered catatonic,” Hermione rattles off wetly. “That would narrow down the possible causes quite drastically, it might help us figure out what did this…” she trails off as she looks with wide eyes at Arthur, asking him a silent right?

Arthur purses his lips. He doesn’t want to… confirm anything for her, but she’d definitely catch him out on a lie. The evidence just doesn’t support his narrative, and she’s smart enough to recognise it. sh*t. Should’ve just kept his big mouth shut.

“Maybe he can’t hear us,” Arthur shrugs lamely, “But I like to think he can.” He definitely can.

“When I catch the heir of Slytherin,” Draco vows quietly in a glacial tone that has everyone snapping to attention and shivering in the ice of it, “I’m going to kill them.”

That’s the spirit, Arthur thinks, but I’m afraid the honour will be mine. He knows how much Merlin will have hated to hear that from Draco, though, so he gives his hand a squeeze.

🏥

“Fancy seeing you here,” Mariela says as the hangman settles the noose around her neck none too gently. Arthur- Alejo- turns to look at her.

“Really? I don’t fancy it much,” he says as his own rope is fastened.

It’s sweltering out here. No shade for the rebels. Alejo can feel his sweat slide down the back of his neck, such a contrast to the sharp bite of the coarse noose rubbing against his collar. Do they make them extra scratchy on purpose? They must, but Alejo doesn’t see the point. Then again, Alejo doesn’t see the point to much the Spanish Regime does.

“Hang on, be right with you,” Mariela hums, flicking her hair in the face of the priest chanting te deums in her ear. Alejo’s tiring of his own pretty quickly himself. Is sounding like a slab of rock with a mouth a prerequisite to pastoralism?

He finds Mariela a much more arresting focus. He listens as she calls out the people averting their gazes to face their eyes front, to look at them as they die. Look, and be struck by it. Let it remind them who they are.

“Indolent people! How diverse your luck would be today if you knew the price of freedom! God, will youshut up,” she adds to the priest beside her, who startles into silence. Alejo snorts. Finally."Mestizo brothers and sisters," she announces proudly, addressing yet another crowd, "who are they to tell us that we are lasangre sucia, that we are the lowest rank in society when our Indian ancestors ruled this land and lived in complex communities? Who are they, those invaders, who cometo our landsall the way from Europe and steal our timber, oil, gold, and silver? Be a proud Indo-mestizo because our people come from this land, too. The colonies might have liberated themselves from the Spanish crown, but we are still resisting and fighting for our Indigenous brothers and sisters who are under colonialpower in new world orders. Believe it or not, we are also under that power.I am a proud mestiza because I am Indigenous and Spanish. Icome fromboth worlds and weform the new mixed-race. This land isour land. This soil isour soil. This air isour air because it belongs toour people and toour ancestors. We are the mestizo pride!”

Alejo reflects that they are, too. Mariela- Merlin- is no longer a scrawny white boy from Ealdor. She is not even simply Camelotian. She is everything she has ever seen, heard, taken, given, trusted, loved, and hated. She never played a part out of convenience, and Alejo thinks that's why neither of them have tired of life yet. Every place they go and thing they do, they absorb. When he looks at Mariela, he sees all those colours and flavours refracted as though through a kaleidoscope, splashing out from her like wings, like her owned stained-glass halo, more beautiful and intricate than any other thing on this earth can claim to be. She is the mestizo pride, and she is the albatross of the ancient Mariner, the Angel of the 336th Kunsan Fighter Squadron, Champion of the Maasai, Quartermaster of the Fulbright, owner of the (second) Rising Sun, bane of the Ottomans, landsknecht, mother, diplomat, midwife, prophet, advisor, soldier, and she is every movement, revolution, assassination, miracle, new day, and sunset in between.Every day she astounds him by being more beautiful, more unconquerable, more staggeringlygreatthan she was yesterday, despite the impossibility of such a thing. But Merlin always thrived on the impossible.

Her wild black hair flies vivaciously around her as she whips her head heatedly around through her speech. The New Grenada sun peeks through her endless curls as they dance in the wind, roaring its defiance right alongside her. She doesn’t spit or curse or cry, though Alejo knows she can. She condemns. She rouses. She blooms.

"Even though I am young, and a woman, I have more than enough valour to suffer this death and a thousand more deaths. Long live liberty!"

Alejo vaguely registers that the guards are talking, and they’ll probably pull the lever soon, but Mariela’s turned to look at him and he lets it fall away, inconsequential. She really is the only thing of any consequence in all this world, in all of Time, and he marvels once again that no one else knows that. She’s his. No one knows just how much she is but him. Her eyes sparkle with well-worn love- old love- the kind you trust to live in, rather than feel the need to squirrel away. The kind you bask in. The kind they have.

Merlin winks.

The gallows open.

They go to their deaths holding hands.

Arthur wakes quickly with a sharp inhale, blinking away memory moths. Colombia, 18-something or other. He hasn’t had that dream before, but he supposes it is rather a recent memory, if he’s correct about what year it is now.

This is a small cot. Medical grade, like a hospital’s, but the sheets are too soft. A high end hospital. Not military. Arthur shifts his head gently to look at Merlin for clues.

Right. Unresponsive. Hogwarts. The infirmary.

He tilts his head back to the window. Judging by the sun it’s about six-thirty in the afternoon. He slept through dinner.

Arthur returns his attention to the love of his every life, playing with the black curls splashed over the pillow sleepily. He finds his other hand is ahead of his brain, already nestled against Merlin’s wrist, keeping steady time with his pulse. Arthur takes the opportunity to just lie and breathe and watch for a while.

He gets up soon. He has council at seven, doesn’t he? Things to clean up.

“I’ll be back soon,” Arthur says out loud in a voice low from sleep (more for his sake than Merlin’s), kissing his stiff hand. “I’ll just settle this blood war, and I’ll be back. Shouldn’t take long. I’ll tell you everything then.”

🗺🗽

On his way to the Gryffindor dorm, he gets someone to check on the founders. They’re in position, standing by. Good. It’s about time to get this underway.

When he returns, people are filtering in from walking off their dinner, looking curious. Some have taken to lounging over the armchairs or leaning against the mantelpiece. Fred and George appear to have done their part admirably, judging by the anticipatory whispers hissed around the room.

“It starts at seven.”

“They always do.”

“Yeah, but this time it’s different, I don’t know. They say McGonagall didn’t call it.”

“What? Then who did?”

“I don’t know.”

“Of course she called it, there’d be no meeting otherwise.”

“But she didn’t say anything. I heard from Lee.”

“Maybe she’s busy?”

“Yeah, ‘cause she’d slip up like that.”

“It’s more likely than someone else calling a meeting. That’s never even happened. You’re gonna look real stupid come seven o’clock.”

Sure enough, everyone is present when the time comes around, minus McGonagall. Her having never been anything short of five minutes early to a meeting, this has caused quite the reaction among the ranks. Debates break out among the populous as Arthur watches, leaning back in a shaded corner where he can see it all go down. Harry, Ron and Hermione are present as well, but they haven’t noticed him, and clearly expect him to still be with Merlin. That’s good. He needs the attention elsewhere tonight.

Finally, when Fred and George show up a couple minutes late, they’re bombarded with questions which they take admirably well considering they don’t have any answers. So well, in fact, that the figure taking up post in the portrait behind them goes mostly unnoticed until he speaks in his arresting voice. The fire leaps in delighted support.

“Thank you boys. Let’s get started,” booms Godric Gryffindor.

In the Slytherin common room, Salazar addresses his crowd quite unmistakably.

In Hufflepuff, Helga has a chat with her own.

In Ravenclaw, Rowena enchants a rapt audience with stern but objective truths and a unique brand of condescension that, rather than instilling shame, reminds the listeners that values only hold up if they’re defended.

At Arthur’s behest, the founders put things into perspective, which is all one really needs to avoid a war.

It’s going on nine by the time it wraps up. Arthur begrudgingly allows the high five the twins insist upon before slipping back out the door, exchanging pleasantries with Liz as he goes and mentally filing away the reports the portraits on his way back to the infirmary provide him with. That’s one problem down, but he’ll need to keep an eye on it. Wars do not die quietly.

For now though, he thinks he’ll content himself with giving his husband the rundown of the night’s events, and who knows, maybe even getting a decent night’s sleep.

Chapter 18: The Aftermath

Chapter Text

Em being gone from their group causes a shift in the entire world. Things are off kilter, either leaning too far left or too far right. There are too many stretches of silence where he’s supposed to be in their conversations now, one less person to make room for and acknowledge, one less set of footsteps echoing across the stone floors as they shuffle off to class.
Hermione starts wearing a scarf. She says she’s cold. No one argues. Draco all but snarls at anyone who looks at them too long with pity or morbid interest. Ron’s found himself in a similarly foul mood, and he’s so upset he forgets to hate Draco. Harry gets random bursts of righteous energy, desperate to do something about it, and sleeps more than before- which should be a good thing, but just makes him more depressed. The bags under his eyes have never been deeper. The sickest feeling is knowing he can’t do anything about it. He feels so powerless. Harry can’t believe how much life is missing from him now that Em’s just a husk in a hospital bed. He never really thought about it, but of course it was Em leaving him an extra treacle tart on his window sill every Thursday. Of course it was him making Harry’s bed when he forgot. Of course he was the one swapping out the playing cards every game so they never got bored. All these little things suddenly disappear, and for the first time ever at Hogwarts, Harry feels unbelievably alone. The others clearly feel similarly, and instead of hanging out as friends, now they’re just being alone together.

Arthur takes it like a grizzled veteran. It worried Harry at first- still worries him. Arthur had to be in denial to be as matter-of-fact about it as he is. Harry keeps waiting for it, but there’s no meltdown, no implosion or explosion of his feelings. Either Arthur’s insanely good at self-control, or emotionally balanced and capable enough to genuinely accept this nightmare as it is and forge onward. Both are worrisome thoughts.

Ron’s theory is that he’s secretly a robot, but Harry knows Arthur’s more affected than he presents himself to be. He doesn’t know how Arthur does it, but Harry knows he sneaks out of the dorms every night, and three guesses where he goes. He’s been warm as ever with them, but closed off somehow, preoccupied at all times. He breaks off from the group without a clear reason often, so while he checks in on them and eats with them and stays as close as he ever did, he’s clearly keeping the part of him reserved for Em elsewhere. Probably in the infirmary.

The bullying has stopped entirely, but it’s hard to enjoy the reprieve when they’re all so gloomy. Harry just knows Em would hate that, though, and he’d be horrified by the glum introduction Draco’s had to their friend group. Through all this mess, it’s easy to forget he’s only just turned his entire lifestyle around for them. Harry decides he shouldn’t forget that, he should try to help him like Em would. He won’t be half as good at it, but he should still try.

He’s learned quite a bit about Draco in the little time they’ve spent side by side rather than as enemies. He’s dangerously smart, in a sharp, lethal way, which is probably what makes people take such notice of him. He is hard to miss without trying, from his shock-blonde hair to his sterling silver eyes, sharp as daggers. Harry wonders why he used to yell and spit so much before when he’s much more respectable now, and much easier to pay attention to. Much more at ease. It suits him.

Draco knows far too much about everyone around him. He won’t say how, but Harry doesn’t think there’s any big trick to it. He’s fairly certain Draco’s just observant, soaking up every fine detail in the world before him like a sponge, storing it all away in methodically organized files for later use. Making conclusions and connecting dots, unravelling a red string of logic from point to point in his mind. Harry imagines it’s all quite methodical behind the scenes.

