"The truth." Dumbledore sighed. "It is a beautiful and terrible thing, and should therefore be treated with great caution."
J.K. Rowling, "Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone"
13 August, 1998
Merlin is 10 and 27
They are standing outside of The National Gallery in Trafalgar Square, Central London. It is a sunny day in August and the city is rife with families, unsupervised teenagers and loved-up couples enjoying the rare summer weather. Merlin is travelling from February 2016, whereas his younger self has only come from two Fridays ago. They have a long afternoon ahead of them, and so they have come to one of their most favourite places in the whole world for a little lesson in pick-pocketing.
"Can't we just look at the art?" 10-year-old Merlin's eyes are wide and pleading. He's never tried this before and he's not sure he wants to learn.
"No. You need to know this. How else are you going to survive?"
"I don't want to steal. What if we just ask to borrow it?" Merlin suggests.
"You'd never be able to return it."
Merlin seems a little disheartened but tries again. "Begging?"
"Begging is a drag, and you get taken by the police. Besides, have you seen how Londoners usually deal with beggers?"
"They help?"
"They don't even acknowledge their existence," the older Merlin replies gravely, but he smiles down at himself. "Nice try, buddy. Come on."
They walk around the fountain. Merlin lags behind, skimming his fingers across the cold, clear water, eyeing the copper and silver coins at the very bottom.
"What about these?" he asks, stopping and forcing the tall raven-haired man to fall back and peer over the edge.
"You can't take those. They're people's wishes. Somebody's dreams."
"Can we make one?"
"When we find something to make it with we can, alright?"
"Really?" Merlin's blue, wide eyes are hopeful and excited. They reflect on the water and they seem bluer than normal, even more clear and bottomless.
The taller of the two considers how much of their childhood they have lost. "Really," he promises. "Now, come on. Keep close to me, but when we get in there, after I tell you what to do, I want you to stay away and pretend you don't know me but keep close enough that you can still see what I'm doing, okay?"
"Okay," 10-year-old Merlin squeaks.
"If I hand you anything, don't drop it. Put it in your pocket as fast as you can. Okay?"
"Okay," he squeaks again, and then, "Can we go and see the palace afterwards, with the Queen?"
"Sure, buddy, we can see Buckingham Palace, but only when we're done here."
"Buckingham Palace," the small boy repeats, steadying himself. He likes the Queen almost as much as he knows his mum liked Diana. "Okay."
Merlin feels bad about how nervous the boy looks. On the one hand, he is providing himself with the urgently required skills to get by as a traveller. He will have to teach him lessons on Beating People Up, Shoplifting, Driving for Emergencies Only, Housebreaking, Picking Locks and Climbing Trees, some of which he's already done with his 11-year-old self over a two day period when they were stuck in 2001. On the other hand, he's corrupting his innocent self. He shrugs to himself. Somebody has to do it. His mother certainly isn't going to.
They stand in line as they move through the entry and work their way through the crowds to a less populated place so they can talk quietly.
"It's not so bad," Merlin tries to reassure the boy when it seems clear. "Look for somebody who is distracted. Most men use their back pocket or the inside of their suit jacket. Women use the purse over their shoulder, sometimes on their back, but don't go for something with short straps. If you're on the street you can just grab the whole handbag, but then you have to be sure you can outrun anybody who might chase you for it. It's easier to do it, quieter, if you can do it without them noticing."
"I saw a movie where they practised with a suit of clothes with little bells and if the guy moved the suit while he took the wallet the bells rang."
"I remember that movie. You can try that at home," Merlin says. His younger self probably only watched it a month ago. "Follow me, now."
Merlin leads himself to the Sainsbury Wing. It is a long walk at their slow pace. Merlin remembers coming here when he was 10, with his older self, and he enjoyed the distraction. When they arrive, Merlin can't see over the heads of the adults, so the paintings are lost on him, but he is too nervous to look at them anyway. He scans the area. They're in Room 57. A woman is bending over her screaming toddler in its chair.
Older Merlin nods at himself from across the room and moves towards her. She's distracted, totally focused on getting her child to stop twisting and screaming. He walks, bumps into her, seemingly by complete accident and it sends her forward. He grabs her arm to stop her falling to the floor. "I'm so sorry," he says smoothly. "I wasn't looking. Are you all right? It's so crowded in here..." His hand is in her bag; it has a simple clasp and is slung over her shoulder. She's flustered. She has hazel eyes, long, flowing brown hair and her legs are almost as long and thin as his. The purse is in his hand and he holds her eyes, still apologising as he slips it up his sleeve. He smiles and backs away, gives her once last smile over his shoulder, and then he is away. 10-year-old Merlin follows at a safe distance, taking on the art of pretending not to know the older man seriously. He looks like a content but lonely boy wandering from Room 57 to 58, then to 54, 53, and finally, 52, where they meet and carry on walking to the Main Floor Lift.
"That was weird," 10-year-old Merlin finally says. "Why did she stare at you like that?"
"She's just lonely, I guess. Maybe her husband isn't around a lot."
