CHAPTER TWO

"RAVEN—" The Sorting Hat's thundering voice reverberated throughout the Great Hall stridently, grating on everyone's eardrums before there was a sharp and equally loud interruption. Of course, it wasn't as boisterous and masculine, but rather sagacious and obviously more feminine. Her voice managed to cut through the air with a coldness that rivalled that of Professor Snape.

It was Morgana. "No," was all it took for a deadly silence to befall the rest of the tables. Even Dumbledore looked taken aback, his silver eyebrows almost shooting past his hairline. Merlin snorted in his hands at her reaction, recalling his previous notions on her sorting on the train ride. It was almost as if the witch had sensed his thoughts because it was without preamble that her piercing gaze locked on with his own. He gave a weak shrug in response, not even trying to hide the clear grin that was expanding across his mouth.

"HUFFLE—"

Morgana cut in just as swiftly, "Do I look like I belong there?" she hissed furiously to the — in her personal opinion — disgusting pointed hat above her. He gave a grunt of distaste before trying again.

"GRY—"

"You will regret the day you were made."

To everyone's ongoing surprise, the Sorting Hat grumbled, "Picky, aren't you? Dear Merlin…" Morgana simply raised a hand and flickered her index finger around the worn rim with a shit-eating grin, earning herself a more aggressive: "Watch it!"

There was a long and uncomfortable silence, where the only sound that entered the room was the shufflings of the students and from the hat itself. After much deliberation, the hat sighed wearily.

"Slytherin," he declared dispassionately, this time considerably more quietly than his previous roaring bellows that were cut short each time. Merlin nearly laughed out loud when he realised that the dejected being of magic was preparing itself to be turned down again.

Morgana sniffed, pointing her nose in the air a little haughtily. "Good enough," she mumbled with an almost imperceptible nod of her head. "It was nice to see you again," she trailed, trying to find a way of how to address the dratted thing. "Hat."

"Likewise," he grunted, the unsaid 'as if' hanging idly in the air. When he was finally dismissed from the girl's head, Morgana didn't miss the relieved sigh that escaped through the flaps of what made up his mouth.

She could see Merlin eagerly beckoning her to the table, waving an arm in the air in case she didn't spot him. As if she even could miss him. Morgana shot him a nasty scowl, gesturing with her hand for him to lower his arm down harshly. The grin painted across his face only grew wider as she approached him, sitting directly next to him, inwardly cursing the kid opposite of her for not leaving her any space on the other side. She just had to sit next to Merlin.

"And you say I'm dramatic!" The warlock whispered, nudging the side of her arm playfully before crossing one arm over the other on top of the table, the continuing of the sorting proceeding in the background.

Morgana's scowl deepened darkly, her hand darting out to hit him hard on the shoulder as he feigned injury. "I don't know what you're talking about," she replied, batting her hand in his direction to dismiss him. Suddenly, she leaned closer towards him and hissed quietly into his ear, "At least I didn't take over ten minutes!" Merlin raised a brow when she backed away with a snobbish look.

"You took eight minutes, Morgana," he pointed out.

She rolled her eyes dramatically, crossing her arms over each other on the table before directing her attention elsewhere. Which just so happened to become captivated with a certain Potions Master sitting at the Head Table, staring contemplatively at her as she did the same, parroting his actions with a nearly identical expression.

Merlin was talking animatedly in front of her to some of the other first-years, waving his hands in all sorts of wild gestures and accepting their handshakes. Morgana was still distracting herself from his insufferable ramblings to the rest of the Slytherins by continuing to stare at her Head of House, now taking the moment to narrow her eyes as he noticed him switch his gaze towards Merlin. With a sigh, she turned in her seat grudgingly, wondering if she could find something else to stare at other than immerse herself in the general pleasantries that the other first-years were doing.

"So, who's our Head of House?" asked Merlin.

The boy sitting next to him — who was Draco Malfoy, surprise — answered in a haughty, kind of high-pitched voice. "That's Professor Snape, he's the Potions Master, see," Draco explained "I'm sure everyone already knows this, but he favours our house a lot since we don't exactly have the best rumours spreading around about our house."

Merlin nodded fluidly, encouraging him to go on. Absently, the warlock speculated silently, if it was even remotely plausible to produce such luminescent hair — this boy was definitely living proof that it was feasible. He was paying more attention to Draco's hair than sustaining eye contact with him. Maybe he uses gel.