Draco is doing his fair share of heavy lifting in terms of spirits as well. Harry is still frequently “Potter,” as Ron and Hermione are still “Weasley” and “Granger”, but they’re never said with the same malice as before, like their very names are the insult. Harry is glad of the upcoming Quidditch game, an excuse to leave the ground and it’s problems behind and be free again with only the snitch to worry about for an hour or two, but it’s when Draco shoots into the air across from him and shouts over “Alright there, scarhead?” that he really feels the weight lift off of him.

It’s still a rough game though. They win, Harry paying for the grand feeling of closing his fist around the snitch with a bludger to the arm.

Harry opens his eyes. He can feel the dew seeping into his back, through his robes. There’s a veritable sea of red around him- his team- along with a more hesitant stream of green. The Slytherin team have come to check on him as well. That’s nice.

Harry frowns minutely at a glitter of pearly teeth, but then it’s being shoved aside to make room for a pale blonde head and gun-metal grey eyes.

“You right, Harry? Your arm was hit, but you’re not bleeding. Does it hurt?”

“Not to worry, I’ll have this fixed in a jiff,” a cheery voice Harry instinctively cringes back from says in the background. There’s a familiar click.

“I don’t want a photo of this, Colin,” he says loudly, proud of his words for coming out clearly. Above him, Draco curses and moves off to enforce that request, making Harry a little sorry to have made it. Particularly when Lockhart swims into view above him.

“Lie back, Harry, it’s a simple charm I’ve used countless times-“

“Why can’t I just go to the hospital wing?” Harry demands through clenched teeth, graciously skipping over the fact that he’s already flat on his back on the grass and can’t see how he might go about lying back further.

“He should really, Professor,” advises a muddy Wood, grinning ear to ear. “Great capture, Harry, really spectacular, your best yet, I’d say-“

“Stand back,” Lockhart orders grandly, throwing his arms out to either side and rolling his gilded sleeves up.

“No- don’t—“

A strange and unpleasant sensation trickles down his skinny arm from the shoulder. It feels like it’s being deflated. Harry hopes he hasn’t just lost his arm or its use permanently to a middle-aged male model’s delusions of competence.

Draco shoves back into his vision as he realizes he’s missed something, stormcloud eyes snapping from Lockhart to Harry and darkening.

“What did you do?” he hisses scathingly, dropping down to look Harry’s arm over while the crowd take a step back and look ill. Harry decides he doesn’t want to know what illicited that response.

“Ah,” Lockhart says. “Yes. Well, that can sometimes happen. But the point is, the bones are no longer broken. That’s the thing to bear in mind. So, Harry, just toddle up to the hospital wing, Mr. Malfoy can escort you— ah, Miss Granger, Mr. Weasley, why don’t you lend your friend a hand, he could do with one. Up, there you go, Madam Pomfrey will be able to- er- tidy you up a bit.”

Lockhart wisely beats a quick retreat as Arthur holds Draco back from tidying him up a bit.

“‘Salright, Draco, if he’s messed me up permanently maybe someone’ll fire him,” Harry offers a little weakly, before tilting right into Ron’s shoulder and almost sending them both down like a sack of bricks.

“That f*cking imbecile,” Draco spits later on as Harry tries to restituate his boneless arm against his sheets in the infirmary. That’s another thing he’s learned about Draco: when he’s angry he swears more than any preteen Harry’s ever met. It makes Hermione gasp every time. “He’s going to get someone killed. I should’ve had him fired ages ago. Blithering about, disappearing bones with unsupervised field spells on a minor -“

“Oh, thank Merlin,” Ron sighs. “I thought you’d be all for him.”

Draco gapes indignantly, reeling back in offense. “Me? You thought I would fall for that joke of a fraud? He’s so close to a ken doll he’s probably trademarked!”

Harry stifles a surprised snort, even as he feels a pang of hurt for Hermione.

“Hey, it’s an easy mistake to make!” Ron snaps back defensively. Draco’s eyes go wide, probably thinking Ron used to buy into it. Arthur uncrosses his arms, ready to intervene, but there’s no need. Hermione puts a hand on Draco’s arm to catch his attention and gives Ron a look.

“He had me fooled,” she admits with no small amount of shame. “And Draco’s right, Ron, I was being totally brainless. You guys didn’t let me get away with it for long, though. Em didn’t…”

“That’s what you were fighting about,” Draco realizes. “That was a miserable week.”

“How do you know? You weren’t with us at that point,” Ron accuses.

“I have eyes,” the Slytherin returns a little too quickly. “There was a storm cloud over the lot of you that entire time. The temperature dropped whenever you entered a room. I’d have to have been stupid not to notice.”

“Whatever. Now I can keep an eye on Em, and you have twice as many excuses to come see him. We would’ve been here every night anyway,” Harry says.

They all look over. Em’s set in the bed beside Harry’s- or more accurately, Harry’s in the bed beside Em’s. He was here first, after all. Arthur’s sitting on the edge of it, playing with Em’s hair. He doesn’t seem to notice he’s doing it.

“Mm. Appreciate it. Pomfrey’s been eyeing his scarf, and I can only be here so much,” he hums.

“I’ve never seen him without that thing,” Draco muses neutrally.

“Neither have I,” Ron admits with a shrug. Harry lets out a surreptitious breath of relief that it mostly ends the conversation.

💪

“Any ideas?” Arthur asks aloud as he paces, frown set deep in his young face. “And don’t say Hagrid.”

Albus’ eyebrows raise delicately from behind his desk where he’s watching Arthur stride around his room like a man possessed. “He was sentenced for the opening of the chamber fifty years ago.”

“I know that,” Arthur scoffs. Honestly, does Albus think he doesn’t do his research? They’re trying to catch a terrorist here. “But he didn’t do it, and you know he didn’t, so stop trying to be all smoke and mirrors. Work with me. Would it help if I shifted my physical form? Is it the age, is that it? Can’t strategize with a twelve year old? Get it together.”

Albus blinks, opens his mouth once, then closes it and dips his head in concession, waving a hand for Arthur to continue. Arthur rolls his eyes and ploughs on.

“Here’s what we know. Hagrid was blamed fifty years ago, but guess who was also at school at the time, right in the thick of things? Riddle. Obviously it was him, you can confirm?”

Albus nods once.

“Right. So while he no longer has a physical vessel, it’s still possible for him to have a hand in this through someone else. Could be willing service, could be unwilling- coercion, influence, something. Which means it could be anyone. I don’t see how he could have any fractions of himself in the school to oversee it personally, Merlin would’ve sensed him from day one, so it’s unlikely to be a Quirrel situation. Then it’s more likely to be a willing service deal, he wouldn’t want to trust an insecure line, particularly if it were a student. So we’re most likely looking at an adult servant of the Dark Lord, willingly preying on minors who advocate for mixed-blood justice and sending the pure-blood message.” Arthur snaps his eyes to Albus to make sure he’s got all that before he continues. “I want all the files on every member of staff on campus this year. Once this is all over, you need to tighten up your hiring standards or I’ll have to do it for you. I can’t even begin to approach what you were thinking when you replaced Quentin Quirrel with Gilderoy Lockhart. But first thing’s first: your theories. Hit me.”

“It obviously isn’t anyone related to Sal. He has no descendants, so we can rule out the idea that that claim has any bearing on the identity of the culprit. However, claiming to be the heir gives us insight into the kind of person we’re looking for,” Rowena provides from behind Albus. He politely scoots out of the way so the founders aren’t talking to his back.

“Blood purist, obsessed with the notion of birthright,” Helga agrees.

“Classic narcissist,” Sal concludes.

“No, you’re describing Riddle. He’s pulling the strings, of course it stinks of him. We want his scapegoat, whoever he’s using to paint his picture,” Arthur reminds them.

“But are these not also common traits in the followers of such a man? They serve his creed,” Godric reasons.

“People serve for all kinds of reasons,” Arthur refutes under his breath. “We’re better off working the Basil angle. Anyone can serve, but it takes someone specific to tame a Basilisk, particularly one so averse to violence. I would say Basil’s gone senile, but that can’t be the case if the violence is targeted. It’s possible that someone’s just taking advantage of the collateral damage without instigating it themselves…”

“That’s a big commitment to improvise,” Sal hums.

“You’re right, it’s unlikely,” Rowena agrees. Arthur sighs, running a hand through his hair. For about the eight-hundredth time today, he wishes Merlin was here.

He spends the rest of the daylight holed up in Albus’ study, reading through the staff files and trying to ignore the thousand annoying little knick-knacks that puff and wheeze and click and bubble all around the room. Two of the portraits are helpful, and the rest are loudly unhelpful, so at one point Arthur just tells them all to shut up.

He knows they’re not gonna find damning proof that someone’s under Riddle’s thumb from their school file, but Arthur actually can’t think of anything else right now, and he feels like if he doesn’t do something, anything, towards solving this f*cking thing, he’ll lose it. For the second time in as many years there is an unidentified terrorist loose in a high school on his watch. They got Merlin, for f*ck’s sake. And they’re doing it all with his son’s familiar. And what does Arthur have? Nothing.

Anger is a dangerous thing on Arthur. Right now, he’s seething.

💢

Draco debates with himself for a long time. He hasn’t slept in the dorms for about a week now, since the inter-house hate started. The bullying’s stopped outright since the Founders’ lecture, but something tells Draco it hasn’t all blown over smoothly enough for him to be safe in the Slytherin dorms yet. Fine by him. There’s nothing for him there- although he does miss looking out the windows.

None of this was a concern before Harry went and got himself bereft of thirteen more bones than he had that morning. Now Draco has a choice: go back to Slytherin, or let scarhead catch him bunking in the infirmary for no reason at all and being his nosy self about it. And he would be- even if he pretended not to pry, he’d get to the bottom of it. It’s the kind of thing Potter does for his… friends.

Draco puts it to himself logically. He’s not scared of Potter. What’s he gonna do? So what if Draco’s fifty shades of f*cked up? Harry’s friends with Weasley , he has no room to judge. Yes, right. His friends are a poor redhead built like a newborn giraffe and a nasally teacher’s pet with the worst case of buck teeth Draco’s ever seen. Potter himself is a scrawny waif of a thing whose insane thicket of hair probably makes up 50% of his body weight. Draco might have a whole host of issues, but at least he can tie his tie properly.

So it shouldn’t be this hard to walk into the infirmary.

Really. It shouldn’t.

For all Harry knows he’s just here to visit Emrys. Draco could change his mind or turn around anytime-

No. No, he won’t, because he doesn’t care what Harry Potter, human scarecrow, thinks. It’s none of his business anyway. Draco doesn’t care.

He takes a deep breath and walks in.

Harry’s set himself up with his back leaned into the pillows, dying light from the window pouring over him. He’s reading a book with a broomstick flying around the cover. Typical- recovering from a Quidditch injury and he’s reading a book about Quidditch. Draco would say it’s no wonder he’s so good at the game, but clearly there’s no shortage of raw talent in him either. He’s in a ratty old shirt that might’ve been a real colour once that says ‘Ottery St. Catch Pole Pumpkin Competition’, which, judging by the way it might as well be a nightgown on him, is definitely Weasley’s. His Quidditch robes are folded by the bed next to a half-eaten bag of crisps and two granola bars and his-

His glasses?

