Chapter 7: A Valiant Attempt

Quidditch season was upon them and Merlin was immediately reminded of one of the many reasons he disliked the sport: the crazed excitement over a sports match was absolutely exhausting to bear witness to. Especially when that excitement was as opposite to Merlin's own feelings on the matter as could be.

He had hoped, perhaps foolishly, that by escaping the riot that had erupted in the common room he would avoid the mayhem entirely. What Merlin hadn't bargained upon was that, despite the first match of the season being between Gryffindor and Slytherin, the entirety of the school seemed to be caught up in the mania. Stepping into the Great Hall had been like falling into the common room once more, only three times louder.

Merlin exchanged a glance with Gwen as he passed her on his way to the Gryffindor table. She rolled her eyes before taking a deliberately bored chomp from her toast. She couldn't quite pull of the vague nonchalance that Sefa managed at her side, but Merlin admitted that she came close. Support her brother though she might, she was apparently incapable of extending that falsehood to encompass the sport in its entirety.

Swinging a leg over the bench beside Freya, Merlin reached for the stack of toast with one hand and the butter with the other. Freya glanced up at him briefly with her usual small, thin smile before turning back to her cereal. Since the week before, they had become partners of a sort in Slytherin house; Freya was quiet, and appeared almost too nervous to speak much of the time, but seemed to be attempting to embody the role of Merlin's shadow.

Merlin didn't find it annoying but more simply… baffling. He'd never had anyone want to be so undemanding yet constantly in his presence before, what with both Will and Gwen being avid talkers and his mother comfortably chatty in her own way. He'd never really spent all that much time with girls either, and wondered if this was what they were all like or if Freya was the exception. Given what he'd learned from his experience with Gwen and Sefa, the small, quiet girl did seem to be the outlier.

But no, it didn't bother him. Not really, given that she could hardly be seen as being a demand upon his attention. If anything, he considered her presence to be what it must be like to have a little sister. A quiet, unobtrusive but attentive little sister.

Merlin wasn't the only one who was surprised by Freya's behaviour. Cornelius had simply stared at the two of them for long, silent minutes when they'd first sat beside one another at the breakfast table. Finally, he'd shaken himself free of his stupor and demanded, "When did this happen? Are you two dating now then, are you?"

Freya had started so violently that she'd splashed the juice in her hands all over herself. Merlin hadn't been much better. "What? No! What would make you think that?" He'd asked as he helped Freya to mop herself up. After a moment, he cast a quick, wandless Cleaning Charm on her instead of struggling with the surplus of napkins she'd dragged into her lap.

Cornelius had glanced between the two of them suspiciously for a moment before shaking his head. "Whatever. Just let me know when it actually happens, okay?" He'd said as though he had a right to know. The words had left both Merlin and Freya flushing in mortification.

Merlin had struggled to look her in the face for half a day after that until, finally drawing upon what little courage for such situations he possessed, he'd whispered an apology to her that afternoon as they practiced their Enlargement Charms in Charms. "I'm sorry about what Cornelius said. It made things kind of awkward, didn't it?

Freya had nodded fervently at his side, her wide eyes fastening directly upon him for the first time since breakfast. "Y-yeah. Sorry t-t-too, it just feels r-really weird to think of you that way." She'd flushed slightly a moment later. "I'm s-s-sorry! I didn't m-mean to sound like I –"

"No, no, that's okay," Merlin had said with a gushing sigh of relief. "I'm glad I'm not the only one who thought it was weird."

"R-really weird."

"Really."

After that, they'd resolutely ignored Cornelius's daily question of "Are you two going out yet?" It was actually surprisingly easy to manage. Edwin, for his part, fluctuated between mild curiosity and evidently not caring, while Merlin wouldn't have put it past Gilli not to have noticed in the first place.

The Slytherin girls had been less neutral. After a day or two of frowning confusion that had given way to betrayed glares, they'd proceeded to ignore Freya entirely. More even than they did Merlin, if that was possible. Freya didn't seem to mind all that much, had even confessed to Merlin when he asked her about it that she found it sort of relieving.

"They n-never really l-l-liked me, I don't think. I'm p-pretty sure it was more just putting up with m-me." She shrugged. "They a-always used to tease me about my s-s-stutter."

Not for the first time, Merlin felt like kicking himself for not asking Freya to join him sooner. He could hardly blame her for the speed of her changing allegiances; he'd had enough experiences with bullying from the other children in Ealdor to know how relieving it was to find someone who didn't see him as a target for spell practice and taunting.

As Merlin glanced up briefly from his breakfast at a particularly loud shout from Gryffindor table, he noticed the figure of Lancelot as he the Great Hall. He had been less immediate in his public display of friendship with the rest of them, seeming to think – or so Merlin understood it – that if any of them were to be seen with him would blacken their names. Merlin was pleased to notice that he barely hesitated as he made his way along the Hufflepuff table to seat himself besides Gwen. Gwen herself seemed to have made it her personal vendetta to drag him from his shell, just as she had with Merlin. She immediately dropped her attempt at bored nonchalance to strike up an animated conversation with him.