"He hates- no, despises Gryffindors," he spat the House name out with as much malice and disdain that was humanly possible, a little spittle blowing out from his mouth. He had the grace to blush at that, discreetly wiping "And I mean, I can't say that I disagree with him really. Just look at them!"

On the other side of the table, Morgana looked over her shoulder to follow where the blonde boy was pointing his hand as an indicator to the other part of the hall. With robes of red and black, the Gryffindor table looked relatively orderly and nothing out of the ordinary, just like the rest of the House tables. Apart from the occasional glare or glance from one of the older students, it was fine.

With that conclusion, she shifted her head back around to face the Malfoy boy, squinting her eyes accusingly at him. He took one look at her and shook his head slightly, saying "Just wait until the food appears, then you'll know what I mean," before turning his attention back to the front of the hall where the last student was finally sorted and heading to their table quickly.

—

After the last couple of additional announcements made by the Headmaster and valiantly fighting off the tempting urges to slap a hand to her forehead and groan, the feast was finally on its way through progression. It was a grand mixture of a variety of vegetables and meat, the typical choices for the first-course meal of dinner, along with the vast assortment of puddings and other desserts spread across the tables.

Morgana noticed, much to her dismay of keeping herself away from the more alluring choices of food, there were rarely any plates filled with fruit. She spared a glance at Merlin and realised that he looked quite a bit upset himself, perhaps for the same reason? She didn't know. He did have an expression of wistfulness and anguish, she could tell that much, but the look of wonderment never left him, nor did the painful smile that pulled at his lips.

Draco appeared to have noticed his gloomy aura and nudged him in the shoulder gently, having already organised his own plate straight as the food had materialized. His one was piled evenly and balanced, a bit of everything in other words, though he laid off on the desserts. The girl next to him — Pansy, if Merlin remembered correctly — was fully stacking off on the puddings and sweets, cakes, and maybe around five different types of cream, one of them being ice cream (the only one he could actually identify).

Looking back at his own undecorated plate that was still as clean as it had first appeared to be the moment it popped up, he frowned. He was never really the type of person to go all-out on organizing his meals, nor did he actually eat all that much. Compared to the other children, he ate like a slave— which was technically, still a bit of a habit. Although, he did still have his little 'eating sessions' by himself every now and then.

He was just about to reach on over for a serving of buttered bread before a small bowl of freshly sliced was unceremoniously shoved under his nose, effectively bringing a stop to his main objective. He stared at the bowl dumbly before lifting his gaze up to his partner opposite of him, watching as the corner of her lips perked up into one of her rare genuine smiles.

In response to the questioning look he was giving, Morgana gave a nonchalant shrug and jerked her head in the direction of the head table. When he turned to look there, he found himself eye-to-eye with a particular man donned in only the darkest tones of black, obsidian eyes staring back into cerulean. It was, all in all, a rather unique experience for Merlin. He may have not have been the most knowledgeable person about new magic — 'light magic' as told by Morgana — but when he felt something soft brush against the shields of his mind, danger bells started ringing inside his head.

With a start, he realised that his mental barriers were being pressured to open themselves. He took that second to swiftly look away, his eyes landing on Morgana who was now openly staring at him in what could only be bewilderment. Part of him was still getting over the fact that this kind of 'mind-reading' element had been added to the branches of magic, while the other portion worried himself deep into his chair.

This won't work. This won't work at all, especially if someone who could literally read his mind was a professor here. The best he could probably do was further enforce his mental shields to defend himself from any potential mind violation attempts made upon them. He figured it prudent to keep his surface thoughts (the bare minimum of them) available for observation though, just to evade any unwanted suspicion that might possibly befall him.

Having a clear head with no thoughts to listen to would be pretty sceptical, primarily more so when he was supposed to be playing the part of an eleven-year-old.

"Merlin," Morgana said softly, tapping one of his hands that were laying palm down on the table. "Are you alright?" She asked, already questioning herself over how ridiculous that sounded coming from her. Not that she would ever admit to it, but the vacant look that took over his features scared her— it was like he was just… gone. And there were only a few times where she could recall him looking like that.

Some moments, in particular, were especially gruesome to hark back to; those being from the battlefields of war, in their ruins, and one explicit time that she feared the most to think back to.

And then a memory struck at her in the most painful way.