Draco’s eyes snap back to his face and sure enough, he isn’t wearing them. With the book about an inch from his face, he must not need them. Draco finds himself stunned still. He never considered that Potter took them off sometimes. In theory, sure, but here he is, without them, and it’s the strangest thing Draco’s ever seen. He just looks like- well. Like a little boy.

His sharp ears pick up on Draco’s entrance, though, and he looks up. Once again, Draco finds himself buffering, so unprepared for a green-eyed, bare-faced Harry he shocks even himself. He manages to pull himself together by the time Harry gracelessly shoves his glasses back onto his face.

“Oh, Draco. Hello.”

“You couldn’t tell it was me?” he hears himself ask, stepping in. “How bad’s your vision?”

“Complete rubbish. I don’t know the exact prescription, though. You’re not wearing green, so I wasn’t sure it was you.”

“You don’t know your own prescription?”

Harry looks down, fiddling with the pages of his book that he’s set aside. “They never got me tested. These are just-“ he shrugs, mumbling into the sheets. “They must’ve found them around the house or secondhand or something.”

Draco blinks as that sinks in. What?

“They’re not even yours?”

“They are now,” Harry shoots back defensively.

“I don’t understand. The Potters weren’t poor, you should’ve inherited a load.”

“Yeah, only when I found out about it.”

Draco freezes on the spot, halfway to his own bed. “What?”

Harry shrugs. “I didn’t know who my parents were until Hagrid came and gave me my letter. I didn’t know about magic, or Hogwarts. I’d never had ‘my own’ anything before then.”

That- no. That’s absurd! He’s Harry Potter. The face of the Wizarding World. Draco knew he was raised by muggles, but they would’ve been in on it, they would’ve told him. Even if they hadn’t, how does that translate to not having anything of his own? Are his muggles poor? Is that why he gets on with Weasley?

“Looks like you still don’t,” Draco’s mouth retorts automatically, eyes flicking pointedly down to Weasley’s shirt. Instead of being embarrassed about it, though. Harry beams and puffs his chest out like he’s proud of it.

“There are no stains on this one. No holes even. Ron gave it to me just because!” he brags. Draco wants to snort until he realizes the kid’s completely genuine. That kills the wind in his sails.

“You here for Em?” Harry asks, and Draco feels a phantom rising of fear in his heart, but it’s too buried in dismay to compare to his earlier distress, and he just shakes his head.

“Oh. Well. Thanks.”

Draco raises his eyebrows, and then rolls his eyes as he catches up. “Not everything’s about you, Potter.”

Poppy takes this opportunity to stride in with a bottle of Skele-Gro that promises to be absolutely foul, dress freshly pressed. Her eyes crinkle (well, more than they already do) happily on seeing him there.

“Draco! You’re early, I haven’t even made your bed up yet. Bit of study to catch up on?”

“No, just nothing better to do. You never know, maybe I missed you,” Draco returns. He never noticed how much softer his voice came out with Poppy, but after snapping at Potter it’s quite apparent. Interesting.

“Sorry, you’re staying? You’re not hurt?” Harry asks, sounding a little taken aback. His head whips between them and his unruly jungle of hair bounces like its own live ecosystem in the light.

“No, dearie, but the infirmary’s open to anyone who needs it,” Poppy assures him easily, effectively assuaging any doubts. Merlin, Draco loves that woman.

“I happen to like it here,” he sniffs to close the topic, flopping down on his own bed. It’s the one facing Em’s.

“Within reason,” Poppy goes on as if Draco didn’t speak. “If only Mr. Penn were so understanding of the rules. You tell him to stop sneaking in here of a nighttime,” she orders, brandishing a strict finger at the two of them.

“I don’t think Merlin himself could stop him,” Draco drawls lazily, cracking open his own book- a rather fascinating read on rare flowers. Honestly, Draco’s enjoyed the nighttime serenades when Arthur pulls his guitar (which he’s stashed under Em’s cot) out.

It ends up being a rather fortunate thing that they’re all there that night, anyway. Arthur’s only just snuck under Em’s covers when the third victim is brought in.

Chapter 19: The art interlude where Malfoy and Potter reign supreme

Chapter Text

BIG UPS TO MY LOVELY LITTLE LADYBUG Nightingale231 WHO HAS CONTRIBUTED THIS FUNKY FRESH ART TO THIS HERE TALE: https://www.instagram.com/p/CfG24rouPxYJcuU2PHDM5SHWMOIL8u9h1vs76c0/?igshid=YmMyMTA2M2Y=
GO AND GIVE THEM SOME LOVE!!!

Chapter 20: Snakes and Ladders

Chapter Text

Ginny shattered when she heard about Em.

He was so kind to her she almost forgot he was a kid as well, not an adult she could trust. Then he was so funny she almost forgot he wasn’t just like her in every way, but older and smarter and whatever else. He would ask her questions no one else thought to ask, and he cared about the answers. Responded with things that made her think or feel more than she would’ve before. He took her seriously, and reminded her not to.

And now he’s lying unresponsive in a hospital bed. And she is petrified that she might have put him there.

The thought was so horrible and so scary she nearly passed out. She might have, once or twice. She was a wreck. Is a wreck.

She had to tell Arthur.

She could not abide the idea that Em- not Em. She couldn’t have hurt Em , and she couldn’t continue knowing she might have. Arthur- god, Arthur. That boy… he was so different now. Like part of him had been petrified with Em. He was only half as bright, half as funny, half as warm, half as present. He was half. It broke Ginny’s heart now to think of him giving her piggybacks and teaching her to fly and talking the boys out of teasing her too much. It would break Em’s heart, too. He would hate seeing Arthur like this. He would hate seeing Ginny like this. If it really was her, and she said nothing, it could be one of her brothers next, or Harry.

Telling anyone was terrifying, but she recognized that it was what she had to do. She was a Weasley. She was a Gryffindor. She was Em’s friend. She had a duty. She owed it to Em.

For some reason, it just made sense that she tell Arthur. She just knew he was the one who had to know. She had to tell Arthur Penn that she might have put Em in that hospital bed.

She had fought herself for weeks, until she felt she was going to tear apart. Every part of her screamed until she could take no more, and, shaking, she stationed herself outside of the second year Gryffindor’s Transfiguration class.

By the time he caught sight of her as they all filed out, she was shuddering like a leaf in the wind, tears banging against her eyelids to be let out. She thinks that might be why Arthur took her aside before the others could notice without asking any questions. Harry noticed, and because he was perfect, he pretended he didn’t and distracted Ron and Hermione while Arthur shepherded her off to a quieter space. After that it was hard to notice much of anything.

She could hear Arthur’s voice in theory, low and quiet and calm, but it was in fluctual obscurity. There was this dim mist that just filled her ears and eyes and lungs with cotton. It made it so hard to breathe.

She was there for a little while before she had the presence of mind to notice the distant voice was speaking in time, like the ticking of a clock, making a rhythm. A baseline. She grabbed hold of it. It would be good to know what was being said, she felt, and it was the only reliable thing in this mental blizzard she was stranded in.

So she strained her ears, begged her heartbeat to quieten, and prayed for the storm to abate. Gradually it became clearer, and she could understand.

“…Two… three… four… five… six. Out; One… two… three… four… five… six…”

Her hand was warm. She could feel the rhythm there too, beating in time under her palm. The soft, comforting thumping matched a swelling, an in and out like a tide. She blinked, trying to bring the counting further into focus. Eventually she recognized the thumping as a heartbeat; The swelling, breathing. She tried to match it. She thought that was what he wanted her to do.

In another long while, she blinked to find herself in a dark alcove with Arthur. The hall was quiet around them, their only company the braziers she could see flickering over the stones. Her hand was on Arthur’s chest as it rose and fell steadily. His heartbeat was unwavering and powerful, as reliable as the sunrise, and it made her feel safe. And she just about matched his breathing now.

“Ginny? If you’re with me, tell me five things you can see.”

Ginny blinked at the loss of the counting, but he still breathed in time. The heartbeat thudded on.

“Five things you can see right now from where you’re standing. Name them out loud for me.”

She looked around hesitantly. See. Five things she could see.

“The-“ she coughed, her voice coming out weak and raspy. “The… fires. In the...”

Arthur nodded in encouragement, so she swallowed and she looked around again.

“The stone. Uhh… archway. W-window…”

“That’s four. One more, Gin. Give me one more.”

She cast around desperately. “Your… you,” she landed on.

Arthur smiled at her and she felt a bit better. She’d done that right.

“Four things you can touch. Name me four things you can touch right now.”

Four things she could touch. Like, in theory? Or four things she was actively touching? She frowned.

“My robes. Uhm… Shirt. Your shirt. M’wand… my hair…”

“Excellent. Now listen for me. I need you to give me three things you can hear.”

She had to swallow again and take a few deep breaths to hear over her heartbeat, but it was slowing enough that it was a reasonable request in a moment.

“The fires in the braziers. My breathing. Your voice.”

“Two things you can smell.”

“…Ink. Parchment.”

“Now one thing you can taste.”

This one was harder, but she took a moment to think about it.

“Bile.”

“Brilliant. Well done,” Arthur coached. His eyes and voice were equally soft, and the shame started to sink in. “Keep your breaths deep and slow for me. I’m going to give you my water bottle,” he said, and he waited for her nod before he let go of her hand to do just that.

She coughed through the water, but it sliced through the fire burning her down cool and clean. Almost enough to make her feel like a person again. She handed it back, and that’s when the shame began to set in.

He must’ve seen it, because he shushed her before she opened her mouth.

“No apologies. May I give you a hug?”

She didn’t feel herself nod, but she did, and he pulled her in tight and strong as if to glue her crumbling pieces back together. It was remarkably effective.

As coherence returned to her, so too did reality.

She still had to tell him.

“Arthur-“

He pulled back, taking her by the shoulders and looking her right in the eyes. He spoke in a calm so deadly and final it felt like the fall of the axe.

“Ginny, I will find the person who did this.”

Ginny still hasn’t told him.

🫠🌪

A duelling club. Just what they need in the midst of this mess. Well, Arthur supposes it’s better than if they’d set it up when that whole house rivalry thing was going down. Still, what are they hoping to accomplish? Duels are an entirely different thing to self defence.

Whatever the case, the kids seem eager, so Arthur tags along to the first meeting in the Great Hall.

Gone are the long dining tables that were, until recently, segregated by house. The typical thousands of candles light the space, but they are significantly lower than usual tonight, providing the space a closer, cosier atmosphere than it usually boasts for the modest crowd. Quite a few people have come, but not half so many as usually eat here at mealtimes. The ceiling is velvety black tonight- it’s late enough that the stars are out in their full glory. Arthur nearly forgets himself in charting them before he has to snap himself back, remembering he is not at the prow of a ship tracking a route through the heavens or arguing with Merlin about the constellations, but here and now.

“I wonder who’ll be teaching us?” Hermione whispers as they edge into the chattering crowd.

“I’d say it’ll most likely be old Flitwick,” Draco drawls. “He was a duelling champ back in his prime.”

“As long as it’s not —” Arthur begins, but he ends on a groan: Gilderoy Lockhart struts grandly onto the stage as if to spite him, resplendent in robes of deep plum and accompanied by none other than Arthur’s second least favourite teacher. Maybe third.

“Gather round, gather round! Can everyone see me? Can you all hear me? Excellent!”

