Chapter Two: Invitations and Investigations

Merlin moved linearly through time.

It was funny to him, all the books and film adaptations and legends depicting him traveling backwards or sideways or upside-down in time. How he wished that his control was that great, that precise, how he wished he could travel backwards, backwards, all the way back (back to Arthur, back to his home, back to true familiarity). He could change things, save people (he could save them all if only he traveled backwards). But no. All he could do was slow it down, stop it, maybe—put a pause to his too-long life.

Completely useless, really.

The others, they jumped through time, leaping into the regular time stream every couple of centuries and skipping out again when it was their time. What he would give to go with them. What he would give to be rid of it all, to take his place with his friends and family.

Instead, he was stuck on the straight path, the long road. He didn't have a choice, didn't have a say when or where or why things would happen.

It wasn't just his time abilities that were completely useless.

"Abbott! If you don't stop your goddamn day dreaming, you're fired!" A huge, hairy hand slammed down on the counter Merlin was leaning heavily on. He jumped, snapping his head up. A large woman loomed over him, her face a mere foot from his. He noticed the small freckles across her cheeks, and that the mole just above her lip had two fine black hairs sprouting from it. "I mean it! There will be no dozing in this shop; I'm not running a damn hotel."

Merlin rubbed his eyes. "Sorry, Mrs. Smith. Didn't get a whole lot of sleep last night." He slept from one AM to five AM exactly.

"Go to bed earlier, then, you idiotic buffoon. You young people, thinking that you can just sleep and eat willy-nilly all over the place. It'll catch up to you one day, I swear to God!" Merlin barely withheld a sigh. He wondered what Mrs. Smith would say if he told her that her measly fifty-two years paled in comparison to his one thousand-and-something (he'd lost track somewhere. It hadn't been difficult to do, considering…).

The warlock stretched and looked around. The small convenience store held only one customer: a man in the back, examining the (admittedly small) selection of beverages. Merlin could tell he was debating between two similar-looking fizzy drinks. He slumped back down onto the counter; the man looked as if he was deciding the fate of a nation (no joke. Merlin knew from experience). Mrs. Smith gave him a half-hearted swat on the arm.

"A goddamn slacker, is what you are," she muttered. "Don't even know why I keep you."

"My charm and wit, of course," Merlin replied without missing a beat. He grinned widely at her.

"More like you were the only one to apply for the job," Mrs. Smith grumbled, probing her temples with sausage-like fingers.

"That can only factor in so much, Mrs. Smith." Merlin wagged a finger at her, as one would a naughty dog or child. "Taking into account my professional, exquisitely written application—"

"Abbott, you just walked in and nearly fell on your knees begging for the job."

"—my stunning looks—"

"They do tend to stun people, alright. I saw one poor lass nearly faint at the sight of your awful hair the other day."

"—and not to mention my business smarts—"

"Yes, you shouldn't mention it, actually, mainly because you don't have any."

"—you clearly had no choice but to hire me. It was a win for you all the way. Someone as brilliant as me working for minimum wage… What a bargain!" Mrs. Smith shook her head, exhaled heavily through her enormous lungs, and began to lumber away, her heavy footsteps whapping on the hard, tiled floor.

"Just work, would you?" she called over her shoulder. No doubt she was going to check in the back, make sure everything was in order while he had the mind-numbing job of manning the cash register. He swore that this was almost as bad as some of his servant work. Almost. Mucking the stables still weighed in at rock bottom. Out of everything he'd ever done, that vile, disgusting job had been his least favorite. Even lugging bathwater for the king…

(Too late, too late, too late. Where was the other side his coin now?)

The man in the back had finally decided to choose one of the twin drinks he'd been deciding on. Merlin didn't know why this one was better than the other. He didn't even know if there was a difference between the two, aside from labeling. While he liked the processed, sugary foods of the modern world, he would be the first to admit that a lot of them tasted the same.

The customer slammed the two-liter bottle on the counter like he was slapping down a winning hand of cards. Merlin would've asked him not to, but, well, it was his bottle. If he wanted to dent it, it was his problem.

