It was ten years since the Battle of Hogwarts; ten years since Harry Potter fulfilled his destiny and defeated Lord Voldemort. But it was not the first destiny to be held within the school's ancient walls; nor would it be the last.

You wouldn't think so, looking in on the familiar scene now playing out. A young boy, standing amidst a crowd of young boys and girls, watching nervously as his mother handed his luggage and bird to a tall, uniformed man. She turned back, giving him a worn-out smile.

Everyone looked so excited—and he was too, he had to admit—but their parents only waved cheerily and exchanged loving hugs. Hunith was shaking. Not that his mother was upset he'd be on his way in ten short minutes, setting out for school.

No, she was simply nervous for him; the kind of mother that had to feel all the common emotions her uncommon boy didn't feel, for him. She'd warned him and warned him to be careful—to study hard, keep his head down, and only use magic when he was told—but for all his reassurances, her only reassurance seemed to be that some man named Gaius would be one of his teachers.

"Give him this note when you see him," she said to her son, pulling out a thick, folded piece of parchment sealed shut. "And Merlin," she said after he'd hastily nodded, "Don't open it. Just give it to him."

Merlin eye's flicked from side to side, smiling slightly as if her suspicions weren't based off of past events. "Of course, Mum," he said with a grin, slight shoulders shrugging as he took it from her.

Hunith smiled thinly, but when the gangly boy's arms ensnared her waist tightly it turned full and warm. Merlin looked up at her, whispering "Love you," and with that he scampered onto the train, waving madly the entire time. And she couldn't help but wave just as madly back.

Of course, nearby an entirely different exchange was taking place. Two children, though only Merlin's age, stood stiffly and formally as their nanny checked their things. The old woman seemed intent on the girl's personals especially; she even opened the trunk not once but twice to make sure nothing was amiss. The girl sighed impatiently, a dainty yet exasperated sound.

Finally the grim older woman stepped back, looking them up and down. Not a speck of dirt could be seen, not a wrinkle to be found. Their clothes were the best of the best; though in less than an hour they would be exchanging the muggle clothing for school uniforms folded and pressed in their suitcases.

Still, the nanny found a hair out of place on the boy's golden head; her callused fingers rubbed at some invisible smudge of dirt on the girl's cheekbone. "Right then," she said, waving them off. The children turned almost in military fashion, though even for their discipline their feet couldn't help but shuffle in a much quicker fashion to the train door than their nanny would deem appropriate.

It was too late to scold—too late to receive a light smack up the side of their heads or against their wrists. Definitely too late to take away toys or privileges and silently endure lectures they could have recited themselves. So the two children were running by the time their feet hit the floor of the train car, wide smiles splitting their faces.

"Wait, Morgana—" the boy grabbed her by the sleeve, pulling the girl up short. "Are . . . we going to . . . ?" he motioned to the compartments, obviously wondering if they would sit together. The girl snorted and pulled free; she gave him a knowing smile and shook her head.

"See ya, Arthur!" she called over her shoulder, high-tailing it for the next car. Arthur shrugged, sluffing it off quickly and turning to the compartments ahead.

He could sit wherever he pleased, of course; at least, he could as soon as the passengers knew exactly who he was. But Arthur fancied himself a young man capable of rallying allies and friends alike simply through his own efforts, not by the weight of his surname. So when he chose to slide open the door to a compartment full of rowdy, ill-mannered first-years, Arthur had no doubts they would soon be following his lead.

Meanwhile, another girl—quite small for her age, actually—ran with her cart of luggage swinging wildly in front of her, not caring about making friends or getting placed in a house or really anything except that she was about to miss the train. She pulled in large mouthfuls of air as her luggage was taken, barely sliding into the door before 11:00 sharp and the train was pulling out of the station.

One compartment near burst open—or rather, children burst from it. A blonde boy was pushed right into her, knocking them both to the floor of the hallway. "Watch yourself, there," he said, climbing off her. His face sported a cocky sneer and she glared as he dusted himself off.

"Sorry, my fault," said a much gentler voice, and the boy who had seemingly punched the first helped her to her feet, smiling. "What's your name," he said, and the blonde boy snorted and left, obviously not interested enough for it.

"Guinevere," she said shortly, put off by the first boy's standoff-ish attitude. She ignored the other boy's outstretched hand and got to her feet angrily, not caring to hear his name.