At least they were enjoying themselves. Very much so, in Gwen's case but then she always seemed to be bordering on ecstatic around Lancelot. For Merlin, it had been all of five minutes before he decided that he wanted out. It was the third time that someone tripped into him from behind that was the linchpin that pushed him over the edge. Nearly smacking his face into his cup with the force of the passing fourth year's stumble, he stood up with deliberate slowness, toast in hand, and took took his leave. Freya gave him a questioning glance, but he only rolled his eyes in response and she seemed to understand his reasoning well enough. Merlin wondered how she wasn't as affected by it.

As he made his way from the Great Hall, he deliberately avoided looking over at the Gryffindor table as he left the room. Last seen, the quidditch team were swamped beneath so many chattering admirers and supportive back-slaps that they could hardly be seen. It was a little sickening to behold, and he resolutely took his leave from the room before another explosion of excitement could buffet him to the floor.

Halfway back to the common room, Merlin found himself sighing in relief as the last of the noise finally vanished. Only to shift into a groan when he rounded another corner, paused in step and closing his eyes briefly in a struggle not to grumble imprecations. Down the end of the corridor, Peeves the leering poltergeist appeared to be singing a song of sorts as he bounced and bobbed in endless circles. In the midst of his circling, Beast, the caretaker's cat, watched him with unblinking yellow eyes. Her tail twitched dangerously each time he dangled a foot just slightly closer to her.

"Sniffle, snuffle, little kitten,

Poke and prod till I get bitten!"

Clicking his tongue, Merlin did an about turn and headed back in the direction he'd come. There were other ways to travel back to the Slytherin common room, but they were less direct. Still, they would certainly take far less time than had he attempted to skirt around Peeves; the poltergeist, Merlin had discovered, was quick to shift the focus of his taunting to any passer-by, his antics only quelled by the stern reprimand of Slytherin's ghost, the Bloody Baron. Unfortunately, his submission did not extend to the rest of Slytherin house. The sounds of his words, "Itty bitty, bitey kitty!" were followed by a shriek and mad cackling as Merlin turned from the hall and down the adjacent passageway.

The corridors later, it was only by chance that he heard the murmured words before stumbling across the speakers. Nibbling his last bite of toast, he dusted off his hands as he neared the crossroads just before the hallway housing the common room. The sharp snap of words, followed by the hissing sound of deliberate whispering, slowed his step. Frowning, his admittedly foolishly incessant curiosity rising within him once more, Merlin edged towards the corner and peered around it.

Two boys, older, boys, stood nearly invisible in the shadows of the corridor, the length of hall largely unused and as such devoid of frequently placed torches. It was only when Merlin strained his ears – with the faint assistance of magic – that he could make out the words at all.

"… don't fucking care, Ewan. And it doesn't matter because no one will find out. Not if you keep your trap shut."

"But what if they do? What if someone does finds out? We could be suspended for this sort of thing, Gordon. Or even worse than that, expelled. Do you really want to do that, in your last year, just so that you can win a quidditch match?"

Back pressed against the wall, Merlin frowned down at the floor, barely breathing for fear of being overheard. It took him a moment to identify who the two were that spoke, to recall them from the names that were spoken. Gordon Valiant and Ewan West. The captain of the Slytherin quidditch team and his Seeker. He immediately felt concern well within him; Merlin didn't know much about the older boys given that he strove to have as little to do with quidditch and its teams as possible, but their tone, the talk of expulsion, brought forth a shadow of foreboding. Something about the match? Something that they could get in trouble for?

Gordon continued after a spluttering hiss. "It's not just about the quidditch match, Ewan. It's not. It's about making that little shit Pendragon look like an idiot in front of his Daddy. Stuck up little bastard; ever since he joined the team two years ago the headmaster's been biased towards Gryffindor and you know it."

"It is a little unfair that he was allowed to join the team in first year," Ewan muttered in grumbling agreement. "But I don't think the headmaster's being biased in his reffing or anything –"

"Bloody hell, Ewan, would you shut up! Of course he's biased. How else would you explain them winning the last two cups?"

Ewan muttered something too low for even Merlin's faint Amplification Charm to catch. He did, however, hear the slight scuffle, the grunt that followed, and wondered if perhaps Gordon had physically lashed out at his teammate. He was just on the verge to stepping around the corner – he had a thing against bullying, even, or perhaps especially, between friends – but halted, tense, as Valiant spoke once more.

"Look, it's not like I plan on hurting the little tosser or anything. I just want us to shake things up a little bit. Give him a bit more of a challenge. It's a harmless charm, Ewan. I'm not an idiot to do something drastic." He paused, and Merlin was given the impression he was waiting for his friend to comment. He gave a grunt that was almost a growl. "Bloody hell, Ewan, it's not even going to make that much of a difference. They'll still have their chasers and their keeper to shoot and protect from goals. But the snitch will be ours. I just want to give him a little bit of what he deserves."

Ewan was silent for a moment longer before he hummed in a neutral sound that Gordon evidently took for acceptance from his somewhat relieved sigh. "How are you going to do it, then?" Ewan asked, tone still dubious.

