So I'm writing one story, and then I get an itch from another one of my longtime plot bunnies, and it wouldn't leave me alone. As a way of getting rid of it decided I might as well go ahead and write this. It's short, and though I will finish this, my priority is Castle of Cards, so I can't give an update schedule. I just needed to get it out of my mind, so I could focus on COC's next chapter. Can tell you, for sure, that this will be connected to the COC story, though obviously because it's an HP cross over, several centuries have passed. I totally reserve the right to change the name to this later, I'm kinda doing this on the fly, atm. I Don't own Merlin or Harry Potter.
He'd expected this. As much as he'd dreaded the day's arrival, he almost felt relieved he could finally act, rather than wait, as he had been forced to do for centuries. Not that he had been sitting idle, on the contrary, he'd kept himself busy once he'd learned of the wretched objects, but there were simply too many of them, haphazardly created by a witch who had no idea she was doing it, and no sense of urgency to direct or hide them, after the fact. Ironically this now worked in her favor, as did the sheer number of them. His only hope had been her inability to utilize them to return, still, her influence had been felt over the ages as she tried to figure out the magic, to do so. Her most recent test subject, tragically, had been successful.
Squinting against the smoke hovering like a blanket over the village, Merlin shook his head, a small cough behind him, alerting him to the presence of others. It wouldn't be long before the auror's arrived, and that was a confrontation he was not yet willing to have. Still, the boy might be with them, and that slowed him a bit, on the off chance he had an opportunity to end this before it truly began. Scanning the still smoldering buildings, he allowed his eyes to rest on the only portion of the village still engulfed in flame. The bodies, hung against a wall, each posed so their burning corpses spelled a message. A name. His name. Fury flooded his veins, as he recoiled from the sight, despite the image now burnt into his eyes, even when he closed them. There was nothing more he could do for these people, he thought to himself, mournfully, reaching to the heavens to unleash a torrential downpour that would no doubt put the grisly calling card out. Turning on his heels, he ignored the whimpers and gasps of the survivors, still hidden, to face the popping noise, that inevitably followed a wizard's apparition. Six of them then. Quickly appraising the men and women, all lifting their sticks in his direction, he nodded before silently, with nothing but the golden glimmer of flame dancing in his eyes, apparated away. It was time to find the Potter boy. It was time to go home.