After wandering mindlessly she found a compartment empty but for one person; an odd skinny boy sitting with his head rested on his knees, reading a letter with rapt interest.

"Hullo there . . . " she said, not wanting to startle him; he did so anyway, jumping as if he'd been caught. "Hi; um, it's just. Can I sit here?" she gave an apologetic smile, pointing to the bench across from him.

The boy jumped up, immediately smiling in a nervous fashion. "Oh! Sorry, I mean, of course. Of course as in, of course you can sit here." He brushed off the seat like he'd dirtied it, freezing a second of the way into the task as if he just realized what he was doing.

She sat across from him, nodding and smiling and hoping that would put the poor kid at ease. "I'm Guinevere," she said, holding out a hand.

"Merlin," he said with a half-smile as he took it, blue eyes almost twinkling.

They sat across from each other awkwardly, neither coming up with a clever way to break the ice. Merlin's eyes kept glancing at the letter, but it appeared he wasn't going to continue reading it since she arrived. Gwen watched out of the corner of her eyes as his hand inched towards it, like he was protective of the parchment. Minutes ticked by, and the boy was still looking down, glancing at it every half a minute.

"Do you . . . would you like to keep reading?" she gestured to the paper, and he jumped again.

"Oh, no! Um . . . "

"It's just that—well I saw—I mean, you were reading it when I came in. And now you're not." He shrugged, and she couldn't help but continue. "And you keep looking at it, like you'd—or at least you'd want to keep reading, if I hadn't come."

"It's from my mother," he said, glancing at her with a sheepish smile.

"Oh?" she said, eyebrows raised. Silently wondering what was wrong with this Merlin.

"Yeah, but it's not to me, you see," he says, finally picking the paper up and showing her the heading. Dear Gaius . . .

"Isn't Gaius . . . " she frowned, and he nodded.

"A professor at the school, yes. I wasn't to open it, but I couldn't help myself. I knew—well—" he cut off, biting his lower lip.

"Is it about you?" Gwen guessed, and his eyes widened in surprise. But then Merlin nodded, sighing and throwing the paper back to the seat next to him. She didn't ask him anything further—thought better of it, really. This Merlin boy was strange enough as it was; who knew what about him could have prompted his mother to write to a teacher for it. Gwen shuddered to think, for the poor boy's sake.

On the other hand, Merlin was anything but sorry for what his mother had written Professor Gaius, if not a little embarrassed. He needs a hand to hold, a voice to guide . . . his mother meant well, but he didn't want to have his hand held. He wanted to prove to her, to the world, to himself, that Merlin could succeed on his own. She spoke of his talent; his ability that she knew could only be a gift if he was trained properly in using it. She mentioned the relief it was to discover her son was not mad—or that perhaps, she was—but that, according to his letter, he was special.

It is every mother's fate to think her child is special, and yet I would give my life that Merlin were not so. He knew she would, given the chance. My dear Gaius, I turn to you for I feel lost and alone and don't know who to trust . . .That part almost had Merlin ashamed; Merlin, who'd never been anything but trouble and worry for his mother. He tried his hardest not to be so, tried his best to contain himself at school and not wreck the house in his carelessness. But there was little, it seemed, that could be done for Hunith's true worry—which was what exactly would become of her son.

At least he was away from her now, the boy thought gloomily. He sighed, turning his head to the window, and realizing the girl heard him when she shot him a concerned glance.

"Exciting, going to school, is it not?" she said in a cheery manner, probably trying to up his spirits. Little did she know it was exactly that thought that had him so down.

"'Course," he said half-heartedly.

"Know what house you want to be put in?" She raised her eyebrows and cocked her head, giving him a slight smile.

"Ravenclaw, or Gryffindor, perhaps," he said, shrugging. "You?"

"Not quite sure yet," she widened her brown eyes, smiling and shaking her head like she should know by now. Curls bounced as she did so.

"Well, that's good then," he said, and confusion washed over her face. "Not that—by any means, you shouldn't know, what house you want to be in, I mean. Or not should, but that it's completely fine to know—"

"Hey, you girls wanna move!" Came a voice from the opened door just before three boys came crashing into the compartment, one landing straight on top of Guinevere. A fourth one grinned widely as he looked in from the hallway. Merlin's hands tightened automatically into fists, the glass in the windows seeming suddenly quite fragile. He pushed the urge down as Gwen jumped to her feet, and the boy fell off her and straight to the floor.