"You killed him," Merlin's softly whispered voice blew across her ears, a shudder of coldness shooting down her spine as her eyes stared on into the far distance, looking out into a place only she could see. His mouth wasn't moving at present, but the voice was still there. He wasn't speaking— so why could she— "Why?" His voice came back quivering, shaking with heavy wheezes that sounded as if they were trying to escape his lips. But they were closed. He wasn't talking, it wasn't real. It's not real— "Why did you have to- just- just tell me. Tell. me."

She could feel her hands shaking, tension building up and her muscles curling into themselves. His voice was overlapping the present, and then she could distinctly hear herself responding. Just as equally apprehensive.

"I couldn't- I…" her voice trailed off shakily in her head, her mouth remaining frozen and pursed as if to deny the fact that she could hear herself speaking. "I'm sorry. I-I'm so, so sorry."

She was prevented from any further reminiscing when she felt something— no, someone, graze a hand across her own. She looked up weakly, her gaze only just making it past the outline of her enveloped hand. It was only then that she realised how violently she was trembling, how it spread up through her arms and even down to her legs.

Someone laid a hand on her shoulder at some point, but she dismissed it, now staring head-on at Merlin. There was a blanket of worry and concern plastered across his face. She wanted to laugh at that. More out of hysteria than genuine merriment. She could delineate it precisely in her mind; his desolate, furious countenance over his currently worried shit-less one overlapping together until it appeared to become all but a full blur of a damp image.

"Morgana," Merlin tried to address her, leaning forward in his seat with his brows furrowed deeply together, waving a hand in front of her whimsically. "Hey, wake up. Morg, hey."

"I don't want your apologies!" The shrilling voice barrelled forth and for a splitting second, Morgana could feel herself swaying backwards from the sheer anger swallowed into that sentence. "How could you- he was your brother! He… He cared for you. Magic or not." Merlin sought to seize her by her shoulders, wanting to — needing to — do something to prevent her from falling back. But it appeared that someone had already beaten him to it, much to his own surprise.

The dour-looking Potions Professor was behind her in mere seconds, his strides taking him down to the table of his house, black robes billowing behind him and all. His inky black hair swept across his face like winded curtains, a pale hand protruding outside of his robes while the rest of himself was buried within their silky confinements and away from prying eyes.

A small handful of others, including those of the teachers, paused in their meal with a spark of curiosity in their eyes, following the regularly austere man with growing interest. Minerva, as well as a selected few, was watching him intently, almost breathlessly. Dumbledore was nonetheless the same, once again tipping over the edge of the table again. Minerva tried pushing him back to prevent him from falling face-first if he was to face the adversity of tripping, only to be disregarded absent-mindedly.

Merlin watched, transfixed at the spectacle, as their Head of House planted a hand on the shoulders of Morgana; gentle, yet firm enough to bring her back out from her ruminations. Privately, Merlin and Morgana had taken to calling them their abrupt 'moments' or 'sessions', where they spaced out and get pulled into the crevices of their minds — a memory, something that occurs when a trigger is pulled.

So far, Morgana was the one that had them the most often.

Unsurprisingly, multiple of them had been because of Merlin. He didn't have to do anything. He didn't need to speak, he didn't need to move. Just him standing there, being himself was enough. Although, some of them were just because of her unhealthy penchant to dwell on past mistakes, dark memories — things that she did that led her up to this moment. It was abhorrent, really.

"Miss Milgrim," She felt a deep, rumbling resonance from behind her. With a start at the unfamiliar voice, her frantic eyes widened into the size of saucers, first spotting Merlin looking beyond her and then sweeping her head to follow his gaze. Whatever it was that she was expecting certainly hadn't been this.

There, in all his ghostly glory, stood the commonly acerbate Potions Master, a deepened frown — that was tinged with something akin to concern — adorning his angular and pointed features. His figure was practically emanating authority, demanding it, his robes being some added addition to further intimidate those that dared to stare at him. Onyx eyes that were frequently utilized in instilling fear and obedience in students were now softened with well-concealed uncertainty, for only those that observed close enough would come to realise the seldom glint in his eyes. His exterior remained uncompromising and indifferent from afar, so most of the students turned a blind eye to the curious interaction while others clandestinely spared a look or two from their tables.

"Are you in need of a visit to the hospital wing? You appear rather… pale," he said smoothly, inclining his head down jerkily as if to punctuate his statement.

