Disclaimer: I own nothing
A/N – I won't normally be posting this often. I am going to try to stick to a schedule of once per week so that I can stay ahead of myself with my writing.
Harry sat bolt upright in his bed at Number 4, Privet Drive, hand clutching his scar while his jaw was locked in pain. His deep, gasping breaths echoed in the dark room, their thunderous noise doing nothing to drown out the wild beating of his heart. He reached over to the bedside table and retrieved his glasses before looking at the time, the pale strips of moonlight streaming from the window giving him just enough light to read the hands of the battered old alarm clock.
It's almost midnight he thought to himself, his chaotic mind slowly beginning to form coherent thoughts as his breathing slowed and he finally began to collect himself. He eased himself back slowly, leaning his head against the wall and drawing his knees up to his chest. Soon it would be official and there would be no avoiding it.
It was a day that he had been dreading for weeks. Ever since he had arrived at this house he had been flooded with the almost constant stream of letters from friends. The contents of these had varied, often being nothing more than a recounting of the day's events or a retelling of the twin's latest prank. But almost all had ended same way. Are you ok Harry? How are you feeling Harry? Do you need to talk about it Harry? And he knew to which 'it' they referred…Sirius's death.
He knew he shouldn't be angry with them for being worried about him, but he just couldn't help it. Everyone seemed to just expect him to suddenly break down and start crying over his parchment while he told them how much he missed his godfather. Why was it so hard to understand that he didn't want to talk about it? What was so wrong about that? Sure he missed Sirius, but talking about it wasn't going to change anything.
He did not want to hear from everyone how it was not his fault and he shouldn't blame himself, because the truth was that he did blame himself. If he had not let himself be fooled then the entire trip to the Department of Mysteries could have been avoided, and Sirius might still be alive. He realized that and had accepted it. But Sirius would not have wanted him to breakdown, or give-up; he would have been the first to tell him that he had to keep fighting. He wished he could find the words to tell all of this to Ron and Hermione, but he just had not been able to bring himself to respond to their letters which had made him so furious. This brought him back to why he was dreading this particular day.
In approximately ten seconds, the clock hands would align over the twelve and it would officially be his birthday. Now, his birthdays had never been much to shout about, but the thought of the sympathy and understanding that would await him in the letters he knew were inevitable on this day was enough to make him ill, and had in fact been keeping him lying awake for the past two nights.
Finally the dreaded hand swung, and the clock struck midnight.
"Happy birthday to me," he whispered into the darkness, his voice tinged with bitterness.
"Happy birthday indeed my friend."
Harry jumped at the unexpected response, his hand reflexively pulling his wand from the pocket of the baggy sweat pants that he slept in while his eyes swept the room for the owner of the smooth mellow voice.
"I won't be so naïve as to ask you to put that away," the voice continued, "but please know that I mean you no harm."
There. He could not make out a clear figure in the deep shadow, but he kept his wand trained on the spot that his ears told him the stranger occupied. Had a Death Eater managed to penetrate the wards?
"Yes well, I have had quite a few people try to kill me in my lifetime, so I hope you'll understand if I don't take your word for that," Harry replied calmly. The stranger chuckled.
"Oh of course my dear boy, in fact I would be highly disappointed if you had simply taken me at my word. One can never be too careful with strangers." Harry was taken aback. He did not expect polite banter from a Death Eater.
"Come out where I can see you," he commanded, trying to inject a note of authority into his voice.
"Certainly," the voice whispered as its owner stepped forward into a band of pale moonlight. Harry felt his jaw slacken in confusion. Despite the polite words, he had still expected to see a hooded and masked Death Eater come flying at him from the shadows. Instead, before him stood a fairly tall older man in an immaculate gray suit and clutching an umbrella, his tidy white beard reminding Harry a bit of Dumbledore. His eyes, however, did not have Dumbledore's characteristic twinkle. Not even a little.
He smiled politely. "Please don't get up my boy; in fact, I believe that I will join you." With a wave of his hand a large leather armchair appeared at the side of the bed and the man quickly took a seat, sighing. "There we are, much better. Now we can just sit here and have a nice chat." Harry was staring slack jawed at the mysterious stranger. Who was this man, and how on earth had he managed to enter this house, much less Harry's own bedroom without activating the wards? They were the reason that he had always been told he had to return to this wretched house, but a fat load of good they seemed to be doing him now.
"Who are you," he asked calmly, trying to sound confident, "and what do you want with me?" The old man smiled warmly.
"That would be the question of the hour, would it not? But I suppose it is a fair question so I will answer it honestly. I am here to help you kill Voldemort." Harry started; he had definitely not been expecting that. "I know that you just lost your godfather -my condolences by the way- so I don't know how much time you have really had to absorb what you were told at the end of school, but I am here to tell you that it is absolutely, one-hundred percent true."
Harry's eyes widened. "What are you talking about?"
"The prophecy my boy, the prophecy." It was impossible; the only record had been smashed in front of him. Only a few people in the entire world were supposed to know that it even existed. But this stranger somehow did.
"Who are you," he asked again, his voice quiet and more than a little shaky. The old man scratched the side of his head, looking abashed.
"Ahem, well people have called me many things over the years, but once upon a time my name was Merlin. Harry snorted loudly, and received and arched eyebrow and an annoyed look in response. "And what, pray-tell, is so funny about that?"
"Nothing at all, I didn't mean anything by it," Harry spluttered. "But it's just that, I mean come on, Merlin? He's been dead for what like a thousand years or something like that hasn't he? And you just wander into my bedroom in the middle of the night and announce that your Merlin and I'm supposed to just believe you? I mean, you don't exactly dress like Merlin, do you? The old man was pinching the bridge of his nose, his eyes closed now and his head bowed.
"And what exactly am I supposed to look like?" he asked. He continued before Harry could even speak. "Does it not occur to you that in those thousand or so years that you mentioned I might have picked up a thing or two? I know it's a part of the ridiculous iconic image that you present wizards have of me, but let me tell you something young man, Armani is a hell of a lot more comfortable than a codpiece and a loose fitting sheet with holes cut in it." He stood abruptly. "But if it will help you to accept this so that we can move on, so be it."
He tapped the end of his umbrella once on the hard wooden floor and quickly began to change. His well-tailored suit began to transform, its sleek lines melting and shifting to form a long, flowing midnight blue robe. The umbrella began to change as well, the wood of the floor it touched seeming to reach up into it before spreading like a disease. It grew, and changed, and expanded until finally his hand clasped a large polished wooden staff that was nearly as tall as he was. His face had changed as well. It seemed harder now, older, and more taught with worry. But his eyes were what drew Harry. They still did not twinkle as Dumbledore's often did; instead they glowed. Not metaphorically speaking, they really glowed. His irises were now suffused with a bright azure glow, and the power radiating from them was palpable.
Merlin took a moment to adjust his beard before returning his gaze to Harry. "Satisfied?" Harry nodded mutely. "Good, then we can return to our conversation." He settled back into his chair as if nothing had happened, while Harry stared at him, jaw dropped once again. "Now where were we…oh yes," he said, leaning forward in his chair, "we were discussing you killing Voldemort."