“Now, Professor Dumbledore has granted me permission to start this little duelling club, to train you all in case you ever need to defend yourselves as I myself have done on countless occasions — for full details, see my published works.

“Let me introduce my assistant, Professor Snape,” said Lockhart, flashing a wide smile. “He tells me he knows a tiny little bit about duelling himself and has sportingly agreed to help me with a short demonstration before we begin. Now, I don’t want any of you youngsters to worry — you’ll still have your Potions master when I’m through with him, never fear!”

“Wouldn’t it be good if they finished each other off?” Ron mutters into Harry’s ear.

Snape’s upper lip has curled. It might’ve been curled since before they turned up. Arthur is rather enjoying it.

Lockhart and Snape turn to face each other and bow, one a lot more respectfully than the other. They really are like night and day, with Lockhart’s manufactured radiance practically washing the stage in gold and Snape’s cold pallor equally refuting it. They raise their wands in the traditional way. Arthur’s never seen a real duel (where the loser dies) begin like that. The rules of duelling for sport are very different to the ones he knows.

“As you see, we are holding our wands in the accepted combative position,” Lockhart announces. “On the count of three, we will cast our first spells. Neither of us will be aiming to kill, of course.”

“I wouldn’t bet on that,” Harry murmurs, watching Snape baring his teeth.

Sure enough, Snape makes a proper fool out of Lockhart, and the git quickly realises that pursuing demonstration will just ensure further humiliation. Instead he pairs people up with instructions to disarm only. Arthur rolls his eyes- they haven’t even been taught the rules yet and they’re whipping wands out. How did this man earn a teaching degree?

“Scared, Potter?” Draco hisses with relish, grinning ear to ear, all up in Harry’s face. Neither of them seem to notice, but their intense staring into each other’s eyes has left them so close that Harry’s stormcloud of hair is cushioning Draco’s forehead. There will be a Draco-shaped imprint left in it when they separate.

“You wish,” Harry whispers back.

Like hell. Arthur raises his hand.

“Something wrong, Penn?” Snape drawls empirically, raising one dark eyebrow.

“Could we have a demonstration on blocking unfriendly spells, first?” he asks flatly. He’d usually play it innocent, but he is under no such obligation with Tim Burton over here. They’re on the same wavelength.

“A little nervous, are we, Arthur? Not to worry, I won’t let anything happen to you,” Lockhart leans in and winks jovially. Arthur blinks tiredly back.

Arthur meant that he wanted the competent teacher to show them how to defend themselves, but alas, Lockhart has to play the hero, and Snape, too Snape for his own good, is all too happy for an excuse to hex him. Or, in this case, toss a snake at him.

Sure. Why not.

Arthur has to give it to him, it’s pretty funny- or it would be, if the school wasn’t on high alert for an heir of Slytherin and a monster to match. Obviously a common garden snake isn’t running around petrifying people, but it’s still just not in good taste right now. Still, it’s not a complete travesty.

No, what’s a travesty is that Lockhart makes a mess of trying to get rid of the thing and Harry has to step in and talk it down.

Arthur more or less understands Parseltongue. Sal even taught him enough basic commands to get by with his little nightmare in the case of the shower incident repeating itself (which it did, more than once). It’s been a long time, but Arthur knows what Harry’s saying when he tells the snake to chill out. In Parseltongue.

Snape deals with the snake while everyone’s freaking out about that, and Arthur takes the opportunity to shunt his little posse the f*ck out of there post-haste.

No sooner has he accomplished this than Ron’s pushed Harry into a chair, one of the many in the vacant classroom they’ve found for themselves.

“You’re a Parselmouth. Why didn’t you tell us?” he demands.

“I’m a what?”

“A Parselmouth!” Ron repeats. “You can talk to snakes!”

“I know,” Harry says. “I mean, I talk to Goldie all the time. And I accidentally set a boa constrictor on my cousin Dudley at the zoo once — long story — but it was telling me it had never seen Brazil and I sort of set it free without meaning to -– that was before I knew I was a wizard —”

“A boa constrictor told you it had never seen Brazil?” Ron repeats faintly.

”You knew this, I told you I was hearing voices-“

”Hearing snake and speaking snake are WILDLY DIFFERENT THINGS-“

“Okay, everybody relax. Harry, Parseltongue is a language spoken by snakes and their kin. It’s not a very common gift anymore, but it’s perfectly natural. It must be in your bloodline.”

“This is bad, Harry,” Hermione worries.

“What’s bad?” the poor boy refutes angrily. “What’s wrong with everyone? Listen, if I hadn’t told that snake not to attack Justin —”

“It was in Slytherin’s bloodline, Harry,” Draco states calmly.

The group goes silent. Harry’s mouth falls open as this registers.

“So… so everyone thinks that…”

“Exactly,” Hermione finishes gravely.

“But I’m not,” Harry promises, sounding a little panicky.

“You’ll find that hard to prove,” Hermione continues. “He lived about a thousand years ago; for all we know, you could be.”

Ron goes to bed early that night. Daisy, who he’s taken to carrying around in his pocket, did not appreciate the snake, and probably needs to sleep off the trauma. With him gone and Em’s absence more tangible than ever, no one’s surprised that Hermione bows out pretty soon too. Arthur figures the worst thing he can do is make a big deal about it, so he leaves the other two to disappear like he so frequently does with a determined march to his step.

Since the meeting isn’t actually supposed to end for a while, Harry has some time to kill. He has no idea what to do with it. He doesn’t want to go back to the Gryffindor dorms. He doesn’t think he wants to be anywhere right now. He thinks about it for so long he ends up just staying where he is. He’s not sure why Draco would rather spend his time in an empty classroom than anywhere else, but he can’t exactly talk, so he doesn’t ask. Draco pulls out a book from somewhere and reads. He doesn’t say anything about Harry just sort of sitting and staring at nothing for frankly way too long, charting the silver-blues the moonlight paints the walls. He doesn’t even look up. It’s nice.

“The hat wanted to put me in Slytherin,” Harry admits quietly after maybe half an hour.

Draco finally looks up from his book. His eyebrows flick up in surprise. He doesn’t have much eyebrow to speak of, being platinum blonde, but his face remains expressive nonetheless. He looks like a ghost in the silver-blue- or maybe like a reflection in a puddle. His eyes are crystal clear. He glows as softly as the moon. He puts his book aside.

“Really?” he asks.

Harry nods. He feels silly now.

“...I asked it not to,” he says a little shamefully.

Harry can feel those eyes staring into him for a long time, but he doesn’t feel the need to look up. He feels surprisingly comfortable. All that silence, probably.

“I don’t blame you,” Draco admits.

Harry’s head whips up to stare back at him in shock, eyes wide. Did he hear that correctly?

“It’s not… warm, like Gryffindor. Not if you don’t have friends, connections… if you don’t…” Draco sighs, trying to word it right. He dislikes flubbering, but he dislikes misspeaking more. “I think it’s supposed to be a house that it isn’t. There are traces of it everywhere. But no one talks about them. Everyone has a place.” he shrugs. “Maybe this is just a bad time to be a green.”

“If I had gone to Slytherin, maybe I could’ve done something,” Harry muses. “Helped. At least we could’ve shared a dorm and suffered together.”

Draco snorts. Change isn’t that simple. Harry is such a child.

“I think we are helping,” is what Draco says aloud.

He continues to consider Potter. Short little runt with more hair than sense. Glasses that sit crooked on his nose and don’t even fit him.

Ambitious. Cunning. Loyal.

He would’ve looked good in green.

Chapter 21: Happy Valentine’s Day! It’s all gone to sh*t

Chapter Text

Yuletide is a rather more subdued affair this year. It feels wrong to have it without Em, so they sort of don’t. Arthur insists they should all have fun, but no one can quite get into the spirit. That’s not to say it’s a complete wash. They all get a Weasley sweater (well, Draco doesn’t just yet, but Merlin’s been making him a mockup since they sorted out their differences, so he gets half of one). They spend most of the break by his bedside- most everyone’s gone home in fear of being the next victim, so they have him all to themselves. Justin Finch-Fletchley is the latest, and of course everyone’s blaming Harry. Because that makes sense.

With everyone home for the holidays, though, they can spend ages playing exploding snap and laughing at each other in the infirmary unaccosted by Em’s many admirers. There’s plenty of room for Pandora and Hedwig- they even sneak the other animals out a few times for cuddles. Draco even gets away with asking for Dobby over the break, so he stays with them too. He bursts into tears when he discovers his master has made the right kind of friends at last, and quickly has to pull himself together when Hobby shows up with treacle tarts.

They all exchange much more modest gifts this year, mostly things like new card decks and packs of licorice wands, but Draco easily takes the cake in that regard. He somehow seems to know just what everyone needs, gifting them each things no one else would’ve thought of that turn out to be just perfect. He does nothing in halves. He gifts Hermione a purse with an extension charm on it that she can reach her whole arm into, so she can cart around as many books as she likes at a time. Ron gets a book called ‘From Pet to Partner: how to train anxiety out of your familiar’. He gives Arthur a holster for his wand that he can strap to his waist or thigh or chest as he sees fit. It lives at his hip now, ready to be unsheathed as Excalibur is meant to be. Draco leaves Em’s gift- an auto-ironer- under his hospital bed. That boy’s clothes are never not creased. Finally, for Harry, he works with Poppy to get Harry’s eyes tested properly without alerting him, then goes and buys him some proper spectacles. About time someone did. They’re much the same as his old ones in style, but a stylish gold, and slicker in make and body. They probably cost an arm and a leg, not that Draco will say.

On the investigation front, Arthur makes frustratingly slow progress. He’s been over the staff files so many times he could quote them by heart, and still he has no leads- or none that have proven worth following up on. He’s starting to think this is more likely a case of possession. If it were a spy, he’d have them by now- they’d leave traces. There is simply nothing to go off of, and that makes him think it’s not as straightforward as that. For now, his best hope is catching the culprit in the unknowing act. You’d think that would be easier- systematically culling all the roosters on school grounds isn’t a clean job. Alas, no clues yet.

Whoever it is, or whoever’s possessing them, seems to have caught onto his game. Hard to avoid, given that he has the entire castle on high alert. The attacks have stuttered to a stop. The heir’s gone quiet. The school is hesitantly releasing the breath it’s been holding, wary of the turn of good luck being more of a calm before the storm. Some, of course, are too stupid to have thought of that.

Gilderoy Lockhart, for one. He seems to think he's single-handedly saved the school. Harry overhears him telling Professor McGonagall so while the Gryffindors are lining up for Transfiguration.

“I don’t think there’ll be any more trouble, Minerva,” he says, tapping his nose knowingly and winking. “I think the Chamber has been locked for good this time. The culprit must have known it was only a matter of time before I caught him. Rather sensible to stop now, before I came down hard on him. You know, what the school needs now is a morale-booster. Wash away the memories of last term! I won’t say any more just now, but I think I know just the thing...”

Harry and Arthur have both been equally wary of whatever the great twat meant by that, but neither of them could’ve dreamt up the nightmare as it turns out. No, this is a shade of pink that one should really only ever encounter in hell.

