Disclaimer: Have you ever read swearing in Harry Potter, or heard it in Merlin? That is a pretty sure sign that I don't own either.

A/N 1: Okay, hello, welcome back. Hope you enjoy this chapter. But first, reviews. A few criticisms - which are helpful as long as they aren't insulting, which these aren't so they're fine. However, I do have some counter points. Gonna answer some.

So, I will admit, I didn't check the order in which spells are taught in the HP-verse. My bad. HOWEVER: the order they are taught does not follow typical magical difficulty hierarchies eg Sorcerer's Apprentice, D&D, Tolkien etc., which I am following in this fic (more on that in this chapter).

In addition to this, while Harry does seem to be a bit of a doormat, I think that's how he acts in canon, at least until he's forced to act such as with Voldemort or the challenges. He pretty much ignores bullies and hopes they stop. Maybe insult them a bit. But fight back? No way. It is really in fourth year that he begins to change. As for Merlin, he's been conditioned all his life to hide his abilities, and was alive for all of a couple of days where he didn't have to hide them - I doubt that the new memories would affect his actions much. He will however, start to change that. Starting this chapter.

As for the school acting as psychos: as I explained last chapter and a bit this chapter, magical teenagers is like giving angsty teenagers a gun. They are going to do something they regret. Doubly so if they are in a group who also have guns. Guns that happen to fire nuclear warheads. Yeah.

Anyway, enjoy the chapter!

Chapter 5: Face the Music

Harry's eyes cracked open, the white expanse of the infirmary causing painful stabs to cut through his head.

"So, you're awake," came a cool voice. Squinting, he made out the prim form of one Daphne Greengrass.

He groaned. "You know, you could at least pretend you care."

She raised an eyebrow. "Of course I care. I didn't leave you to die when you showed up in our dorm - and don't think I won't find out how you did it."

"It was your dorm?" Harry asked, shaking his throbbing head. "Damn, I was aiming for the infirmary."

She pursed her lips. "You put me in an uncomfortable position. Davis and I had to carry you out, right in front of Parkinson and Bulstrode."

Harry huffed. "Well excuse my subconscious for associating you with safety. Next time, I will just hobble my way here."

She scoffed. "You would not have managed it. You were bleeding out, and had severe burns. You would have collapsed far before you got here."

"Yeah, yeah," Harry muttered, before groaning. "Damn, I don't know what I'm going to do. I can't sleep there anymore. They tried to fucking kill me!"

"It's your fault, you know."

"Really? Do tell."

"You have made no explanation of your actions, and the only defiance is half-hearted at best - easily interpreted as defensive. They assume that since you do not object, that they are telling the truth."

"I didn't expect them to be little mini-psychos!"

"First, that was redundant," Daphne deadpanned. "Secondly, they are a bunch of hormonal teenagers, riling each other up with the most powerful weapon on the planet at the tip of their fingers. Of course they are going to try and kill you, or at least injure you. Brute force energy is simple, after all. All they had to do was speak a phrase in pseudo-Latin and they could release a blast of pent up energy." She shrugged. "I doubt many really want you dead - it's just the heat of the moment, clouding their thoughts. Peer pressure, too."

"Fine," he fumed. "Magic plus hormones equals psycho. Got it. Still doesn't make it my fault."

She quirked a single eyebrow. "And here I had thought you possessing of some measure of intelligence. Tell me, how did you plan to deal with this problem?"

"I was going to wait it out, endure the comments till they stopped being so hormonal."

"And there is the problem!" Daphne laughed, no humour found in her voice. "You are playing a doormat, and so they will walk all over you. These are teenagers, nay, magical teenagers: their egos won't let them see that they're wrong."

"So what do you want me to do?" Harry spat. "Become a martyr to a useless cause? Protest my innocence to an audience that refuses to listen."

"Over time, yes. But immediately?" she shrugged. "Defend yourself. Fight back."

"Yeah, like that's gonna help my case."

"Puh-lease," Daphne drawled, rolling her eyes. "As if anything could worsen it."

"Still, I'm outnumbered," Harry grumbled petulantly.

Her eyebrow quirked again. "You are a prodigy when it comes to Defensive magic. Despite putting almost no effort in, you regularly top the class tables for the subject. And don't tell me you are lacking in power - I saw that display on Halloween. Those curses packed a punch."

"I'm not going to maim them," he growled. "I will not send such high-powered curses at narrow-minded simpletons."

"Then don't," she said. "Learn some jinxes. Small things, usually no more than an inconvenience. I've seen how you look at me, like you're assessing me. I'm sure you can use those skills to put those spells to good use."

"I'll think about it," he grumbled.

"Good," she nodded, before smirking. "Are we still on for the trip, Potter?"

"Yeah, sure," he sighed. "Next time, though, actually give me advice instead of just insulting my intelligence."

"Where would the fun in that be?"

"Daphne."

"Fine," she grumbled, though her mocking smirk remained on her face. "See you later, Potter."

"I told you to call me Harry!"

ROA

Despite his reluctance to follow her advice, Harry found himself, several days later, sitting behind a pile of dusty tombs, scanning for modern spells that could be used to defend himself. He could, of course, use the Old Magic to do it far more easily, but that would draw too much attention. No, he decided, better that it remained buried, for now.

He remembered an extract from the tome Gaius had given him in his previous life, detailing the nature of spells, and the progression of difficulty. It was in a section of the book written by a man from Londinium, who had encountered many sorcerers from foreign lands who had stopped off at the great city during their travels. The section was odd, for while it remained informative, it was written more like a journal of the man's experiences rather than a strict guide to the use of magic, but was particularly notable for being more theoretical than practical.