They get to the first floor and cram themselves into an empty cubicle in the men's room. Merlin opens her purse. He pulls out her cards. Her name is Helen Mora. She lives in Camden. She is carrying forty pounds, plus change. He shows all of this to his younger self and then puts the money and her cards back where they were. "C'mon," he whispers.
They walk back to the entrance.
"Give this to the security guard," Merlin says, handing the purse to the small boy with dishevelled hair. It's much like his own at the moment. "Say you found it on the floor."
He looks perplexed. "Why?"
"We don't need it. I was just showing you."
Merlin runs to the guard, a doddery old man with a toothy smile who pats him on the head and thanks him. He comes back, slowly, and follows his older self from an eight foot distance. They head through Central Hall and then the Sunley room, to the paintings from the 1600s to the 1700s. 27-year-old Merlin is looking for easy marks, and just ahead of him is the perfect man. Short, portly and sunburned, strolling along with his girlfriend, his wallet hanging from his right back pocket. Little Merlin follows, knowing that his companion is across the room. He has a clear view as his older self inserts his thumb and forefinger into the man's back pocket. The man walks on and Merlin falls back, hands the wallet to his other self who shoves it into his pants and walks away.
He shows Merlin other techniques. How to take a wallet from the inside breast pocket of a suit, how to shield a hand while it's inside a handbag, how to inadvertently get somebody to display where their money is, and six different ways to distract somebody while their wallet is being lifted. Finally, he says, "Now you try."
"I can't."
"Sure you can. Look around. Find someone."
"Not here."
"Okay, where?"
"The restaurant."
"Okay."
Merlin remembers. He was terrified, and sure enough, when he looks at his younger self, his face is white with fear. Merlin smiles, because he knows what happens next. They find the restaurant and young Merlin looks around, contemplating his move.
Before them is a tall man in a grey suit. Merlin approaches him with one of the wallets his older self has stolen earlier in the day.
"Um, excuse me? Sir? Is this yours?" he asks as he offers the wallet.
"Sorry?" The man checks his back pocket, finds his own wallet safe and shakes his head. He takes the wallet from Merlin. "No. There's quite a bit of cash in here, lad," he says as he studies the money. Merlin reaches around him and lifts the other wallet from his back pocket with small fingers. Since he is wearing a short sleeved shirt, 27-year-old Merlin walks around and takes the wallet from behind his back and keeps walking, just as the middle-aged man is telling the boy how to turn in the lost wallet. Merlin takes off in the direction given to him with a sweet, innocent smile, and his older self follows, all the way through the way they first came in, back onto Trafalgar Square and they stop at the fountain and make a wish each with their pool. 10-year-old Merlin actually makes two, but he doesn't tell.
Then, they're walking towards Nelson's column. They are grinning like fiends.
They go to Leicester Square which is a short ten minute walk from Trafalgar Square, and they treat themselves to McDonald's and ice-cream with their ill-gotten gains. They empty the wallets and dump them into the nearest post box. Merlin gets them a room at the St. John Hotel.
"So?" Merlin asks his younger self, who is in the bath tub and fresh-faced. His hair is soapy and sticks up at odd angles, though no more than usual, and the young boy smiles.
"I did it!"
"You did it," Merlin agrees, matching his wide smile. He's sitting on the side of the tub, sleeves wet from splashing his self. "You were fantastic!"
"I was," the small boy says, grinning, but then it fades. "Merlin, I don't like to time travel by myself. It's better with you. Can't you always come with me?"
Merlin knows what he has to tell this younger self. He remembers what he was told on this very day, at this age. He stands up from the bathtub and holds out a towel. "Get out of the bath." He wraps Merlin up in the fluffy towel, drapes it over his head and nods for him to clasp it at his chest. It swamps him. He has a lot of growing to do.
There is a long mirror against the opposite bathroom wall that stretches from the middle of the wall to the top of it. He stands his selves in front of it, lifting Little Merlin onto the counter, next to the sink.
"Look."
They study themselves. Their hair is the same exact shade, their eyes the same blue. 27-year-old Merlin is tall and skinny. He has an Arthur, a home with him, a family with him, with Gwen and Lance and even Morgana. 10-year-old Merlin is still small, but he's skinny, too, perhaps even more painfully so. He has his mother, a best friend in Will and a brother and mentor in Merlin.
Merlin tilts his head and traces the long scar behind his ear. Unconsciously his other self does the same, touching the scar they received at the age of six on the playground, courtesy of James Bennett.
"You have it too," he says, amazed. "How did you get it?"
"The same as you. It is the same. We are the same."
Merlin watches the confusion merge into realisation. He remembers. He didn't understand, and then he did, just like that.
"You're me," he whispers.
"When you're older."
It's a lonely feeling, he knows. It was a crushing moment, knowing that his friend, his brother, his mentor, his guide, his comrade was him.
"But what about the others?"
"The other time travellers?"
Merlin nods.
"I've never met any others."
10-year-old Merlin, small, fragile Merlin, begins to weep, and his older self gathers him up in his towel and holds him tight because it's the only thing he can do.