"That all?" Merlin asked, casually ringing him up. Before the man could respond, the warlock said, "It's £1.84."

"Here." The man shoved over the required amount and snatched up his fizzy drink before marching out of the store. The bell of the door clanged violently as the handle was tugged, offended at the assault on its person.

Merlin stared after him. What was his problem?

No matter. The warlock took out a hefty tome from beneath the counter. The cover was in English (Under the Ocean, it read, by Carl Blue), but the inside was crammed with tiny lines of script in the language of the Old Religion. Its true title was Magic: Advanced Theory and Spells, by Marlene Ripley. Merlin had been lucky enough to find it; locating books that actually held some relevant knowledge was difficult to come by in this day and age.

The warlock sat on the floor behind the counter comfortably, criss-crossing his legs and hunching over. The smell of old book was strong in his nose, and he breathed in the sweet perfume. He'd had to cast an anti-decaying spell on it, to be renewed periodically, but that was fine. The book was worth it.

His blue eyes swept over the page, soaking in every spell, every theory, every dreg of magic he could. The lines were elegant, written painstakingly by hand centuries ago. The woman who had written it—Marlene—had been a brilliant witch, as far as Merlin could tell. It was unfortunate he'd never had the pleasure of meeting her. As far as he could tell, though, he'd been in Asia as she'd written this.

Then, well…

The bell jangled happily as someone new walked into the store. Without missing a beat, Merlin stood up from behind the counter, brushing the nonexistent dirt off his jeans.

It was a red-headed lady, somewhat rotund and hurried. Her clothes were odd; she'd chosen a brown, grandmother-ly dress with large, black boots. The dress was old in style, decades old, and the boots were almost military-esque. She scampered to one of the aisles, examining everything carefully, and gently prodding some of the products. Merlin wondered what the hell she was doing until he realized that she was a witch. Not the strongest, but definitely formidable enough to be dangerous. What was she looking for?

"Ma'am?" he called. "Is there something I can help you with?"

"Ah, no, I don't think so. Just looking…" she said lamely, looking around with a lost expression. Merlin propped his elbows up on the counter, leaning forward and clasping his hands together.

"For what, exactly?"

"A birthday present. My husband is obsessed with mug—um, these sorts of things." Merlin stifled a laugh and hopped onto the counter, spinning on his butt till he was facing her, and leaped off. It was all done with the awkward grace of a newborn colt, always on the verge of falling but never quite there. Despite Merlin's extensive time alive, his limbs still had a will of their own, and that will didn't always line up with his.

He held out a hand for her to shake. "I'm Evan," he greeted. She took it and smiled up at him.

"Call me Molly," she told him.

"Well, Molly, I think I know just what you're looking for," Merlin announced. "If you'll follow me…" He strode off down one of the aisles, to the back corner of the store. A wizard obsessed with muggles? There were worse ways one could spend one's time, he supposed.

In this corner were the odds and ends, the miscellaneous that didn't really fit in with the rest of the store, but things Mrs. Smith insisted on selling because you never know, Abbott. And this is my goddamn store; I'll run it how I please. There were some office supplies, like staplers, notepads, and pens, as well as more obscure things. Because magic often disrupted machines and broke them, Merlin thought that the stapler and maybe some pens or notepads would work. He didn't think they had any in the wizarding world; they still used quills and parchment, as far as he was aware.

"Now," Merlin's eyes twinkled cheerfully, "if you're husband hasn't gotten any already, I should say a stapler would be a good fit." He held one up. "Muggles use them all the time, you see. They hold paper together. And no batteries, so magic won't break it." Though it was rather cheaply made, if Merlin were honest. Even without the wear and tear of magic, it'd probably malfunction within the month. Molly blushed.

"Was I that obvious?" she asked, taking the stapler from him to examine it.

"Next time, I'd suggest wearing different shoes," Merlin said.