On February the fourteenth, the Great Hall is awash in garish pink from wall to wall. Large, lurid pink flowers disrupt the tasteful mahogany in horrid fashion. Pale pink heart-shaped confetti falls from the soft blue sky-ceiling, and while Arthur has the advantage of being able to simply brush it off, Harry knows it’s settling into his own tragic thicket of hair and he’ll likely be picking it out until the day he dies. He can’t help but marvel for a minute though at just how sharp every little flake is through his new lenses. The world is such a rich thing when one can see.

They make their way through the hellscape to their usual spot at the table that was formerly Hufflepuff’s- they like the corner where they can see everyone and more or less keep out of the spotlight. Draco’s shaking confetti off his bacon with a look of disgust. Harry’s glad to see he’s trying- the boy doesn’t typically eat much, particularly in terms of meat, and a few weeks ago he blanched at the thought of touching anything so greasy as bacon.

“What’s going on?” Harry asks, sitting down and looking between his equally unimpressed crew. Arthur picks a flower and starts peeling the most offensively pink petals off in an attempt to save it.

Ron jabs a thumb behind him at the teachers’ table, apparently too disgusted to speak. Harry almost laughs. Lockhart’s impossible to miss, resembling one of his god awful flowers in hellish pink from head to toe. He’s beaming genially as he gestures for silence, obviously very pleased with himself. The muscle going in Professor McGonagall’s cheek is visible from the back of the room. Snape seems to have cast something like an invisible umbrella, causing the blasted confetti to fall around him in a cascade without touching him. That might just be his general disposition though. Hagrid’s beard is about as bad as Harry’s hair, and Harry wonders if he won’t just have to shave it off. Now that’s a horrible thought.

“Happy Valentine’s Day!” Lockhart booms grandiosly, throwing his arm up in spectacular fashion. “And may I thank the forty-six people who have so far sent me cards! Yes, I have taken the liberty of arranging this little surprise for you all — and it doesn’t end here!”

Lockhart claps his hands and clicks his heel in time, and on cue, the grand doors shudder open. In marches a parade of surly-looking dwarves, all of them middle-aged men, all of them in loose-fitting togas, flimsy little wings, and carrying small golden harps. Harry can’t decide which ones are worse- the ones with little to no body hair, or the ones with far, far too much.

Arthur gapes. “What the f-”

“My friendly, card-carrying cupids!” beams Lockhart. “They will be roving around the school today delivering your valentines! And the fun doesn’t stop here! I’m sure my colleagues will want to enter into the spirit of the occasion! Why not ask Professor Snape to show you how to whip up a Love Potion? And while you’re at it, Professor Flitwick knows more about Entrancing Enchantments than any wizard I’ve ever met, the sly old dog!”

Professor Flitwick buries his face in his hands. The look on Snape’s face says the first person to ask him for a Love Potion will be force-fed poison.

“This can’t be legal,” Draco scoffs.

“The wings, ” Arthur coughs, eyes goggling at the ‘cupids’. “That is so racist.”

Ron shakes his confetti off like a dog as they leave the great hall. Arthur does Hermione’s hair in a tight fishtail so she doesn’t get too much of the stuff caught in it. He also manages to get the flower he’s been peeling down to just the simple white centre, and tucks that into Mione’s braid while he’s there.

Harry’s a lost cause. At least Arthur’s sympathetic. Draco can’t look at him at all through the day without laughing.

Arthur gets the worst of it. He has a few admirers himself, so it’s not a terrible surprise when he gets his fair share of ‘verbal valentines’. He suspects the veritable mob Merlin’s got after him have turned their affections on Arthur in his absence, which is a little funny if he thinks about it. Draco gets one too, though none of them are there to see it and Draco refuses to repeat the lyrics. Harry still makes a point of laughing at him.

Arthur’s with them practically all day, though, being in their house, and they all get front row seats to the show. Arthur takes them all in stride, more like a diplomat than anything. To quite a few girls’ dismay, his cheeks don’t so much as colour at a single horribly written line, no matter who’s giggling behind him. There are a few that stand out though; The first of which comes in second period and makes his head snap up, finally interested.

“Roses are red, violets are blue,

If you ever listen, then I’ll eat a shoe.

You thick-headed prat,

You think you’re all that,

And I’m the dumb bastard who loves you.”

Professor Sprout immediately chases the dwarf off and reports him for bad language, baffled at how such a valentine even made it this far. It makes Arthur smile incredulously, though, so the job’s been done. He’ll have to look out for Sprout, though- she’s likely to take this as someone trying to steal Arthur out from under Em’s unresponsive nose. She’s already sending him disapproving looks.

“We’d know if Em was awake, yeah?” Ron asks, leaning over to whisper to Harry.

“Yeah, couldn’t be him…” Harry says, equally wigged out. That sounded exactly like him.

The next one of note comes over lunch, when a fat little dwarf scampers up to them, hitching up his loincloth and clearing his smoker’s throat.

“His hair is so blonde, his eyes are so blue,

A cliché the likes of which you never knew,

He's simply divine,

A true man out of time,

If you fall for him, all the best to you."

Ron falls out of his seat laughing. Harry has to grab onto Draco to not end up the same way. And lo and behold, for the first time today, Arthur’s blushing.

Arthur singles out another three throughout the day that probably came straight from Merlin. That crafty little sh*t. He probably got a mental message through the caretakers or something, and instead of using it to help, he used it to pull this. f*cking typical. He knows damn well he can’t be blamed for it, either, playing vegetable in the infirmary with a perpetual poker face. It’s the perfect cover. The twat. What an incredibly Merlin thing to do. The worst part? It works like a charm. It makes Arthur smile like a loon.

He doesn’t have to suffer alone for long, though. Late that afternoon, Harry gets one on the way to Charms.

“Oy, you! ‘Arry Potter!” shouts a particularly grim-looking dwarf, elbowing people out of the way to get to Harry. The poor boy can’t quite blush with his skin tone, but he does his darndest. The look on his face is quite embarrassed enough, anyway. He ducks his fluffy head and tries to burrow into the crowd in a great escape, but being a scrawny underfed eleven-year-old about a head shorter than just about everyone else, he doesn’t get far. Centre of attention that he is these days, the usual duck-and-run doesn’t quite work the same as it used to. The beefy little dwarf has him by the collar in seconds.

“I’ve got a musical message to deliver to ‘Arry Potter in person,” he announces throatily. Does he gargle with razor blades?

“Not here,” Harry hisses desperately, bucking like a bronco. In the struggle his bag splits open, and he races to shove everything back together and get out of there before the dwarf can get through the first verse.

“Potter? What’s going on?” Draco’s voice lilts down the corridor as the boy himself swims through the crowd as smoothly as a silverfish. Harry almost groans out loud at his luck. Arthur stifles a laugh as he watches Harry double his efforts to get out of there.

“What’s all this commotion?” says another familiar voice as Percy Weasley arrives. Is that Ginny? Oh, you’re kidding, is Snape waiting ‘round the corner too??

Harry makes a last-ditch break for it and is promptly taken down in a spectacular tackle by the scantily-clad dwarf. Ron hisses through his teeth. Hermione winces in sympathy.

“Right,” Harry’s accoster huffs, sitting on Harry’s ankles. “Here is your singing valentine:

His eyes are as green as a fresh pickled toad, his hair is as dark as a blackboard–

I wish he was mine, he’s really divine,

The hero who conquered the Dark Lord!”

Harry does not have approximately fourteen thousand years of diplomacy and politics in his back pocket, so he doesn’t take it quite as smoothly as Arthur. To his credit, he does his best to laugh along with everyone else while he looks like he’s hitching his hopes on spontaneous combustion. And it is rather hard to act natural when one’s best friend is on the floor crying tears of mirth. Hermione is covering her eyes like that’ll block it out. Arthur is wheezing as he all but lifts Harry up by the scruff and finally aids his retreat. Draco has a sly grin slipping over his pale face, and it looks like doom. His sh*t-eating expression is worse than the entire corridor’s howls combined.

“I don’t think Potter liked your valentine much!” Harry hears him call out. Somewhere amongst the first-years, Ginny squeaks. Arthur admonishes Draco for it, but it’s through breathless giggles.

Yes, spontaneous combustion sounds ideal right about now.

💝🌷

Easter comes around quickly, and still Arthur makes no progress. He’s actually losing his mind. He comes at it from every angle: the chamber, the crime scene, the victims, the history, Riddle, Sal, Basil, even Myrtle. It’s like he has every piece of the puzzle except the important one that makes it a recognizable picture. With no more attacks occurring, he has nothing more to go on.

He helps the kids pick their courses for next year and mourns the fact that Merlin isn’t here to argue. He has no one to look at sideways whenever Harry and Draco get caught up in each other. He still turns halfway to split the investigation work up before realising he’s doing this alone for now. He finds himself turning to the castle for comfort- that and the investigation. For a while he even avoids the infirmary, because he knows Merlin would either be yelling at him for his stupidity or telling him he’s working far too hard. Probably both. Even catatonic, Merlin makes him feel guilty for driving himself into the ground. Unbelievable.

Arthur keeps him as updated as he can, but all he ever has is bad news. He thinks he might be onto something with his horcrux theory- if someone interacted enough with one they could fall into a form of possession, which would explain how Riddle’s meddling. Unfortunately it just makes the search harder, since a)Arthur can’t confirm this, b)the horcrux could be anything, and c)it could have a hold on anyone.

The security measures of the school get tighter, the mood grimmer. Quidditch is cancelled. There are two more attacks, and with none of the victims being Slytherins, the inter-house rifts they just so carefully mended begin to open again. Suspicion seeps into the halls of Hogwarts.

What. A. Mess.

And then Hermione gets got.

That girl is too damn smart for her own good. While Arthur was running around in circles, she was figuring it out for herself. Her petrified body was found holding a crumpled page on Basilisks with a note that read pipes in the margins, and in her other hand she was holding a mirror.

Few things scare Arthur more than brilliant preteens. This is a perfect example of why.

With her down, it’s only a matter of time before Harry, Ron and Draco start getting into their fair share of trouble. He can’t leave them alone for half a second to return to his entirely fruitless efforts for fear of them confronting potential monsters for information or putting something together that they shouldn’t. Honestly, it’s lucky Hagrid hasn’t cracked and let anything slip yet. He’s suspect number one though, and Albus is preoccupied defending him to the ministry, so Arthur’s short a man on that front as well. Yes, everything’s going swimmingly.

The only light at the end of the tunnel is the mandrakes’ seasoning. Arthur finds himself clinging to that eventuality, counting the approximate days. He and Professor Sprout strike a sort of weary understanding in their shared desperation to see Em back on his feet. He checks in with her every day now. All they have to do is wait.

But of course, it can never be that easy.

“All students to return to their House dormitories at once. All teachers return to the staff room. Immediately, please.”

Arthur and Sprout exchange a look, tired bodies injected with enough fear to propel them forth without another word at alarming pace. Arthur only prays the boys aren’t in any position to sneak into the crossfire. On one hand, he doesn’t have to explain why he’s headed straight for the teacher’s lounge with the staff, but on the other, he doesn’t have eyes on his assets. His kids could be plunging into the chamber itself in the name of curiosity as they speak. It wouldn’t be out of character now that 100% of their impulse control is lying in the infirmary in separate beds.

With very few of the teachers being privy to Arthur’s particular status, he splits from Sprout and watches the meeting invisibly from the back of the room. The staff shuffle in far too slowly for his liking, some of them even looking half-bored. Arthur, rapidly approaching the end of his fraying rope, bites down a thunderous growl.