"How are we going to do it," Gordon emphasised. "We'll just get close enough to him to hit him without anyone noticing. Shouldn't be too hard; what's he going to do, avoid us the entire match?"

"I don't know, Gordon, it still seems risky. I don't want to get into any trouble or anything –"

"For Merlin's sake," Gordon barked, the abrupt loudness and undirected use of his name causing Merlin to jump. "Don't pussy out of this, Ewan. We've already talked about it, you know we've agreed…"

Merlin didn't hear anymore. Partially it was because his hearing, even with the spell's amplification, was distracted by the pounding of his heartbeat in his ears, the sweeping chill that brushed through him. More probably, however, it was because his feet had already taken off at a run back in the direction he'd come. Surprisingly, just as he had somehow managed in his mad dash from Alice's lab to the Great Hall with the poisoned pumpkin juice incident, he didn't stumble.

Not once.


The Gryffindors weren't in the Great Hall when Merlin skidded to a halt at the doors. They evidently hadn't left too long before, however, for the majority of the rest of the students still mulled around within, bellowing their excitement with more enthusiasm for nine o'clock on a Saturday morning than Merlin had ever seen any of them display.

He spun around the moment he registered his problem and took flight through the front doors of the castle instead. His breath was panting, his temples throbbing and concern rising with every instant as he contemplated the words of the two Slytherin boys. He barely paused to call an apology to two yelping girls as he nearly stumbled over them with his ploughing passage.

Merlin did trip. Once. Or nearly, as he slipped in his descent down the hill towards the quidditch pitch. It was likely more a product of his scanning his surroundings for the overly bright and eye-catching glimpse of the Gryffindor quidditch team's red robes. He released a panting gasp of relief, breath coming harder for his running, when he finally caught sight of them heading towards the change rooms – for what reason he didn't know given they were already dressed and apparently ready. He leapt after them with renewed vigour.

They were nearly through the door by the time Merlin was in calling distance. "Arthur. Arthur! Wait! Could you – just a second!"

As one, the quidditch team turned towards him. Their curious expressions largely changed to disgruntlement – or at least the three of the older students did. Arthur, De Grace, Legaloise and Gwen's brother each maintained their curiosity, visible in varying degrees.

Merlin nearly crashed into Arthur when he pulled up before him. Panting with hands dropped to knees and head bowed, he gasped for breath – he really should exercise more; this was just ridiculous – and held up a finger in the universal sign for "give me a second".

"What is it, Emrys? What do you want?" Arthur's voice was low and objectionable, and Merlin didn't need to see his face to know that he was definitely now wearing his trying-to-glare expression.

"Just… just a second… let me catch my breath…" Merlin gasped in reply.

Arthur heaved a sigh that bordered on a disgruntled growl. "Really, Emrys, you could have picked a better time. We are just about to play a quidditch match."

"Believe you me, I… I wouldn't be talking to you if… it wasn't necessary." Merlin finally lifted his gaze, pushing himself off his knees. He glanced over Arthur's shoulder and – yes, the quidditch team was still divided into the scowling and the curiously peering.

Arthur followed the line of his gaze. "Sorry, Bedivere, won't be a moment. Emrys here is just being an idiot. As usual."

Whether it was Arthur's reassurance or his use of a derogatory reference towards Merlin, it hardly mattered for Bedivere shook himself from his affixed stare almost instantly. His glare became a smirk and he nodded shortly. "Alright, then. Five minutes, Pendragon."

"Five minutes," Arthur agreed, and turned back to Merlin as the rest of his teammates disappeared through the door into the change rooms. Lifting his chin in that annoyingly pretentious way he had and narrowing his eyes, he met Merlin's gaze. "What? What do you have to tell me? And why me?"

Merlin was asking himself that exact question. Why did he call out to Arthur? Why not to De Grace, who seemed to actually like him a little, or Smith, who had mellowed any animosity he might have had due to Merlin's friendship with his sister, or even Legaloise, who appeared remarkably level headed for someone who, if physicality was any indicator, should have been a meat head? Or, more appropriately, why hadn't he simply gone to one of the professors? To the headmaster, or even to Gaius? Merlin was smacking himself in the head over his stupidity even as he provided Arthur with an answer.

"I'm telling you, you prat, because it concerns you. But if you don't want to hear about how the Slytherin team is making plans to sabotage you in the quidditch match then that's fine by me. I'll just save my breath."

Arthur remained frozen for a moment. Frozen and probably slowly comprehending just what exactly Merlin had said. Then his eyebrows shot upwards, he blinked his eyes from their narrowed glare and he even drew back slightly. "What?"

"I overheard Gordon talking to Ewan in the hallway – which is a really stupid place to discuss something like that; honestly anyone could hear them – and they were saying – or, well, Gordon was saying how he was sick and tired of your jumped up Golden Boy act and was going to try and, I don't know, embarrass you by hexing you or something during the match –"

"Hold on, hold on," Arthur closed his eyes, brow creasing in confusion as he held up a silencing hand. "You're talking about – you mean you heard Gordon Valiant say he was going to – what, that he was going to try and hex me?"