"Must you knock into me again, Arthur Pendragon?!' she shouted, and the good natured wrestling suddenly ceased. All the boys turned, confused—all but one, who wore a sheepish grin. Merlin gave him a glance-over as the boy hesitatingly rose, hands up.

"She's not talking about you, is she?" said one with a dominant nose and black, mischievous eyes.

"Yes, I'm Arthur Pendragon," he said, sighing, then pointed a glare in Gwen's direction.

"Well, now I'm going to be put in detention the first day of school already for when we arm-wrestled!" said a curly-haired bloke, who was still on the floor of the compartment.

"No you're not," Arthur sighed, laughing with a slight smile. "Honestly, we'll just put it to rights by you giving me another go—I know you cheated—"

"Excuse me, what is going on," A slightly higher, much more authoritative voice stopped Arthur's mid-sentence. A pale girl with long dark hair had her arms crossed against the open door, glaring at the whole lot of them with grey-green eyes.

"Morgana," Arthur said, tensing up. "What do you mean—"

"I just found a boy who said someone exactly matching your description just assaulted him," she said.

"If by assaulted, you mean gave a wedgie—" the black-eyed one guffawed, but one icy stare silenced him.

Arthur rolled his eyes, though Merlin could tell he looked uncomfortable as he said "What do you want, Morgana?"

"Leave," she eyed his posse of boys, who immediately shuffled out with their tails between their legs. Merlin gulped as her eyes turned to his briefly, but she simply shut the compartment door and sat on the bench next to Gwen—who immediately moved to give her more room. Arthur sat stiffly next to Merlin, face brooding.

"Arthur—"

"You're not my mother, you know," he said sharply, and Merlin was surprised to see the girl flinch.

"I can't stop you," she agreed eventually, looking at him with her chin down. "But I would advise you not to turn into a pig-headed snob of a bully before we even get to the school." With a swish of her hair the girl left, leaving Merlin blinking. Then Arthur set his uneasy gaze on Gwen.

"How did you . . . "

"Your father employed mine a few years ago," she said, refusing to glance in his direction as she did so. "I recognized you from then, is all."

Arthur's face scrunched up hard, like he was really trying to think—not much good it'd do him, Merlin mused—then he gave up, shaking his head. "Don't remember you," he said, getting up and shutting the door behind him.

"You know him?" Merlin said to Gwen, a look of disgust passing over his face. "Man, that guy seems like a jerk."

"I don't really know him," Gwen shook her head, "I mean, I saw him a few times when my father took me with him to the Pendragon mansion, but we never spoke."

"Pendragon," Merlin repeated, brow furrowed. "That rings a slight bell. Where have I heard that name before?"

Gwen smiled good-naturedly. "It's on our acceptance letters," she said, and Merlin slapped his forehead.

"Oh yes! Of course, Headmaster Pendragon," he nodded, remembering the title now. "WOAH. Wait a sec—that means—"

"Arthur is the Headmaster's son, yes," Gwen nodded, smile grim. "And it's clear he's entirely aware of the fact."

"I should have realized right away. I just—well, I'm pretty new to all this," he admitted, grinning slightly.

She smiled back, good-naturedly again. "Muggle-born?" Merlin nodded, and her smile didn't falter. "I can relate. Well, not that I'm muggle-born—not that that's a bad thing to be, of course—my mum was a witch, but I don't really remember her. Ran off, or something. So I've been raised by my father, and he's the biggest muggle you'll ever meet. Only reason I know half of anything is because of my mum's relatives—they stopped by, every now and then, checked to see how my father was. Told me a bit about my mum, what she could do, who she was. So it wasn't nearly as much of a shock to get the letter, like I'm sure it was for you."

"Surprising, yes," Merlin affirmed, "Though I wouldn't call it a shock. I don't know—my mum knew some magical people, says her mother's brother went to school for it. So, I guess, I was slightly hoping—"

"Is that Gaius, do you think?" Gwen said, cocking her head. Merlin's eyes widened.

"Never thought of that. Now that I think on it, it's probably true." Merlin shook his head, first at the new revelation and then at Gwen. "You're pretty smart, you know that?"

A pretty blush colored her face and she looked down for just a moment. "Thank you, Merlin. You're very kind," she said, looking back up. Her dark curls bounced as she did so.

"I do hope we end up in the same house," Gwen wished aloud, suddenly excited.