Finally, finally, everyone’s present. McGonagall stands and addresses them gravely, folding her hands in front of her with a fearful look.

“It has happened,” she states clearly. “A student has been taken by the monster. Right into the Chamber itself.”

What? Why? Arthur’s eyes narrow as questions and theories race through his head.

Flitwick lets out a squeal. Sprout claps her hands over her mouth. Snape grips the back of a chair hard enough to make the wood creak. He is the first to speak.

“How can you be sure?”

“The Heir of Slytherin left another message. Right underneath the first one. ‘Her skeleton will lie in the Chamber forever.’ ”

Professor Flitwick bursts into tears.

Her? What’s significant enough about 'her' to be the exception? Will she be the last? Is she the possessed culprit? A witness? Bait? Involved in some other way? Why now? If it’s the possessed she’ll have walked down herself, leaving no evidence. But Riddle would only get rid of his trump card if he’s accomplished what he set out to. He’s found some other way to come back in the flesh through her? Arthur can’t think how. Why else risk this drastic a play, though?

“Who is it?” asks Madam Hooch as her knees weaken and send her sinking into a chair. “Which student?”

Arthur’s head snaps up. This could break it wide open.

“Ginny Weasley.”

Chapter 22: The Chamber

Chapter Text

…What?

Arthur blinks as the pieces float together all too well. Pureblood lineage- not a likely victim. Ginny’s panic attack right after Merlin went down. The secrecy. The guilt. She’s had no friends to speak of this year, no connections… spiralling alone, pouring herself into something…

…Arthur should’ve seen it.

“We shall have to send all the students home tomorrow,” McGonagall continues. “This is the end of Hogwarts. Dumbledore always said...”

She doesn’t get to finish, interrupted by the sudden BANG of the staffroom door. Arthur whirls around, Excalibur drawn, a second away from disintegrating the threat.

“So sorry — dozed off — what have I missed?” beams the golden fraud who’s just skipped in. He must be accustomed to abject hatred from his audience, because he doesn’t seem bothered by the reaction he garners. Were Arthur visible, his own wrath might be harder to ignore. As it is, Lockhart remains ignorant to just how close he is to becoming the latest in a long line of casualties by Arthur’s blade.

Something about the way Snape slithers forward with barely contained loathing simmering in his eyes tempers Arthur enough to stay his hand for another moment.

“Just the man,” Snape annunciates dangerously. “The very man. A girl has been snatched by the monster, Lockhart. Taken into the Chamber of Secrets itself. Your moment has come at last.”

Hm. Maybe Merlin was onto something with Snape after all, Arthur muses, watching the colour drain from the showman’s face.

“That’s right, Gilderoy,” Sprout chips in. “Weren’t you saying just last night that you’ve known all along where the entrance to the Chamber of Secrets is?”

“I — well, I —”

“Yes, didn’t you tell me you were sure you knew what was inside it?” Even Flitwick? Lockhart truly has estranged himself from the reasonable.

“D-did I? I don’t recall —”

“I certainly remember you saying you were sorry you hadn’t had a crack at the monster before Hagrid was arrested,” sneers Snape. “Didn’t you say that the whole affair had been bungled, and that you should have been given free rein from the first?”

Lockhart whips around, meeting stony face after stony face. It’s almost poetic.

“I — I really never — you may have misunderstood —”

“We’ll leave it to you, then, Gilderoy,” Professor McGonagall concludes sharply, and ohh, isn’t that just the cherry on top. “Tonight will be an excellent time to do it. We’ll make sure everyone’s out of your way. You’ll be able to tackle the monster all by yourself. Free rein at last.”

Lockhart looks desperately around, as if he’ll find a friend in this sea of people he’s been belittling all year. His really rather weak chin wobbles feebly. His foundation has coagulated with his sweat. He swallows thickly.

“V-very well,” he finally stutters. “I’ll — I’ll be in my office, getting — getting ready.” And with that he sweeps bravely out the door.

“Right,” snaps Professor McGonagall, nostrils flared, “that’s got him out from under our feet. The Heads of Houses should go and inform their students what has happened. Tell them the Hogwarts Express will take them home first thing tomorrow. Will the rest of you please make sure no students have been left outside their dormitories.”

Arthur doesn’t stay for a moment longer. He slips out after Lockhart, the beginnings of a plan forming in his ancient, war-carved mind.

Arthur doesn’t bother being sneaky about it anymore. If he’s honest, he can’t. He’s been stuck in this circle, helpless, for most of the year, and he’s had it. Arthur’s going to look this fool in the eyes as he finally does something of worth.

He doesn’t mean to be quiet as he enters, but Arthur is coiled tightly enough that his instincts respond as if he were in the middle of a battle, and so Lockhart doesn’t hear him come in. He doesn’t hear the boy step calmly down the length of the classroom or slip in through the half-open door to his office, wand pointed steadily at his teacher’s chest the whole way.

A veritable rainbow of rich fabric is stuffed hastily into two open trunks, each embossed with the owner’s initials. Hair products fly as Lockhart throws all he can into his bags with the fervency of a hunted man. Arthur finds it disrespectful to the space- so still and timeless. The wind does not reach here, and sound is swallowed up by the age of the stone. This farce of a man does not belong here. He never did.

Lockhart finally whirls around and jumps about a foot in the air seeing Arthur. He yelps a bit, and then doubles over in a huff with a caught-off-guard smile and a hand on his chest, laughing his dramatics off. Arthur stares back at him with a face flat enough to put Snape to shame. He doesn’t blink. He doesn’t so much as twitch.

“Oh, Mr. Penn! Well done, you might be the first man to ever get the jump on me! I’m afraid I’ve no time for autographs right now, really got to be getting on-”

“You’re going into the chamber, Lockhart. Any arrangements you want made, make them now.”

Lockhart looks back at him in bright yellow shock. It slowly dies and sours a little, going a sickly shade approaching muddy green.

“I don’t think so,” he says simply.

“I do.” Is the reply.

Lockhart turns and ducks under his desk, bumbling the whole way. “Well, I’m sorry to hear that, because I really hate to do this-”

He breaks off as he clocks that the wand he’s searching for is in Arthur’s other hand. Arthur steps neatly aside, giving Lockhart an open path to the door in a clear sign.

Lockhart gulps.

Considering the entrance is in a girl’s bathroom, it’s impressively dramatic. The snakes on the silver taps are a nice touch.

“My boy, are you quite mad? You’ve brought me to a lavatory? I must insist you leave this to th-”

“Shut up,” Arthur cuts him off in a tone that would quieten a raging elephant, hardly paying attention to him. He ignores Lockhart’s gasp when he speaks the code word as well.

The grand, imposing sinks, standing back to back in a great circle, shudder into forgotten movement. The horrid grating sound it makes is telling of its age, edges cutting into chips in the stone that weren’t there when it was designed, the snakes on the faucets squirming sluggishly having not been granted life in fifty years. Gradually, the ancient structure separates and sinks out of sight, making way for the entrance of a gaping, neglected pipe plunging straight down.

“It was you,” Lockhart gapes. Arthur doesn’t deign to roll his eyes, and he certainly doesn’t bother correcting him. “You! All along! Saints above…”

A common failing in wizards, even competent ones, is the tendency to overlook the tried and true method of just pushing someone down a hole. They all want to use magic for every little thing. None of them even think to guard against something like a good shove to the chest. It’s quite the disadvantage.

Proceeding on the basis of caution, Arthur follows Lockhart down the pipe invisibly, flying himself rather than sliding. This old pipe looks rife with tetanus, and chafing besides. He'd rather not touch it.

They shoot out (or float out, in Arthur’s case) into a wet corridor that looks like a great compromise for a Basilisk and a wizard to strike. This would’ve been where Sal brought his familiar food when they were sulking. Arthur can see somewhat dryer islands of rubble, like stepping stones, crushed as they are beneath the weight of time and the castle far above. Unsteady dripping echoes through the dark space where cracks have slithered through the walls of this once-sacred haven. Mould chokes the place, stifles the stone like an infection, making a gangrenous limb out of Basil’s sanctuary. Arthur’s throat closes for a few reasons. This is one of his family members’ homes.

Lockhart, near hysterical with fear and what might be a concussion, isn’t hard to corral into movement. Arthur keeps himself invisible, which probably doesn’t help the coward’s hysterics, especially when the charm doesn’t extend to his shadow. Arthur doesn’t much care.

On they trudge, Lockhart’s tailored shoes slapping against the beaten floor the only sound puncturing the dismal, stagnant air. At one point, he crunches down on a rat’s skull and nearly passes out for fright. This time Arthur does roll his eyes.

He catches his breath when they come across the snake skin. It’s not Basil- it’s hardly a husk of them, transparent and flaking, crumbling shamefully, less than the footprint of a great beast. The colour and depth leached out of it, the only movement it makes is to shudder brittly against Lockhart’s harsh breath at the sight. It’s a dead, empty thing. Aside from entertaining a vague memory of Sal framing Basil’s first shed skin (despite the rest of them loudly protesting that it was gross), Arthur pays it no mind. Lockhart’s knees give way, and Arthur finally decides to just set him off on a marching curse. He goes ahead and casts a mild calming charm over the man while he’s there. For insurance, of course. Can’t have the fool passing out when Arthur still has a use for him.

Finally, one last bend brings them to a great circular door staring resolutely at its challengers. The old serpents moulded into it wink at them with emerald eyes. Arthur has to give it to Sal- he knew how to stick to a theme.

“Open,” Arthur hisses. Lockhart leaps and whips his head around for the source, but manages not to whimper aloud. Thank you, calming charm.

The serpents regard the two of them for a heavy moment. Then they stutter into action, disentangling themselves from each other, flakes of rust and grime scraping hideously off in the process. It’s violent and final. The doors they guard, by comparison, part much more smoothly.

Arthur prods Lockhart inside.

The chamber has changed. Arthur never spent much time down here, but he’s sure this is not the home of the Basil he knew. There are no creature comforts, reptilian or otherwise- no lights, no bedding, no food or movement. As it is, it resembles a crypt; the large serpentine monuments lining the space, graves. Sal originally carved a snake statue for Basil so they wouldn’t get lonely (and to satisfy his flair for dramatic decor). Godric rolled his eyes and loudly asked him how many snakes a man needed, so Sal, the sh*t, carved twelve more to line each of the walls. Thirteen is an unlucky number, and Godric was very superstitious. Sal had always liked snakes, but that was the beginning of his mission to slap the things on every surface he could get his crafty little hands on. Purely out of spite, Hogwarts to this day is absolutely covered in reptilian reliefs.

Thirteen snakes stare condemningly down at them now from either side. The great face of the old philosopher Sal carved into the far wall watches as well, unmoved. Funny how Sal grew up to look quite like those philosophers he so worshipped. It could just as easily be him in that stone.

At the foot of the stone sentinel is a stroke of flame red splashed starkly against the dim green haze of the tomb. Ginny’s black robes blend her into the floor, but there’s no mistaking that hair.

Arthur takes stock of the situation, the arena, and makes his way silently and invisibly to her side. He directs Lockhart to follow much less subtly. He casts a charm of silence over the man as a last measure. He has to keep his mouth shut for this to work… well, sort of.