"'Charm' was the word he used, but I get the impression that he wasn't exactly thinking of hitting you with a Giggling Charm," Merlin replied, frowning his affront at the presumptuously raised hand. He chose to ignore it at the moment, however, giving Arthur some leeway for his evident confusion. "And yes, Gordon Valiant."

"You mean, the captain of the Slytherin team?"

"No, I meant the first year Hufflepuff who wears her hair in pigtails and carries a stuffed unicorn with her everywhere she goes."

Arthur opened his eyes and blinked at Merlin. "What?"

Merlin sighed. "Yes, the Slytherin captain."

"And you… you heard him say this?"

Merlin bit back the snide remark he felt oh-so-tempted to utter. Arthur seemed to be short-circuiting and wouldn't fully appreciate them anyway. "Yes."

"And you. You're telling me this?"

"I… think so?" Merlin paused, biting his lip. "I know I should tell a professor or someone so they can stop him –"

"No." Arthur spoke so sharply that Merlin jerked half a step away from him in a flinch. "No, don't tell any of the professors."

"What? Why?"

"You said he wanted to embarrass me? If the professors become involved, that will give him exactly what he wants."

Merlin made to speak, then stopped. Arthur's statement seemed just a little ridiculous – what was a little embarrassment when someone's welfare was on the line? – but he paused at the expression on Arthur's face. His eyes were narrowed, thoughtful, lips thinning further with every second. After a moment, hand still raised and cocking his head slightly as he contemplated Merlin, he finally spoke. "Why are you telling me this?"

Merlin raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean, why?"

"You're a Slytherin. And Valiant's the captain of the Slytherin team. He's obviously trying to hex me – or whatever he intends to do – to sabotage the match so Slytherin can win." Arthur paused, and his expression became suspicious. "So why are you telling me? Is this some kind of trick?"

For a moment, Merlin was rendered speechless. He opened and closed his mouth but for once no words came out. It took him all of Arthur's descent from suspicion into confusion once more for him to realise it was anger that flooded through him. This bloody… "God, you are such a prat."

"What? What are you -?"

"For your information, Arthur Pendragon, I don't give a toss about quidditch. I never have and I sincerely doubt I ever will." It was Merlin's turn to raise a hand to silence Arthur as he made to interrupt him. "Firstly, I'm telling you because it's the right thing to do. Call it a challenge or just another hurdle or whatever you will, but I'm pretty sure that most quidditch matches don't involve hexing the opponent. It's low and pathetic."

"Emrys –"

"Secondly, just because I'm in Slytherin house doesn't mean I have to approve of everything that everyone in my house does. People can share a dormitory and still think each other are barbarous nutcases."

"Emrys, would you just –"

"And thirdly, you are an utter prat, and every time you open your mouth I want to smack you over the head. But that doesn't mean I want you to get hurt. It doesn't mean I want someone to hex you in mid air and knock you off your broom to plummet to your death. You annoy the hell out of me, Arthur, but I .don't want you dead."

By the time Merlin had finished his profuse rant, he was breathing heavily once more, though from anger rather than exertion this time. He knew for a fact that he hadn't shouted – Merlin didn't like shouting, not from himself or anyone else – but to look at Arthur's expression he would have suspected that he'd been the victimised loser of a bellowing match. His eyes were blinking wide, eyebrows raised and mouth hanging open just slightly. Even his presumptuously raised hand had lowered, his stance easing from its righteousness into a slump of utter bemusement.

Merlin observed all of it in a second. A second was all he took, because as his anger left ice-cold footprints running through his veins to chill his fingers he wanted nothing more than to get away from the stupid Gryffindor boy.

Spinning on his heel, Merlin turned from Arthur and left him in front of the change rooms with quick strides. He didn't look behind him once, not to see if Arthur wished to respond or if he somehow managed to patch together his infuriatingly stubborn attempt at a glare.

And if Merlin headed down towards the quidditch pitch, towards the upraised granstands propped precariously several hundred feet into the air, then who was going to accuse him for his own foolishness? Besides, it wasn't like Merlin could just walk away from a potentially disastrous match. Complete ass that Arthur was, Merlin had warned him of the danger Valiant presented. He'd be damned if he let his forewarning go to waste.


Arthur was a good son. He was a good student. And he was a very good quidditch player.

These things he prided himself on. He had always considered himself exceptional, had always been told that he was by everyone but his father, and Uther's silence was more of a product of his reluctance to state what he considered the obvious than any disagreement on the subject.

Arthur had known he was exceptional on a bone deep level throughout his entire childhood. So when he arrived at school, when he'd been faced with the flaws of his character, confronted with the possibility that his consideration of pure blood superiority was wrong, he had been stunned. How could his own perspective be so wrong? It was inconceivable.

That perspective had shifted over the years, changing as he'd tried to correct them himself. Now, in his third year, Arthur prided himself on the fact that he barely even considered blood status, despite the emphasis that his father still placed upon it in his silent manner. Because though he hated to think of his father as being wrong or misguided, Arthur knew better. His friends had shown him better. He was not superior to Gwen or Elyan because he carried a lineage of witches and wizards in his family history while they had only their Muggleborn father. He was not better than Percival because Percival's mother was a third generation half-blood and his father a fourth. Similarly, he did not deem people like Michael Morris on equal footing, or worse, greater standing than his friends because of his blood purity. If anything, Morris was far inferior simply because of his poor character.