"Probably not, just because we wish it," he said sadly, and she gave him a look.

"Well, you say you'd like to be in Ravenclaw. And I'm pretty smart, apparently. Who's to say we won't end up there together?" she shrugged, smiling again. Merlin couldn't help but smile back.

"Well, regardless," he decided, "we don't have to be in the same house to be friends." Gwen's smile suddenly twisted strangely, and he hurried to change his statement. "Not that you were—I mean, about us in the same house, and friends—and. I mean. Well . . . do you . . . want to be friends, Guinevere?" He was inwardly cringing at how awkwardly that all came out.

"My friends call me Gwen," she said, smile returning, and Merlin stopped the urge to let out a sigh of relief.

"Gwen, then?" he said with a raised brow, and she nodded.

"Anything from the trolley, dears?" an old woman interrupted them, a cart of the best-looking candy Merlin had possibly ever seen in front of her. He pushed down the aching in his throat and said a "No, thanks" right over Gwen's "Not hungry, thank you." They both smiled at each other as the lady shrugged and moved on.

"Poor," she shrugged.

"Penniless," he one-upped her, and she laughed.

The ride continued much the same way—for those two, at least. A few cars down, of course, Morgana was sitting in on an entirely different kind of conversation than the like of Gwen and Merlin's playful chatter.

"I swear the men tried to make it obvious," the young man across from her was seething to his companion. Who was none other than Morgause, in all her blonde, dark-eyed glory.

Morgana knew her. Else she wouldn't be privileged enough to sit here beside the fifth year and her boyfriend, both muttering dark things about dark people. One of which was none other than Uther Pendragon, her guardian.

"Can you be so sure, Cenred? " Margause raised a manicured eyebrow, eyes flitting toward Morgana. As if she would tell, if he said more on Uther.

"I swear it. My father was completely unarmed; asleep. His private possessions could have been stolen right under his nose! Yet, they woke the whole household up so we'd know. So we'd know he had his eyes on us—has his men on us." Cenred was growling near the end, right at Morgana too. She raised her chin defiantly.

"Whatever your father has done, he must have deserved it," she said in what she hoped was a confident tone. Cenred's dark eyes stared into hers for a moment, and then he laughed good and long, like she'd just told the best joke. The smallest of smirks even curved Morgause's lips as well.

Finally Cenred ceased and stared at her once more. "Aye, that he did, young Morgana," he said in a serious tone.

Then they moved on to other, more trivial things—gossip, classes, food at the feast. At one point Cenred's hands started sliding up the older girl's knee, leaning so he was at the edge of his seat. Morgause batted his attentions away lazily before sighing and giving in.

"Morgana, maybe you should sit somewhere else for a while," Morgause smirked at her, and the first-year did not need to be told twice. The only problem, she realized as she slid the compartment door shut, was that there really wasn't anywhere else to go.

To Arthur, she supposed, though the girl doubted her adopted brother would be quite so warm and welcoming now that she'd embarrassed him in front of those boys he was trying so obviously to impress. Might have managed it, too, she mused, if not for his one fault—her.

And then the thought came to her quickly; the boy she'd just met, who'd been the victim of Arthur's antics, was just a car down. She made her way to where she'd found the poor boy—who looked closer to 8 than 12, really—showing undisguised relief when she found him.

"Hullo again," she said as she entered the compartment, and his blue eyes flashed to her. He simply nodded, and Morgana hesitantly sat down. "May I sit with you?"

He nodded again, dark curls fluttering slightly across his forehead. She smiled at him, and after a moment he returned it, the change in expression completely altering his face.

They sat in companionable silence, and Morgana was oddly comfortable in it. By the time it was time to change into their robes, another word had yet to be exchanged.

Light slowly faded and the scenery changed—great mountains rose up around the small ruby train, great forests populating the valleys. It was dark and blurry by the time strange, pinpricks of light shone—up ahead, and shimmering on water below it.

"Hogwarts," the young boy murmured, standing up so suddenly with his face to the window glass that Morgana jumped. A large smile cracked the solemn fortress that was his face again, and the boy turned to look at Morgana. He stuck out his hand. "I'm Mordred," he said, and she took it—trying not to marvel how small the hand was that she clutched.

"Morgana," she said, smiling softly. Then they both turned to watch as the great, black castle loomed closer and closer, carrying the destiny of more than one young witch or wizard in its ancient hands.