"You know, you've been a very helpful young man," Molly said. "I have a son just your age. He became an auror about two years ago. I was ever so proud of him." Sometimes Merlin hated that he was forever stuck looking twenty-something years old. It was tiring, everyone thinking he was younger than them.

"Really? I'm afraid I haven't done much with my life; just worked here, mostly. Not quite as exciting as an auror, I'm afraid, but it does have its moments. I remember one lady socked me because we were out of her favorite crisps. It hurt at the time, but it's almost funny now… And another time, one gentleman came in to rob us, only Mrs. Smith knocked him out with her broom. She's rather strong, Mrs. Smith."

"Oh, my! I can only imagine. Did you start working here immediately after you finished your schooling?"

"Yeah. Didn't really know what I wanted to do," Merlin confessed, trying to sound like an unsure young adult. It wasn't hard; the Triple Goddess knew how long Merlin actually had been one. "And working here is fine," Merlin glanced around and lowered his voice theatrically, "even if Mrs. Smith can get a little crabby."

"And where did you go to school? Ronald, he's my son, went to Hogwarts. Perhaps you knew him?"

"I was homeschooled, actually, by my mum," Merlin said. "She taught me everything I know. Did your son like Hogwarts? I was always fascinated by it; I mean, a giant castle? What kind of epic school is that?"

"All my children enjoyed it, but I worried constantly when Ron, my t-twins, George and F-Fred, and my youngest, Ginny, were attending. What with the war."

Ah. The wizarding war. Of course Merlin knew. Merlin knew too well about war and its horrors (the clash of swords, the stench of blood, the sound of explosions, the smoky scent of gunpowder, the screaming of spells), and being left behind to worry in complete agony about the people he knew he couldn't help (not with…). Or the helplessness of the battlefield itself, the chaos, not knowing where anyone was, not knowing how to save them all (have to save them all, not like last time, not like last time!).

"Yes," Merlin grimaced. But Molly was the first wizard he'd spoken to in a long time, and he didn't want to speak of this (not his mistakes, not his uselessness, not his complete, utterly worthless powers; what good were they when he couldn't even use them?). And she seemed upset by the topic (lost people she knew, probably). So he changed the subject: "What does your husband do for a living?"

"He works in the Ministry; he's the Head of the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office." Figured. "He loves his job, too, what with his fascination with muggles. He'd probably love to meet you," she continued. "He pesters any guest with the slightest connection to them; he's very passionate." The way she said it, all fond exasperation, with the crinkling of her eyes and little up-turn of her lip told Merlin that she loved her husband, loved him very dearly. "Anyway, dear, what does your mother do for a living?"

"She's a journalist, travels a lot. I don't see her as much as I'd like to," Merlin lied. This was the easiest way to excuse the fact that his mother wasn't around, without the pity associated with telling people she was dead (and his heart still twinged at the thought a little. Time didn't heal wounds, just made you more accustomed to bearing their pain).

Molly examined him with a critical eye, and Merlin felt dread well up within him. The last thing he needed was this woman becoming attached. He really hadn't thought much of their conversation. He'd only wanted to talk to someone who wasn't Mrs. Smith, but maybe he'd made a mistake. "Anyway, we should probably get that stapler taken care of. Don't want to keep you waiting; it's bad form on my part. I've probably delayed you enough as it is." Molly tilted her head, a thoughtful gleam in her eye, and Merlin knew his fear was well-founded.

"No, no. I enjoyed our chat, and, anyway, you're a delightful young man, so helpful. And far too skinny! You'll simply have to come over for tea sometime." It wasn't an offer; it was an order disguised and prettied up, so he'd think it was an offer and be tricked into going. Even recognizing the trick, he couldn't let this cheerful, friendly woman be hurt by his refusal.

"Well, if you insist."

"So, this is what we have so far," Harry announced, tossing the file down onto the desk as he sat beside Ron. "Margaret was the eldest daughter of Uther Penn, a rather successful businessman. She had a younger brother, Arthur, and Marcus was the youngest. Margaret was the product of Uther's first marriage, but that didn't work out and her parents divorced. Her mother remarried, and so did Uther. Arthur was born with the second wife, who died in childbirth. Marcus was adopted years later after his father, his only family, died. Uther and Arthur died ten months ago in an accident." Ron whistled.