Arthur had come to understand this, too. And he felt that, over the past two years, he had become a better person for changing his perspective.

That had changed when Merlin Emrys threw a Confundus Charm in the works of his confidence. Emrys, who wasn't a Muggleborn, who had a lineage of noble blood on his father's side besides, but who reared up a whole knew kind of aversion in Arthur. For whatever reason, he just couldn't see past the green and silver that adorned his tie, that patterned the cuffs of his sleeves. Emrys was a Slytherin, and Arthur, naturally, hated him for it.

Had the times been kinder, he could have avoided the situation entirely. He would have avoided the upwelling of guilt that arose within him at facing his flaws once more. Except that he couldn't. For whatever reason, Emrys just kept cropping up. First it was with his insults, the insults that had hit Arthur so strongly because no one, not even his friends in their infrequently serious disagreements, had ever called him such names with absolute sincerity. There was his magic, that cold strangeness that Arthur had never felt before. And then there was the incident at the welcoming feast with Collins' strix, then Gwen's sudden fondness for him, the rescue of sorts with the Shrinking Solution, then the poisoned pumpkin juice. Time and time again, Emrys seemed to spring to his attention and demand that he notice him. Demand that he reconsider and reassess the prejudice that had slumbered within him, the prejudice that told him that 'Gryffindors were good' and 'Slytherins were bad'. It was a prominent fixture of pureblood teachings and Arthur had assumed that opinion as fact as he had with everything else.

But now, this. This... this sincerity. This fairness. Emrys has outed his own house, had spoken of plans overheard and potential for not only dangerously unfair play but also the chance for Valiant to humiliate Arthur, because he believed that the actions of his own housemates was wrong.

It was so confusing, so frustrating, and went against everything that Arthur had always expected of Slytherin's. Everything had been thrown into disarray so that he didn't know what to think. And it was all because of Emrys. It was driving him insane not only because he was becoming more and more confused with each repetition of the memory of Emrys' words in his head but because he was well and truly distracted from the quidditch game that was on the verge of beginning. That was just starting.

The whistle sounded. It was barely audible over the sound of the screaming and roaring of the audience in the stands, and like a gunshot at the start of a race launched the game into action. With a monumental effort, a physical shake of his head, Arthur dragged his attention from his contemplation and kicked off from the ground. Another deliberate shove, a promise to consider it later, and he placed all thoughts of Emrys, all considerations of potential goodliness in Bad Slytherins, from his mind. He fell to playing the game.

It was easier to do with the distraction of the sport he so loved. The familiar feeling of the broomstick Arthur sat astride, the momentary roil of his belly as it dropped to his toes with sudden weightlessness, the howling of the wind in his ears that nearly drowned out the cries of the onlookers.

Arthur was resolved. He had a plan in response to Emrys' words. It wasn't anything exceptional but it was one he had every intention of following. And that was to avoid the Slytherin players Valiant and West, to maintain as much distance from them as possible and play with everything he had. With all the speed and skill he would usually play, and to catch the snitch faster than he usually did.

Arthur never wanted a quidditch match to end quickly. Even though it was his duty to do so as the Seeker to catch the snitch and end the game, he revelled in the act of flying too completely to wish to hasten his return to the ground. More than that, the pumping of adrenaline through his veins at the frenzy of competition was intoxicating.

But this was different. Both the outcome of the match and the potential for his own humiliation hinged upon his speed of Seeking. Arcing into the air, curled low over his broom for greater speed and manoeuvrability, Arthur turned squinting eyes in a scan around the pitch. His practiced senses raked the air for the barest hint of darting gold.

"Pellinore takes the quaffle, passes to De Grace who dives and – close call with the bludger there sent by Slytherin Captain Valiant. De Grace passes to Smith, who dodges Perell's intercept and makes for the goals…"

The commentary of whatever enthusiastic student had managed to land the position that day bellowed across the pitch. Arthur listened with half an ear as he drew further upwards, rising and curving to make a circuit of the grandstands. He had faith in his team – he knew they were more than competent from two years of playing alongside half of them – but more than that there was precious little he could do to assist them. As a Seeker, his job was to catch the snitch. Occasionally, when the opposing Beaters became exceptionally persistent, he may intercept them or the Chasers to waylay their targeting attempts or attempts at scoring respectively. But by and large, such a duty was left to Percival and Jillian Geraint and the ferocious swing of their Beater's bats.

Arthur watched the Beaters and their bludgers for a different reason this time.

From what he could tell, Valiant wasn't paying him any attention. As usual, he smacked at the heavy bludgers with a snarl at every possible opportunity, attacking Arthur's team far more than he was defending his own. Arthur steered clear of him, sparing him in particular a sidelong glance every other second when he was not Seeking or watching West for his own success at hunting the snitch. Or his own underhanded play; West had never seemed particularly underhanded, but then he was a Slytherin, and Valiant's friend to boot.

