It wasn't his fault that he disappeared.

One second, he was being battered around by Arthur, wielding a sword, and the next, he wasn't. Merlin wasn't entirely sure where he was. He did know that it felt like his magic was boiling underneath his skin. He did know that he was still holding the practice sword Arthur had given him. He did know that he was definitely not in Camelot's courtyard. The long table in front of him was indication enough of that.

Merlin stumbled as his boiling magic settled to simple currents racing under his skin and the last of whatever magic had taken him dissolved. It was silent. He could hear the hundreds of people around him breathing, just the same as he could feel the mass of magic in the room. It smelled like all those kids—all those teenagers—were having a feast. The food spread on the raised table before him proved it.

The adults behind the table's feast were silent, just the same as the kids. They were pointing sticks at him as though they were some kind of weapon. Maybe they intended to poke his eyes out with them. Merlin kept his sword raised even as the oldest of them placed his empty hands on the table and leant forwards, something sparkling in his blue eyes.

He opened his mouth draped in a long silver beard and spoke, but the sounds were nothing like Merlin had heard before. So, Merlin waited, and the man stopped talking, a sort of bemused smile resting on his lined face. Merlin shrugged and returned the expression. He lowered the sword. He might not be able to understand what the man was saying—actually, now that he was listening for it, whatever any of the whisperers were saying—but there was something about the fellow that reminded him a bit of Gaius. So Merlin let his gaze wander to the candles floating above the four long tables behind him, and that the night sky was apparently very clear with a full moon, and that there were a few hovering transparent figures, and decided that he really ought to inform the old man that if Uther had ever found out about this place, they would all be executed; he wasn't entirely sure what Arthur would do.

The old man began speaking again, and Merlin refocused on him. There were words that sounded familiar, but they were distorted. He still couldn't make head or tails of what the grandfatherly man was saying. The others at the man's table had, for the most part, put their sticks away or out of sight. A particularly gloomy and pale man clothed in black seemed to be the exception.

"I still don't know what you're saying," Merlin said when the old fellow finished. The whispers coming from the tables of children and teenagers increased in their volume. Apparently, none of them could understand him, either. The silver-haired man pulled a stick from his robes and pointed it at Merlin. Merlin raised the sword again, but the man shook his head, still smiling, and Merlin found himself letting the sword tip drop to the floor once more. The worst this ancient man could do was poke him, right?

The man said something that sounded vaguely like the language a visitor from Southern Gaul had spoken, and his stick glowed. Merlin felt his head warm, but something compelled him not to stop the magic, for clearly that's what it was, even if it was through a stick. As he permitted the old man's weird magic to bounce around in his head and warm his thoughts, he noticed that the murmurs and whispers from behind him were becoming increasingly distinct. When his head cooled, the old sorcerer lowered his stick, and the hall fell silent.

"Now then," the man said. Merlin smiled at the fact that the spell the sorcerer had cast was one of translation. He ought to ask how it was done. "I am Albus Dumbledore, headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Who might you be?" Witchcraft and wizardry?

"Sorry," Merlin began. He halted, confused for a moment by the language which he somehow understood but had never learned. He began again: "Ehm, but you do know that if the king finds you, he might execute you." The headmaster's smile remained fixed on his face.

"Thank you for the warning, young man." The whispers behind Merlin charged forth once more, but Albus silenced them with a gentle but commanding look. "Which king might this be?"

Merlin raised an eyebrow, a peculiar and confused smile on his face. "King Arthur, sir." Headmaster Dumbledore gave no sign of recognition. "Of Camelot?" Quiet whispers rose into full-blown conversation. The headmaster once more silenced them.

"How do you know this, young man?" Dumbledore asked. Merlin glanced around at the people whom he supposed were students, if this were a school. A school of witchcraft and wizardry. He couldn't help but smile at the concept.

"It's common knowledge." He stared at the wizard. "Where did you say I am again?"

"Hogwarts. What is your name, young man?" Merlin blinked, then grinned.

"Right, sorry. My name's Merlin."

AN:

Because I love when Merlin randomly appears in Hogwarts.

This has been floating around my computer for over a year; I probably won't continue with an actual story.