"That's a lot of dead family members," he commented.

Ron's office was rather messy. Most of it was taken up by a large wooden desk and a matching faux-leather chair. The desk was cluttered with ink bottles, quills, and documents that Ron needed to get through but was procrastinating because "I did not sign up to be an auror just to sit at a table, reading and writing! That's not my job!" ("Ron, filling out paperwork is definitely part of the job. Look, now you can put what Hermione taught you to good use." And Ron mumbled, "She taught me how to copy off of her, that's what she taught me.") Cabinets lined the walls, and on top of them were personal touches, like pictures of Ron's siblings and Hermione, as well as couple of all three of them, having fun. Harry in one of the pictures waved cheerfully to his real-life counterpart.

"Yes, well, we need to speak with Margaret's step-family, Gregory and Alyssa Williams, and maybe see if we can track down some of the siblings' friends for more information. We need to visit her family today. They don't even know their daughter's been murdered." Harry rubbed his forehead, feeling that his head was going to explode. It had already been such a bad morning, and now he had to go talk to two very distraught parents.

"Are they muggles?" Ron asked.

"Gregory is, but Alyssa isn't. I wonder if she knows anything about what her daughter was doing."

"If she does, she might have some idea of who killed them."

"I think that'd be a little too convenient with our sort of luck," Harry laughed. He stood. "Let's get this over with."

I know very well he can't stay with them. It's a bad place all around, filled with hatred and ignorance, without love. He won't be happy there, won't be prepared there. He won't know what's happening. Going in blind is a terrible idea, like jumping into the ocean without knowing how to swim. You're begging to drown, doing that. But this is worse, because someone else is throwing him in, understanding that he'll die, doing so. Only a miracle will save him if he goes in blind.

I must be the hand that saves him from drowning, for no one but me seems to comprehend the immense consequences that leaving him here will have.

I stride up to the door, prepared to break in if they will not let me leave with him peacefully. But I've seen their hearts and know they don't want anything to do with him, and likely it will only take seconds for them to turn their own blood over into my unfamiliar hands. It doesn't matter, though; I will care for him, and care for him well.

Suddenly, I feel a presense in my gut, a horrible, sickening feeling. It's like slime, like a horrible pus gushing up from within, from a crevice in my guts leading to an infinite abyss.

This is not your duty. The voice is ominous, booming, a crack of thunder in the night. I clap my hands over my ears and release a howl of pain, the howling of the wind to echo the bellow of thunder. Together, a storm. I feel something wet beneath my fingers; it's blood. It begins to spill from the canyon in my gut, bubbling over like a pot of water that's been left on the stove for too long, trickling from my nose and tear ducts.

But it doesn't hurt.

I fall to my knees and above me the stars blur into one mass of bright light. It's the sun, I think. Time has messed up, messed up for me. It doesn't move like that, become night and day in a split-second. The sky is still dark, though. It's day and night together? Time existing all at once, folded in on itself like fabric…

Sleep now, my little champion. Your time will come.

My palms hit the concrete beneath me, and collapse onto my stomach. Maybe the abyss will leak out of me now, I think. Nothing so heavy could ever stay inside of me…

It will come soon.

When Mrs. Dursley goes outside the next morning to collect the day's paper, she doesn't even notice the reddish-brown stain on the sidewalk.

AN: OMG! Thank you so much for the positive feedback, guys! I wasn't sure if anyone would even be interested in this. So someone asked about updating, and I think it will be about once a week. If I manage to save up some chapters, I might even try updating twice a week. We'll see.

Anyway, if you feel up for it, I'd be interested in knowing what you think is going on and any predictions you have, so please leave a review. Or, you know, don't, but I will say they really are motivating, so a special thanks to those that did on chapter one. Also for those that followed and favorited! Thanks for reading!