Out from the shadows of a serpentine pillar, quite literally seeping from the darkness like a pool of sickly ink, steps a boy Arthur knows to be the soul of the soulless enemy. His skin isn’t white with pallor, but the curse of timelessness. His wavy black hair is neat, combed back in an old-fashioned schoolboy style. He is handsome in a weaponized way, skin so pale it almost overrides the fact that there is no colour in his being at all. He is only shades of grey. There is a great depth to him, the black parts of him like voids and the light parts of him white as bone, as if to make up for the dimensions he is missing. Even the mole dotting his cheek seems placed there purposefully to distract from the chilling… emptiness, of him. He resembles Basil’s shed skin.

“She won’t wake,” the facsimile of a human person speaks emotionlessly after a few moments studying Lockhart. Arthur’s presence remains a secret. With Riddle’s attention on Lockhart, he quickly checks Ginny over. She’s pale and cold as marble.

Arthur’s never seen a possession taken this far before. Complete takeover through a horcrux is plausible in theory, but to trade one soul for another in this way… yet again, Riddle’s pressing buttons a smidge too close to home. The Balance is not a thing to f*ck with, not for personal gain or any other reason. Merlin, as the Keeper of the Balance, as the Master of Life and Death with the authority to make those calls, knows better than to ask Magic for his loved ones back. He watches his children, his family, his friends, die because he knows it is the right thing to do. That is why he was entrusted with that kind of power. Merlin was made to bear that. Merlin was made to be that. And here is Tom Marvolo Riddle: a completely unremarkable mortal human boy, who decided he was more worthy because he said so. Trying to bully the Balance into submitting to him. It’s such a display of baseless, mindless, devastating arrogance that Arthur almost can’t comprehend it.

Arthur swallows around the unfathomable entitlement of humans and puts the first and second parts of his plan into action at once. He opens Gilderoy Lockhart’s mouth and lets his own voice come out of it.

“Do you still believe this will come at a price you can afford to pay?”

The King of Camelot’s voice echoes strongly through the chamber, infusing the air with warmth much more effectively than Riddle leeches it out. Arthur speaks with his true voice, the one that’s addressed winners and losers of wars untold, armies and senates and gods. It must be strange to hear coming from Gilderoy Lockhart, but it would probably be stranger still coming from a twelve year old boy. It will serve its purpose.

While Riddle recovers, Arthur searches Ginny and the surrounding area for the damned vessel. The poor thing’s lying on its side, pages facing Ginny as if in apology. Riddle’s just left it there. There’s that arrogance.

“You!”

Arthur whips his head back to look at Riddle. His eyes are wide. He’s taken half a step back, eyes and nostrils flaring as all of him rebels against this confrontation, building up to a tantrum the likes of which redeemable toddlers could only ever dream of.

“You’re the one who impeded me last year,” he seethes, fiery eyes raking Lockhart up and down with unspeakable loathing. “This is your true form, then?”

Arthur almost laughs. Yeah, sure, this guy has every chance of beating Death, with brains like that.

“Who are you?” he spits. “TELL ME WHO YOU ARE!”

“I’m going to kill you again, Tom. Don’t come back.”

Tom’s eyes burn with renewed hatred, bugging out of his pallid face. Spittle flies from his lips as he bares his teeth. He looks rabid. The kind of animal you put down out of kindness and try to forget. What hisses out of him is little more than vitriol in a snakey accent.

“Speak to me, Slytherin, greatest of the Hogwarts Four!”

Wow. What a password, Sal.

The mouth of the great stone visage scrapes slowly open with a deep SCREEEEEECH. Arthur moves quickly. He shuts his eyes and snatches the leather bound book that a delusional killer poured a sliver of the soul he didn’t have to spare into, reaching immediately after for his wand. Hearing his blood sing, Excalibur responds.

Arthur can hear the smile in Riddle’s voice as he opens his mouth to give his orders.

“Ki-”

Arthur plunges his blade into the belly of the book.

It screams.

Tom also screams. Basil cries in heartbreaking confusion, and in the excitement Arthur feels more than hears the weight of their enormous body slap down against the wet floor.

Arthur digs his blade in further. He pulls back and stabs it again, once, twice, efficient and precise until Riddle falls silent and the place no longer smells of the poisonous components of ink. Arthur feels the stuff bleed out of the book, pooling around his hands.

Basil cries again in horror. They sound like they think their heart has just been ripped out, but they can’t trust themself to be sure. It’s such an agonised uncertainty that for a few moments all they can do is swing their great head back and forth and scream like a child who’s lost their mother.

His son’s baby has been left too long without direction. Arthur takes a deep breath and corrects this.

“BASIL!”

The strength of his bellow sends vibrations through the stone around them, filling the cavern up entirely and likely causing ripples. Arthur feels the displacement of air as the great serpent snaps to attention. They fall utterly silent. Arthur would guess their lethal eyes are locked straight on Arthur’s double. Arthur casts a quick illusion to make it look like Lockhart’s eyes are open and staring straight back.

“That’s right,” Arthur croons in a much gentler tone that he’s put every one of his kids through time to sleep with at some point or another. “It’s me. Do you remember?”

A questioning trill. Their voice cracks from disuse and fear.

“You remember. It hasn’t been so long,” Arthur continues soothingly. “I think you’re a little confused, Basil. Aren’t you?” Arthur waits. There’s no reply, so he continues, moving Lockhart’s hands up into the air slowly so they can see he means no harm.

Basil moves sharply. If Arthur were to guess, he’d say they reel back a little. Their reactions are delayed. The evidence is stacking up.

“It’s just me, sweetheart,” he hums, staying slow as they settle down. After another couple of beats, he keeps going. “I think I know why. Your eyes…”

Moment of truth. Arthur takes a deep breath.

He opens Lockhart’s eyes.

“...They’re not so good anymore, are they?”

Arthur- the real Arthur- shuffles forward to catch Lockhart before he falls. At first contact it’s obvious he isn’t dead. Petrified. From direct eye contact.

Oh, Basil.

“That boy who could speak to you. He could look you in the eye,” Arthur continues softly. Basil doesn’t react, confirming that they can’t tell from here that Lockhart’s mouth isn’t moving. “Black hair. Pale skin. Demanding. You thought he was Sally, didn’t you?”

At their person’s old nickname, Basil lets out another tragic cry. They sound so lost. ‘Where is he?’ they’re asking. ‘Where is he?’

“He’s been looking for you, sweetheart,” Arthur assures them. He can’t move yet- they’re still talking to the petrified blur of blonde hair and tanned skin that they think is Arthur. He has to keep holding Lockhart in place until he can get through this next part. “I can take you to him. But you have to close your eyes, Bas.”

A quizzical squawk. Arthur racks his brain. What was it Sal used to do? There was a song, he thinks. They were trained well enough not to open their eyes, but sometimes they’d get stroppy about it and Sal felt bad ordering them blind all the time. Sal would sing them this song, though, almost to apologise. To calm them. It worked every time. How did it go?

Something, lullaby.

Something…

…

“Lay down your head,” Arthur remembers. He hums indistinctly for a moment. “hmmm...lullaby… loo-li-lai-lay… and I’ll sing you to sleep… and I’ll sing still tomorrow… hmmmm…mmhhhmmm, hmmmmmmm…”

It seems that Arthur’s piss-poor recall of the song and very much not-Salazar voice are secondary concerns to the familiarity of the tune. Basil croons softly along. Arthur hears them swaying, shifting their weight as they remember a time when they were safe. Not lost. Finally, something recognizable has returned to them. Finally, something they can follow home.

Arthur does his best, but it’s truly been so long he can’t remember the words. He only vaguely heard Sal sing it over the years anyway. He just hums and hopes, feeling Basil slow and calm with each stilted refrain until he decides to risk it.

Arthur cracks open one eye.

Basil has come a long way from the little gummy worm Sal found them as. They are as thick as Arthur is tall, and he’d guess about fifty feet long. Their scales are each the size of his stretched hand, iridescent and glistening darkly like an oil slick in the watery reflections of their once grand home. Their body shudders with deep pulls of breath that break off into violent rattling exhales, leaving them shaking. Now that Arthur listens, he can hear the wheezing of their tired lungs. Basil is a very old baby now.

Hesitantly, Arthur lets his eyes skip up further.

He smiles.

Both of Basil’s eyes are closed.

Chapter 23: Let's hear it for the kids

Chapter Text

Things move rather quickly after that. The most natural thing for Arthur to do here would be to take charge of settling everything into a running, functioning, sustainable system himself, but he is not the king of Hogwarts. This is his children’s home, theirs to cherish and theirs to uphold. He puts Sal in touch with the elves, who immediately set to work installing him a frame in the chamber. Arthur has no doubt his little silvertongue will make good and sure Basil’s home is looked after properly, and Basil themself is cared for.

So he sets to work instead on sweeping up the lesser messes- i.e. Lockhart, who gets a potent memory charm to the face that leaves him in no shape to dispute whatever story Arthur cooks up (or indeed, to prance about with false qualifications). Ginny is sent straight to the hospital wing. The Weasleys are called to be informed at once while Arthur debriefs Dumbledore, Snape, and McGonagall. Dumbledore pushes him (in not so many words) to impart the day’s events to him alone, but that in and of itself is proof enough for Arthur that he’d have to be a fool to do so. He doesn’t trust Dumbledore.

Arthur leaves his children and their legacies to reclaim their home. He has his own to attend to.

It’s nighttime. The corridors are completely barren, as if abandoned many years ago rather than just today. The kids must still be shut away. With no one in his path, Arthur practically flies through the castle, taking sharp turns at a breakneck pace, doors opening for him automatically and stairs leaping to his aid. There’s no reason to be sure of this, but he is sure: it’s time he and his other half were made whole again.

Arthur slams the door to the infirmary open with the force of a gunshot, and the door squeals against the floor in an attempt to stop itself before it hits the wall.

There he is. Sat up in the place of that cold shell is Arthur’s Merlin, scarf and all. He’s hardly different from the girl he was when he was petrified, but Arthur can tell. Arthur probably should’ve been thinking of him as a she while he was out, but he’s definitely a he now. His hair glows a deep blue-silver in the moonlight, and his eyes are like the surface of a lake, pale fractals splashing through layer after layer after layer. Sparkling as they should be. There he is, the corners of his lips naturally tugged up as if by design, as if they’ve never entertained hopelessness and they will not start now. His hair is flat at the back where he’s been laid back against the sheets for weeks, the rest of his curls sticking up extra to make up for it. There he is, pale little fingers looping around each other in a knitting pattern with no wool or needles, the air his only audience, nose scrunching ever so slightly on every follow through.

There he is.

“Arthur, finally,” he says as he looks over, voice hoarse from disuse, and it’s the most beautiful thing Arthur’s heard in months. “My nose has been so f*cking itchy . And you have the worst morning breath, I couldn’t do anything about it petrified, I just had to lie there getting breathed on this whole ti-”

“Meridan Emrys-” Arthur starts, trying to make up for the desperation in his march with the growl in his tone.

“I don’t think that’s right-”

“-You have a lot to answer for.”

Merlin, the insufferable twit, folds his husband knowingly into his scrawny arms. Arthur falls into him without another word where he meant to throw a tantrum, all the air leaving him in great gusts as his body reacts without his permission to the familiar contact. His limbs just go to jelly all at once, trickling over each other like a babbling brook and splashing over the boy in the bed, leaving Arthur without even the wherewithal to care that he curls up small under Merlin’s arms and snuggles in like a teddy bear. He’s been holding Merlin for weeks, it’s his turn.