Gryffindor scored first. Of course they did; they were the better team. They scored second too, with Leon passing an incredible lob towards Elyan over the Slytherin Keeper's head, who rebounde it into the goal with such speed and accuracy that it could have been choreographed. The pair smacked high fives in triumph as they pelted back in the other direction, tight smiles visible to Arthur even from where he swept about the top of the pitch.

Perell scored, then Pellinore snatched another goal for Gryffindor. Geraint managed to deflect the next attempt of the Slytherin's with a well-aimed bat to a Bludger that knocked the quaffle straight out of the Chaser's hands. Back and forth, red and green figures darted almost too fast to follow. Throughout it all, Arthur peered after any trace of the snitch.

Gryffindor scored their eighth goal just as West dived. From the opposite side of the pitch to Arthur, lurching with a jerk on his broom, the Slytherin Seeker plummeted to the ground like a seeking falcon. Cursing, scowling that he'd missed whatever West had seen, Arthur spun his own broom around and shot across the pitch after him.

He should have known it was a feint. He should have looked before he acted, noticed that there was no snitch within the line of West's sights. Too late, however, for when West pulled from his dive with a slightly sheepish expression on his face, Arthur felt the spell hit.

Not to Arthur himself, he realised as his broom jerked beneath him. And not from West. Glancing over his shoulder as he pulled out of his own headlong flight, Arthur glimpsed just for a second Valiant's triumphant smirk before he turned and, with an enthusiastic swing, beat a bludger towards the quaffle-carrying Pellinore. Pellinore cried out in audible pain as the heavy ball struck, but Valiant didn't seem slightly repentant. Not even when Uther's whistle pierced in a rebounding shriek across the pitch to afford a penalty to Gryffindor.

Arthur didn't know what he'd been hit with, what his broom had been hit with, but he felt it. As Arthur urged his broom higher into the air once more, it jerked in a spasm. Likely invisibly to any onlooker, perceiving it as a twist directed by Arthur himself, but he felt it. A jerk, and then his broom dropped.

It dropped and continued to drop. For five, heart-stopping seconds, Arthur plummeted towards the ground. The wailing of the wind battered his ears and he pressed himself closer to his broom with the sole intention of remaining on his broom rather than falling off, even if he was spiralling to his death.

Twenty meters from the ground, the broom pulled out of the dive. Arthur caught his breath, could breath again as it rose towards the highest row of seating in the bleachers.

Until it dropped again.

Arthur clung on for dear life. He was a skilled flyer, he knew, but he couldn't combat the driven intent of the spell that was directing his broom. A struggling wrench of his arm could turn it, but it was with difficulty, like dragging a stick through mud. Up and down, up and down, his soaring undulations becoming sharper with every repetition. Arthur was useless to do anything other than cling on for dear life.

Pounding fear gave way to anger. Not immediately, but swiftly. Arthur was no coward, nor was he one to fall prey to his fears, but he admitted to himself a rapidly rising fear. It was when the sixth, the seventh rise and fall passed, Arthur dodging through players only by sheer luck, that his rising fear abruptly shattered. Anger sprung forth in its place.

How dare he! How dare Valiant think he could hex Arthur's broom and get away with it. To make him appear the fool in front of the entire school. In front of his father. For the first time, Arthur was truly and utterly grateful to Emrys for telling him of the Slytherin's sabotage. It gave him a focus for his rage.

Gritting his teeth as his broom fell into another dive, Arthur forcibly shut out the words of the commentator. He didn't need – didn't want – to hear the speculations as to the nature of his 'unusual' flying. Thankfully, it appeared that his broom's erratic manoeuvres were construed as attempts to chase a snitch that wasn't there.

It wouldn't last for long, Arthur knew. They would realise soon, if not because he didn't stop his foolish and irrational bouncing then because West wasn't chasing alongside him. But it didn't matter. Arthur had made his resolution.

He would catch the snitch. Somehow. He would catch it even with the hex that Valiant had put upon him, and he would do it without breathing a word of the illegal play to his father in a bid for assistance. And then, only after he'd upstaged Valiant even with the deception, he would tell. In privacy, in the proper proceedings afforded to formal accusations, he would blame Valiant for hexing him in a way that could have seriously impinged upon his safety.

He would make sure Valiant paid for his actions. By Gryffindor, he would make sure of it. And he would begin by winning the game, even with Valiant's cheating attempt.

As though the magic of the world was contriving to ensure he could reach that goal, Arthur saw his opportunity arise seconds later. To the sound of the commentator's words of "Hanson scores, another ten points to Slytherin", his eyes fastened upon the snitch. The fluttering ball buzzed directly below him.

When his broom dove once more, Arthur threw himself into the motion. He leaned outwards, urging the compulsion spell to lean with him, and dragged his broom through the air even as he speared towards the ground at incredible speed.

He missed. Sweeping his arm outwards to reach for the snitch, he missed it by bare centimetres. Cursing and spitting, he rose once more, his broom disregarded his straining attempts to turn it towards his escaping target. Worse yet, West had noticed.