Merlin looked on in awe, his jaw slightly unhinged, stunned into only observing as a spectator. But when Morgana's pallor began to worsen, he reached out another tentative hand and wrapped it around the other that was already hugging itself around her own. He noticed the nasty but equally as inquisitive look that was thrown in his direction by the professor but disregarded it as swiftly as the wind, deciding that the wellbeing of his friend — pretty much his only actual friend that he had gone through so much with experience-wise — was a more meaningful subject to consider.

"Morg," croaked Merlin, cursing inwardly at the crack of his voice. There was a small amount of relief that washed over him when she finally acknowledged his endeavours of trying to catch her attention, but it crackled slightly when he saw the complete and utter fear that was glazing over her eyes. They were wide and despondent, but he could never forget that look. Never.

Her hands were trembling so violently in his own ones that he did not doubt that the table would follow along with it if she didn't calm down soon. She was in shock, that much was clear, but judging by the look of horror plastered across her face, it was most likely that she was enduring some distant memory — and to his own dread, he realised that it might have been involved with him.

"Merlin?" Her voice was in a hushed whisper, the dark cloud of fear in her eyes steadily melting into what he could only assume being recognition. She swallowed heavily before looking around, catching the idly standing Potions Master in the corner of her eye. Her brows furrowed in consternation, eyes searching the onyx ones staring directly at her. A realisation came flooding through her system, eyes widening a fraction more. "Oh god," she muttered under her breath, ducking her head down to gaze at the table sheepishly.

To think that she'd be the one to make the both of them stand out as unusual and not Merlin made her nauseous. She forced herself to regain some semblance of control of her body and balanced the tremors down to merely noticeable; only, Merlin could still feel it. She tore herself away from the grains of wood tracing the table and lifted her head back up slightly to face the sharp look of Professor Snape, unconsciously squeezing the hand around her own.

Before she even managed to get a word out of her mouth, the man had already taken to speaking above her diminutive voice. "I should think that a visit to the hospital wing is in order, Miss Milgrim," he began silkily, glaring smartly at Merlin when he made to get up. "Without any hindrances, of course."

Well, now, that was perhaps the most… unreasonable insult that Merlin had ever heard! And he made it a straight point to scrunch his face up at the comment, thoroughly giving his clear opinion of how offended he felt. Professor Snape merely smirked. Nastily, Merlin mentally added.

Morgana, still endeavouring to gather her facilities together, nodded her assent. She felt as if she was trapped in a whirling trance, not really taking anything in, but still having a comprehension of what was going on — at least she thought so. Her eyes glazed over momentarily before she felt a large hand land on her shoulder, and then somehow, in between it all, she found herself walking down the aisle of tables and through the doors of the Great Hall.

"Miss Milgrim, if you would kindly rejoin me into the present."

Professor Snape, she recognised absently. Weird man.

Looking up into the face of the usually impassive professor, she found herself being stopped in her tracks, hands holding her shoulders and grappling her feet to the ground. That's when she notices that the man was kneeling in front of her, obsidian eyes giving way to concern when she stared back at him mutely. Really, she just didn't feel like speaking, let alone explaining her recent behaviour. What she didn't know was that Snape was taking this as a different sign.

"Morgana," he accentuated softly, his countenance easing into something more comforting. At least, that's what he thought. If any of his regular students were to see him as he was now — god forbid a Gryffindor — the declarations of him finally going nutters would probably soar through the rumour mill, other claims of someone using dark magic on him most likely being the next. Either that or the world was in peril.

To his gratification, the girl seemed to come back from her own mind and was now more aware of his presence, if the twitching of her brows were to go by anything. "How did you— oh," she stops abruptly, the slight tinge of a blush accumulating across her pale cheeks. "Sorting hat, right."

"Indeed," Snape commended. "I apologize for the rash actions, but I propose that we start our travel to the hospital wing immediately."

She nodded silently, preferring to go with the flow rather than head back into the hall of rambunctious students that would, without a doubt, stare at her up and down like she was something unusual.

God, I have to apologize to Merlin, she groaned. While not the most appealing thought to have crossed her mind, she did know that she at least owed him that much for her unsettling reaction.

The clicking and tapping of their footsteps echoed and bounced against the walls of the castle, the occasional glance from Professor Snape seeming to feel greatly unnerving if not a bit irritating to Morgana.

What have I gotten myself into this time?