They lie there together as their long-awaited wholeness seeps in. Arthur’s inhales seem to pull in more air than they did with Merlin gone. They sink right into his lungs, filling them up each time and emptying slowly with his sighs the way they should: first in relief, then in immeasurable contentment. Arthur doesn’t remember closing his eyes, but they’re closed. He just sits there and laps up the imprints Merlin’s leaving with his hands on Arthur’s back, letting them sink right through him down to the bone. Everything is at it should be again. Everyone can relax, it’s all fine now. Their own personal balance has been restored. The world is right once more.

Arthur lets them both have four minutes and thirty-eight seconds of real, honest peace before he snaps his fist back and hits Merlin solidly in the chest. He doesn’t move otherwise, doesn’t even open his eyes. It gets Arthur’s message across more succinctly than the lecture he can’t be arsed to give.

Merlin lets out a vindicating ‘ OOF’ and a bit of a wheeze, but he doesn’t so much as twitch from where they’re plastered together. He doesn’t say anything either. He definitely saw it coming, but that’s the thing- Merlin knows it’s pointless running, and he can see that being indignant about it would just cut into cuddle time. That would benefit no one. Best just take his lumps without comment.

“No hitting my patients, Penn!” Madame Pomfrey chides from where she’s administering mandrake essence to the other victims.

Merlin taps him on the arm, and Arthur shifts his head against Merlin’s chest to look up at him in a manner that is certainly not sickeningly infatuated or adoring or settled into any ancient forms of love beyond the known in the slightest.

“You wanna get out of here?” Merlin whispers against his cheek, looking right back at him with all that and more. Eyes don’t seem sufficient enough vessels for the things they exchange through looks, but there you are. Arthur sees it all anyway, hears it humming along the canyons of his brain. Remembers it slurred in the back of english speakeasies, over crackling comms and headsets through callsigns and codewords in languages that have blended together over the years, mumbled as they lay down to sleep on beds and floors and hammocks and rags and hard-packed dirt and probably everything in between- said always, always with love.

Arthur doesn’t think he’s said no once.

They manage to sneak by the crowds that are only just beginning to trickle out into the halls with the help of some lesser known passages. Merlin picks them out a proper secret spot, a sort of miniature ballroom on the fourth floor of the east wing that’s fallen out of use in the ages they’ve been away, and summons their suitcase.

“I don’t really want to stand out, should I just put m’robes back on?” Merlin asks.

Arthur snorts. Good luck with that. With the size of the gift basket pile by his bedside, they’ll be lucky if the students don’t throw him a f*cking ball when they see he’s up and moving again. Like any of them tried to come and see him after Arthur scowled at them a couple of times. If they’d really been about it, that wouldn’t have stopped them visiting. Children will pounce on any self-assured charmer tat passes by, none of them have the faintest inkling what they’re chasing with Merl-

Merlin’s giving him that smug face again. Arthur huffs contrarily at the silent insinuation. He’s not jealous. He’s right. As always.

“It’s a pyjama night, no one’ll change for dinner,” Arthur replies, digging his arm into the trunk and throwing Merlin a stripy set. He grabs one for himself, too- might as well change, since he’s here. He doesn’t necessarily want the attention either, pointless as avoiding it is going to prove.

“Do you still have the shell?” Merlin asks offhandedly as he hops clumsily into his pants, nearly putting himself right back out of commission by braining himself on a sconce.

Arthur makes a noise that’s pretty much a grunt with a question mark after it.

“Shell, the shell, of the soul shard. The book.”

Arthur grunts again, but with a period. “‘S in safe six, the dimensional compartment. Think we can use it though. The main soul, whichever Riddle’s conscious is in, he might not know it’s been killed. Albus and Lucius are keen on having it, too, so we might be able to use it. Lucius Malfoy’s the one who-”

“-Gave her the book, I know.”

“How do you even know that? How do you even know it’s a book? Or about Lucius? You’ve been catatonic , you have no right to even know what f*cking day it is,” Arthur accuses hotly. Merlin just gives him another of those infuriating smiles. They make his eyes twinkle, but they’re also the most annoying f*cking things in the world. He looks like he thinks he knows everything, and the worst part is, he does . The little sneak.

Then, the fun part. As predicted, no one overlooks Em having risen from his cot. It takes a bit of surreptitious magic to part the crowd enough for him and Hermione to take a running leap at each other, slamming together hard enough to probably hurt, too happy to see each other to care. Which is a little funny, because they both have lines of people desperate to see them again, and they all have to wait while the two of them hug it out like they haven’t been sharing a room for the last week.

Harry has no such reservations, and quickly rams into the two of them like a small but deadly bullet, and they almost all go crashing to the floor before Arthur catches them. To his horror, Arthur almost audibly coos like some fussy old witch when Harry buries his beaming face into their sides with a smile to split the heavens and happy, desperate tears in his eyes. His little arms can’t wrap around them properly, and he’s ducked under both their arms like a pet trying to burrow into their human for snuggles. It’s adorable. That doesn’t mean Arthur’s going to coo about it. Instead he does Hermione a favour and magically swaps out the robes she’s been stuffed into since she was petrified for a new set of jammies. No one will notice in the excitement.

Draco stops dead when he enters, eyes blowing wide, and the obstacle course starts all over again. Ron rather impressively manages to get his long arms around most of the amalgamous blob of friends they’ve made, and Draco reaches back and hooks Arthur into it, and that’s that until Merlin breaks it up for fear Hermione may suffocate.

The official story is that Arthur, worried about Ginny, followed her to find her opening the chamber of secrets, clearly possessed. He ran to tell the teachers at once. Lockhart went in first thinking he could take it, what with all his qualifications and proven mettle, but fell down the pipe before even making it into the chamber proper and gave himself the mother of all concussions. Inspiring. So Arthur, afraid his friend was dying and the adults would be too late to save her, went down himself with the portrait of Salazar Slytherin. Salazar managed to talk his familiar down, who it turned out was just confused and lonely, led astray by the voice of Tom Marvolo Riddle. Riddle had almost fully returned in exchange for Ginny’s life when Salazar turned the Basilisk on him and his cursed diary, destroying the memory of the dark lord and scattering his presence instead.

Of course, the school at large isn’t told all of this, but it’s what Arthur tells the kids. They’re too smart not to be able to keep a secret, particularly in Ginny’s name. They’re all quite fond of Ginny. Even Draco finds the stories they tell of the little redhead amusing.

Exams are cancelled for those directly affected by the incident. This leaves Arthur no excuse to put off apologising- not that he would, it’s just more obvious that he isn’t sure how much time to give her to recover before he does. He never knows with kids who’ve been through a trauma, they’re all so different, so varied in their responses. Ginny hardly gets any space between her parents and brothers as it is, they’re all so beside themselves with worry and relief for her, and he doesn’t want to be another reason for her to be exhausted. But it’s not in his nature to leave things unaddressed.

Finally he gives in, deciding that if he is to be another bother, at least he can be one that’s behind her sooner than later.

Ginny’s been temporarily granted a recovery room in Gryffindor tower- a middle ground between the infirmary and her Hogwarts home for long-term patients. It’s attached to the common room rather than the dorms, and it doesn’t have the same wards against males that the female dorms do. It doesn’t have any wards at all . Arthur was horrified to find that the door didn’t even lock, and he fixed that up on the first night she stayed there. You’d think security and privacy would be a priority for a survivor in Ginny’s position, but apparently not. Unbelievable, this school.

Eight days after the showdown in the chamber, Arthur approaches with loud, deliberate steps she should be able to hear if she’s inside. He knocks gently four times.

“Coming!” sounds the sure little voice on the other side. Arthur steps back from the door and waits.

He does not hear the door unlock before it’s pulled abruptly open. Good. She’s comfortable enough just to keep it closed, trusting Gryffindor to respect it. Her voice doesn't sound weak or forced. Her breathing seems normal. Her hunch is no more prominent than usual, and her movements are unrestricted and relaxed, though standoffish as any teenager. The signs indicate that she is more alright than she has any right to be, and not even in a suspicious way. Arthur suspects Ginny’s foundations are made of something in the same realm as bedrock with a thick layer of elastic around it. Still, he resolves to keep an eye out for her. Something shook those foundations no more than a week ago, strong as they may be. He is now interrupting the rebuilding process.

Her brown eyes widen as she registers him standing there. Her messy bun is sagged absurdly against one side of her head like melted ice cream, the colour of the blazing sun. Her shirt once proudly featured the brand of the Kenmare Kestrels, but has since been crossed out and sloppily sharpied over in the name of the Tutshill Tornadoes, the Appleby Arrows, the Chudley Cannons, and finally the Holyhead Harpies. Evidently the Weasleys each have their own favourites, and this is a very old shirt.

“Arth-!” Ginny makes an aborted motion as if to pounce on him, but draws back staunchly, chest puffing with strength drawn in response to the misstep. Her immediate answer to shame is to fight it with courage, and it plays out right before his eyes. Ginny Weasley isn’t even thirteen, and Arthur knows she is going to be an incredible woman. She is already an incredible girl.

“Ginny,” he says solemnly. It’s strange hearing his ‘knock knock I’ve come to apologise for failing you’ tone in a voice that hasn’t dropped yet. He’s usually informing family members that their loved ones have died in action, so it’s typically a little deeper. “If you have a minute, I came to apologise.”

That startles her right out of her wounded staring. Her bun bounces with her taken-aback-ness.

“You- what?”

“I came to apologise,” he repeats steadfastly.

She blinks. Twice. “... You-? Wha- you didn’t… why would you…?”

Arthur resists the urge to look down and swallow guiltily. Shying away from his failures does not honour either of them. He opens his mouth and looks her in the eyes.

“You came to me when you needed my help. You shouldn’t have needed to, but you did, and I didn’t listen. I failed to notice that we were on different pages all year. When you attempted to make up for that yourself, I made you feel like you couldn’t confide in me. That is an inexcusable failure on my part, and I apologise for it. I want you to know that I will always have your back, but I’ve proven that that notion alone isn’t sufficient. I’m sorry, Ginny. That’s it,” he concludes with an acknowledging nod, stepping back to leave her with that.

He gets two steps before he’s being tackled by the little fireball, her mouth running way ahead of her.

“ You don’t have to apologise, you berk, you didn’t do anythin’, it was me who trusted a bloody book, honestly, Em pulled this on me yesterday and I’ll tell you the same, shut yer gob or lose it! Actin’ all respectful… one more yip outta you an’ I’ll jinx ya mute!”

It’s his turn to be startled, turning in her arms to return her hug. An incredible girl, indeed.

Arthur does end up using the diary. He sticks his least holey sock into it, gives it to Lucius Malfoy, watches him hand it to Dobby, waits til the great strutting pony’s out of sight, and summons it right back to safe six. He wonders how long it’ll take the man to realise his house elf’s not two subservient steps behind him anymore. Merlin reckons at least a day. Good thing Lucius has already consented to let his son stay over at the Emrys household for as long as he chooses this summer.

Speaking of, Harry’s papers have come in. He was never formally adopted by the Dursleys. Dumbledore was his official keeper, but as Dumbledore isn’t a blood relation and hasn’t been living with Harry, it was almost too easy to fix that.

They promised that boy he would never be afraid of his home again.

Arthur smirks as Merlin bats the final adoption papers in Arthur’s hands back down out of sight despite the massive delighted grin on his face.

And he never will.