Reaching the peak of his climb, Arthur pressed himself low to his broom once more as he turned and descended. This time, he arced alongside West as the Slytherin too dove, tucked just as low as Arthur was himself with eyes trained forwards in a squint. Arthur reached forwards, stretching his arm out even as the leather-gloved hand of his opponent did the same at his side.

The snitch escaped again. Just barely, it darted like a skipping dragonfly from their path. And Arthur, leaning after it with the natural motions of a Seeker, nearly fell from his broom as it spun an about face and began a nearly vertical climb once more.

Nearly fell. No, he didn't nearly fall. Arthur's outstretched arm, the easing of his grip, cast him nearly fully from the broom itself. His legs swung loose, his right arm flailing, and only his left hand locked stubbornly around the rod of his broomstick saved him from being flung free.

It was a heart wrenching moment, the second in less than ten minutes. Arthur didn't cry out – he wouldn't, even if he could have – but locked his jaw and clung on for dear life. He felt a coil of fire, the unwinding of his magic, loosen within his chest in response to his spark of near-terror. It hissed, it spat, and it reared its head. But it didn't strike.

Arthur couldn't direct his magic even had he wanted to, and certainly not without his wand. He couldn't think past the desperate need to grip with every ounce of his strength, to remount his wayward broom, to chase down the snitch and win the game. To make Valiant pay for making him the fool. Anger fought with fear for precedence.

Or maybe his magic did respond. Arthur didn't know. He would never know, would never consider it again. But for whatever reason, his own magic or the strength of the hex dampening briefly, when the broom reached its height it stopped. It didn't dive once more, though it quivered as it hovered in place as though it sorely wished to. And blessedly, with a swing of his leg, Arthur threw himself back into his seat. He didn't realise until that moment that cries of fear and concern had erupted from the audience; he still barely considered them, even as they faded to relief as the commentator sighed with a "And he's back on!"

He turned, dragged at his broom that still trembled just slightly with twitching attempts to evade instruction, and pelted after the snitch.

West was his indicator, his director. The Slytherin boy hadn't lost the snitch's trail in what Arthur realised was only brief seconds of his own distraction. Arthur dove after him, nearly scraping along the ground as his broom fought his will and darted after him. Zigzagging in the wake of snitch and flyer, he gained in seconds.

When he interrupted West's unblinking focus, it was in an explosive culmination of his determination, his anger and his loathing for an opponent who would stoop to such underhanded tactics. Dropping beneath the Slytherin, feet nearly sweeping the ground, he jerked his resistant broom in a heaving effort upwards once more and, nearly elbowing West in the face, snatched the snitch from his fingertips.

Exaltation erupted within him. Success, triumph, justice. And foolishly – foolish as he would consider it in hindsight – Arthur lessened the strength of his battle against his broomstick.

That was all the broom needed to turn into a rabid, compelled hunk of wood once more. Or maybe it was Arthur's magic releasing it, if it had even withheld the spell at all. But as soon as Arthur barked a roaring "Yes!" and raised the snitch in his hand to all to see, the broom jerked skyward beneath him.

Arthur fell off backwards without even the chance to grasp the handle of his broom once more.

It was a blessing that he was so close to the ground. A blessing, though the impact still hurt. Arthur slammed into the thick scattering of fine sand that covered the pitch, breath bursting from him in a painful whoosh. Somehow, he managed to turn the fall into a roll, the practiced roll of a combatant as he'd been trained from childhood to respond in a duel. And miraculously, he managed to regain his feet.

There was a cry of surprise and worry from the spectators, but that concern quickly morphed into relief and raucous applause. Arthur, struggling to catch his breath, straightened his spine and raised the snitch aloft, brandishing it like a trophy and turning in a slow circle. He very resolutely did not look towards where his broom had crashed into the base of one of the stands, just as he avoided looking towards Valiant, or any of the other Slytherin quidditch team. They would get what was coming to them.

"Pendragon has caught the snitch! Gryffindor wins, two-hundred and fifty to sixty!" The noise redoubled with the commentator's announcement. Cries of triumph, of victory, sounded from the Gryffindors, were mirrored by the Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs though absent from the Slytherins. Arthur couldn't stop the savage smile from drawing across his face.

His team descended around him in seconds, dismounting with the speed and grace of practices flyers. Between their own cries of triumph, baffled questions of "Arthur, what the hell?" and "What kind of crazy flying were you doing?" blurted from every mouth in some form or other. Only Percival remained silent, thoughtful as always, though Arthur could read the confusion in the slight frown of his forehead.

Uther descended a moment later. To anyone else, Arthur suspected he would have looked only faintly curious, the small curl touching his lips even congratulatory. But Arthur saw the keenness of his gaze, the flash of his eyes and the brief throb of a vein in his temple. He was striding towards Arthur the moment his feet touched the ground, his own broomstick in hand and black and silver robes billowing behind him.

"Arthur," he began, words clipped but quiet enough to seem less than severe.

