Here we are again, reader. I somehow present a chapter on time, and you have come to read it. Obviously, it's a little longer than the first two as we are moving out of the initial setup and into the actual story. If you haven't guessed from the last chapter, I have decided to begin this in during the events of Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban. Not much happened that year (Voldemort stayed insecurely in his grave for this one year) so I decided to spice it up.
While I am usually one of the first to espouse the benefit of writing within the canon, this is going to be canon divergent. (True divergence from the plot will become more obvious as the plot develops.)
The little grey, brown, and white owl landed on his perch beside Merlin, a small orb of blue light trapped in his beak.
"Hand it over, Freidle. I need to see what's going on. And what took you so long?"
The owl ruffled his feathers grumpily and emitted a kind of whistle-hoot, dropping the orb onto Merlin's spell book before flying up to his hidden nook in the crossbeams. From there, he gave another indignant hoot before settling into his nest.
"Falling asleep is NOT a legitimate reason for being late, you bird-brain. And with everything going on over there, I needed this information as soon as possible, especially if I need to go intervene before things get out of hand."
Freidle clacked his beak and twittered.
"What do you mean it's taken care of? Never mind, I'll see for myself."
Merlin rolled the small blue orb between his hands and watched it expand and fill with mist. The scene from the infirmary the night before played out before him in the transparent globe and he saw the destruction Rowena caused. Perhaps it was a good thing that Freidle had fallen asleep in the rafters—otherwise he wouldn't have heard any of the theories Madame Pomfrey and the professors had.
"They're a bit off, but McGonagall is starting to ask the right questions. I wonder if Professor Dumbledore has any theories. Which reminds me…" Merlin took out a quill and some parchment. "Get some sleep while you can, you stupid bird; you'll be heading back to Hogwarts soon enough."
Somewhere above his head, the little owl warbled begrudgingly. Merlin waved his hand dismissively at the troublesome tenant in his ceiling.
The Old Magic in the girl was waking up with a vengeance—that much was certain—and she would need help learning how to control it. From the conversation, no one really understood what was going on with her; they would have said that it was poor scholarship on her part, but she understood the theory and still her magic wouldn't work.
The piece that the educators were missing was that Old Magic was incompatible with newer magic and its Latinate incantations. He had quickly discovered that when trying to adapt to the new wizarding world. He could use newer magic, but it required massive amounts of concentration and separating a part of his magic that would only use new incantations. Once accomplished, he didn't need to do it again, but it was like lighting a tea candle from a bonfire and using the tea candle to light all the torches in a courtyard.
Merlin began composing a letter to the headmaster:
Dear Professor Dumbledore,
My name is Emery Balinor and I am a magical historian. This letter is a request to fulfill a life-long dream: to serve as a professor of Magical History at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. I realize that you have an esteemed professor already filling that position, one Professor Binns. I ask only that I might be allowed to serve in that position for one year, should Professor Binns choose to take a sabbatical.
By way of references and to show my familiarity with the subject, I offer my books. I am especially knowledgeable about the rise and fall of Camelot, and the impact it had on the magical community.
I assure you—and Professor Binns—that I have no intention of replacing the current teacher. I merely wish to understand modern students having spent many, many years immersed in the past. Returning to the present is often a good way to gain perspective on how we have achieved what we have, and there is no better place for that than a classroom.
If you have any questions regarding my qualifications, experience, or perhaps any personal questions, simply send them to me with my owl, Freidle, and I will reply as soon as possible.
Well Wishes and High Hopes,
Emery Balinor
Merlin opened a small drawer and took out a stick of red sealing wax and a signet ring with an elaborate "E" engraved in it. E for Emrys. It had been several centuries since he last used it, so no one yet living should recognize it. But if someone did, he was a magical historian; he could claim that he had found it on his research journeys.
Freidle, recognizing work when he saw it, tried to hide his head under his wing and disappear into the upper rafters.
"No, you don't, you daft pigeon. I told you that you would be headed to Hogwarts again soon. Now get down here."
The owl trilled in response and shifted back to blend in with the shadows.
"Are you saying that you regret the fact that saved your feathered neck after you got clipped by that car? You've had years of laziness, enjoyed many a laugh at my expense. Now you're on your deathbed after a week of work."
There was a soft kwee in the affirmative and his amber eyes peered pitifully out of the darkness above the crossbeam.
"You seem to forget that I can actually tell when you're lying. And when you're dying. Now get down here and take this letter to Dumbledore before I decide to set your tail on fire."
Freidle dropped onto his perch and accepted the letter before gliding out the open window.
There were a lot of things to prepare. For one, he would need to age himself a little early. For the last few hundred years, he had a schedule for when he actually look old and when he looked young, since he didn't seem to age naturally. He was in the middle of his young period, and it took a while to get used to his old body again.
Merlin tracked down the old tome that he hadn't actually used in years. He didn't need it now—he'd had enough practice with that spell over the years—but Rowena would.
Freidle returned the next evening carrying the response from the headmaster:
Dear Mr. Balinor,
I was quite surprised to receive your letter as the position of Magical History Professor has been filled for many years by Cuthbert Binns, a man so dedicated to his teaching that he has continued in it many years after his death. I also have no record of you having attended Hogwarts. My surprise was compounded by the fact that I have read your many excellent books, but I have not met you before now.
For the first matter, Professor Binns has agreed to allow you the honor of teaching the subject of Magical History for this coming year. When I told him of your letter, he was on the verge of weeping, remarking that you have a true scholarly mind and what kind of historian would he be if he didn't encourage such scholarship.