"Headmaster," Arthur interrupted before he could continue. "I have something of great import to tell you concerning the interplay of this match." Arthur met his father's gaze for a moment, hoping to convey his insistence with the formality of his words, before turning deliberately to glance at Valiant. He was rewarded with the Slytherin captain, peering at his with rage thinly concealed by a flat gaze, twisting his expression into a snarl.

Uther followed his gaze briefly, and Arthur saw the throb of the vein in his temple reappear briefly once more. He nodded curtly. "As you wish. In my office." And with that, turning and nodding at Bedivere with a muted word of congratulations, he strode from the pitch.

Arthur expected the chorus of questions from his teammates, the nudging of Leon's elbow in his ribs and the faint worry on Elyan's brow as he expressed his concern with a repeated, "What is it, Arthur? What is it?" Arthur didn't answer any of them, saying that he'd tell them if the headmaster allowed it, before they moved as a group towards the change room.

He did spare one more smirk for Valiant, however, and was rewarded once more with an intensification of his snarl. He could almost hear the growl from across the pitch. So Slytherin. Typically Slytherin. Arthur thought, shaking his head with a grim smile. Only for it to fade slightly a second later. Or at least typical of most Slytherins.

Glancing over his shoulder, Arthur briefly scanned the sea of spectators gradually making their move from the stands. He couldn't see Emrys anywhere, however, if he even had stayed for the match. Arthur hadn't really expected him to, not after he'd stormed off. Not when he'd seemed so angry that Arthur had felt the rising waves of coldness like a winter blast slap him over the face.

Valiant's actions might be typical of Slytherins. Typical of the behaviour that Arthur had been raised to believe that every student of the house of Salazar demonstrated. Except that such would make Emrys a very atypical Slytherin indeed.


Merlin knocked on the black door before it had a chance to open of its own accord. His Lumos hovering above his cradling palm, illuminating the corridor. That illumination pooled into the room when the door creaked inwards, overriding the feeble light of the candle.

The Dark Arts professor wasn't hidden in the corner of shadows this time. He sat on the divan furthest from the door, back bowed and face half-hidden but for the glow of his ambient amber-red eyes. As Merlin stepped slowly into the room, however, he could swear he could make out a smile on the man's face.

Before the man could speak, before he could flood the silence with his grumbling voice, Merlin started. "I've thought about your offer. And… I want you to teach me wandless magic."

The amber eyes rose, regarding him unblinkingly for a moment. "Do you, now?" The man said in a deceptively mild tone. It sounded almost a taunt.

Merlin winced slightly. He hadn't meant to sound so demanding. "I meant please. Could you please teach me wandless magic?"

The man's face turned upwards towards him and this time Merlin could make out the faint play of amusement on his lips. The dancing shadows of the candle and the steady yellow-white glow of Merlin's Lumos wrought havoc on the scaling of his face. "What changed your mind?"

Merlin's mind flickered back to the quidditch match. To the sight of Arthur clutching with steadfast determination yet a visible hint of terror to his broom as it jerked and swung like a rabid bull, dangling him a hundred meters above the ground. He didn't particularly like Arthur – no, it wasn't hatred, not really, though he could hardly profess any fondness for the other boy - but neither did he want to see him injured. Or worse, dead. It had looked like a very real possibility from the granstands, the hanging figure suspended and swinging dangerously from one arm. It had seemed almost a certainty that he'd fall.

Merlin's magic had nearly failed him. His heart had been pounding painfully in his ears, coldness coursing through his body, but in the heat of the moment, when he needed to act fast, Merlin had stuttered. He'd faltered as he hadn't even with the strix earlier that year. No one else knew, truly knew, what was happening, that Valiant had sabotaged the broom; foolishly, Merlin had stuck to Arthur's request and withheld from telling any of the professors of Valiant's plans.

That left only Merlin to help.

It had taken three attempts - three laborious attempts - to exert his will over the broom and still it's antics long enough for Arthur to end the game. He could have used his wand had he known a spell, but he hadn't. Wandless, wordless magic, enforcing his will through the ribbons of coiling ice that extended from his core, was all he could do. And he almost hadn't made it in time.

Swallowing, Merlin caught his lip between his teeth before answering. "I... someone almost got hurt because I wasn't fast enough. Because I couldn't act quickly enough. I... I don't want to fail, not again."

The man cocked his head like a curious bird. "It's always him," he murmured, almost too quietly to be heard.

"What? Only who? What do you mean?"

But the man only shook his head. "Nothing. I simply reminiscing on the long forgotten past," he said, which only confused Merlin further. His confusion was shunted to the side, however, when the man rose to his feet and took half a dozen steps towards him. He fought the urge to fall back away from his approach; it was a struggle. "I will teach you what I can, Merlin. Because you bent your pride enough to admit that you needed the help if for no other reason. And," he smiled once more, and it was terrifyingly predatory, "because I find you interesting."

Merlin shifted uneasily. He didn't want to think about what that meant, but... "Thank you, sir. I really appreciate it. I do, even if it might seem like I was taking your offer for granted for waiting so long."

The man cocked his head once more, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. "You are welcome. And Merlin," his smile spread once more. "Call me Kilgharrah."


A/N: Thank you to my lovely reviewers! Everyone has been so lovely. Thank you so much!