However, I would very much like to meet with you to, well, meet you. I would also like to know what I am getting myself into, especially given how turbulent the past couple of years have been at the school. I might bring copies of your books for you to sign. The conversation will also venture into the area of class materials, as we need to know what to instruct students to purchase for the coming year. (Might I suggest The Rise and Fall of Camelot and The History of the Druidic Peoples of England for your more advanced classes?)
I would like to tentatively set a date for June 17th, after the end of the term, at the Leaky Cauldron in London. Would that work for you? Until then, best wishes for your health.
Yours Truly,
Albus Wulfric Percival Brian Dumbledore
Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry
He had been expecting this. The proposed meeting was in about a month, but what was one more month? Merlin scribbled a quick reply and sent it off with Freidle. He'd had ten years to plan his lessons while trying to figure out what to publish in his books and what to leave out. They'd been harder to write than he thought. Not to mention the trouble he'd had with preeminent Merlin scholars.
Scholars, indeed—they had merely regurgitated some of the lesser told legends, spinning them wildly out of proportion. For every fact they got correct, they got seventeen more wrong. If he ever wrote his actual memoirs, the whole thing would be condemned as a vile bit of fiction because everyone knows that Merlin was the old wizard with the beard who taught Arthur after he pulled the sword from the stone.
"Speaking of beards…" He still hadn't gotten around to transforming into an old man. Maybe he was just putting it off because he liked being able to actually move around without pain, but no one was going to believe that Emery Balinor was a mid-twenties kid who looked like he stepped out of a Muggle college. And as long as he had been using his Dragoon disguise, he still needed time to adjust to the feeling of being old in his body as well as his mind. Long white hair and beard later, all the creaky joints of an eighty year old body returned
Merlin arrived at the Leaky Cauldron on the fifteenth of June and rented a room. It was a trek from his cottage by the lake of Avalon to London, and he didn't like to disapparate if he didn't have to. Freidle flew in the open window, protesting the long trips after more than a decade of inactivity. Merlin ignored the bird as he took the books out of his trunk and began sorting them into piles. Last of all, he retrieved his old spell book, the one Gaius had given him shortly after he arrived in Camelot. It was well worn and the feel of it brought back memories of long nights studying and rushed attempts to save Arthur's life or kingdom.
Nostalgia gets more painful with every passing year. Merlin put the book down reverently. He would need it again later, maybe to pass it on to another who, like him, was born with a magic she didn't understand.
On the seventeenth, Merlin stepped down into the main hall of the Leaky Cauldron to see Tom, the caretaker, pointing at him. It would have been hard not to recognize the tall man with half-moon spectacles speaking to Tom; Dumbledore had made quite a name for himself. For a fraction of a second, their eyes met and Merlin had the distinct feeling that he was being scrutinized intensely. Better to get introductions over with sooner than later. He walked over to the headmaster.
"Professor Dumbledore? I'm Emery Balinor." The warlock held out his hand, which the other man smiled and shook.
"Mr. Balinor. It's a pleasure to finally meet you. I had written hoping to meet you before now…"
"Sorry. After the fifth howler from Merlin scholars calling my work rubbish and describing my family in colorful and unflattering ways, I stopped reading most of my mail."
"Ah. I can see how your work could upset them. You never mentioned where you studied. It wasn't at Hogwarts, I know that."
"That's a bit of an interesting story." Merlin's joints started complaining at him for all the time he was spending standing in one place. "Shall we sit?"
"Yes. I had Tom arrange for a back room where we can talk without interruptions."
Merlin followed the professor into a small room that had little more than a table and chairs. He sank into one, grateful to be off his feet.
"As you were saying…?" Dumbledore prompted.
"Ah, yes. You see. My mother was a muggle and she had to raise me by herself. And my magic broke through early. She didn't know quite what to do until she befriended a wizard in the village. He helped her by taking me in and teaching me how to control my magic." It wasn't a complete lie; the fact that it had happened more than a thousand years ago was just a detail that he need not mention.
"I see. Why the interest in the history of Magic?"
Merlin couldn't very well say that he had lived through most of it, but he had an answer anyway. "Growing up, I didn't know who my father was. I knew that he had magic, but that was about it. Studying the history of magic was a way for me to have some idea where I came from."
Dumbledore produced a book from one sleeve and a quill from the other. "Might I get your autograph on your book? It was quite an interesting read, something I don't often find in history books these days."
The Rise and Fall of Camelot, Merlin noticed. The sales of that book had recently outstripped Gilderoy Lockhart's Magical Me, but the warlock attributed that mainly to the fact that the author had been discredited.
He and Dumbledore talked for a while about history and his lesson plans. They exchanged ludicrous legends from the time of Merlin (though Merlin shared a few of his more unbelievable adventures). He had forgotten how nice it was to talk to someone besides that stupid pigeon that thought it was an owl. He was rather disappointed as the conversation drew to a close.
"I will get accommodations settled for you at Hogwarts. I hope it isn't too much trouble to come in on the train with the students. There will be another professor on the train as well—Remus Lupin. He's taking on the position of Defense Against the Dark Arts."
"No," Merlin replied. "That's fine. It gives me a chance to see what I'm up against." He grinned and could feel that the smile made it all the way up to his eyes. I should have done this three hundred years ago.
Thank you to all of those who have followed or favorited this story. I welcome reviews and will respond, if possible. Let me know your theories about where you think this is going. (I might be persuaded to update as early as Tuesday because waiting until Friday is killing me...)