Magic, it read, is a mighty mysterious subject, and extremely personal. What I may find difficult surely differs from you. I am talented in the sphere of healing, yet struggle in the field of defence - perhaps for you that is where you thrive. But alas, I digress.

For something so wide, how can one determine the order in which things must be learnt, the order in which things become more difficult. Here in Britain, we seem to stumble across, learning as we go, which no doubt leads to many mistakes, fatal and otherwise.

I met not long ago a man from Roma, an Italian noble by the name of Balthazar Slytherin. He had written what he called a curriculum - a set order in which he had taught his children, and which he planned to teach his grandson, a young boy named Salazar. Since it is based off of Latinised magic, several aspects of the document are incompatible with our older style (such as the Romantic 'wizards' having an odd affinity for morphic magic, of which they call transfiguration, possible a side effect of their use of wands), yet the fundamentals remain the same.

Magic, he argued, is above all a force, an energy, that those with the divine affinity can manipulate. Yes, it may be to some degree sentient, and it may not follow standard laws of nature, yet it remains an energy.

It is in the field of combat, in fact, that his theory is best illustrated. For many in our nation, the incantations 'Forbearne' and 'Acwele', simple fire and blasting spells, remain the standard for basic magical combat, while incantations such as 'Scildan' and 'Acwincen', simple shielding and vanishing spells, are harder to grasp.

At a simple level, it can be seen that the former two are simple manipulations of energy, via direct expulsion or simple concentrated diffusion, whereas the former two are more complex, requiring far more manipulation and control. And that is where his theory comes in: the more one has to change the energy, the harder the spell is.

It made sense, in his mind. They started off with less controlled blasting spells and burning spells, before going onto slightly controlled blasts such as cutting spells and bludgeoners, yet they hadn't yet gone into more complex curses, such as freezing or shielding spells. Yet, he had managed the extremely convoluted Patronus Charm: surely, he could handle these spells which, at the heart of it all, were glorified pranks.

He frowned. He should have thought of this before. When he was Mer- when he was alive the first time, he had often used subtle tricks to evade his attackers, such as that early encounter with Arthur. He sighed. Whether his name was Merlin or Harry, he always seemed to be caught in trouble that he was just trying to ignore. Mordred. Morgana. Kilgharrah. His destiny as a whole. Second year. Now. He shook his head. He really ought to have learnt by now - waiting things out never leads to the desired result. This was his second chance - he would bring about Albion. And so he had to act.

Ah, he thought as he flicked the page of the outdated defence tome, this sounded promising. The Confundus Charm, or the befuddlement charm. It would be complex to manipulate the energies of the mind, but potentially useful. After all, if they hurt each other, it was their own fault, right? Right? Okay, maybe as a backup.

A tripping, or Scandalus hex? Perfect. Simple manipulation, similar to a cutter or a bludgeoner. Could be useful for quick getaways, especially when combined with the Impedimenta Jinx on the opposite page, a spell which slowed, or even stopped if enough power was put into it, that which is hit with the spell.

The Avis Charm, which summoned a flock of birds? Could be useful as a makeshift shield, or perhaps to interfere with a pursuer's line of sight. Perhaps some sort of smokescreen too, if he could find a spell for that. Conjuration was a fairly complex form of energy manipulation in theory, but seemed to be only of moderate difficulty with a wand. It seemed that the author of the extract was correct that Latinised wand use simplified transfiguration and related fields.

He paused, thinking. Perhaps a shield might be a better solution. While he could easily cast a shield with the power of the Old Magic, he didn't know how to with modern spells. He flicked through the book before finding the Protego Charm, or the shield charm. Perfect, with mid level.

He likely would have continued with his research, if it wasn't for the untimely appearance of destiny in the form of a small redhead, wheezing with shortness of breath, yet with eyes still gleaming with anticipation.

"Great Mister- *wheeze* - Harry Potter - *wheeze* - sir! It is my - *wheeze* - greatest honour to - *wheeze* - serve the supreme champion!"

Harry groaned. "Colin. Let me say this one more time, in case your infinitesimally small mind did not comprehend. I did not enter. I do not want to compete. I do not want a pea brained fanboy praising the fact that I am stuck in a death trap. Now piss off, I'm busy."

He turned back to his book, idly flicking through the pages, searching for some other useful curses.

"Colin," he hissed through gritted teeth, when the small boy remained by him over a minute later, practically vibrating with joy. "Do you want something? Other than to praise me for something I didn't do?"

"Oh but sir, there is nothing greater to me than to be in the presence of, and to be able to praise the most greatest and excellent-est man to ever grace the Earth!"

"You sound like Dobby," he groaned into his hands. "Right down to the poor syntax. If you have nothing else to say, kindly irritate someone more deserving of your inane prattle." Great, now I'm starting to sound like Arthur. That must be a bad sign.

"Oh!" Colin cried suddenly. "The great-but-not-as-great-as-our-saviour-the-great-Harry-Potter Headmaster Dumbledore requested your presence in the antichamber for the Weighing of the Wands."

"Shit, that's today," he cursed, before glaring at the young boy. "Why couldn't you have said that in the first place?"

"The great and mighty lord mister Harry Potter-"

"Forget I asked. And piss off."

ROA

Harry staggered into the antechamber, out of breath and agitated.

"Look who's finally decided to show up," came a familiar drawl.

"Oh, do shut up," he snapped. "Why are you even here, Snape? None of us are Slytherins. And if you wanted me to show up earlier, you should have sent someone who didn't take an age to recite their hero worship."

"Mister Potter!" McGonagall gasped, offended. "Do not use that language to address a Professor."

"I'll treat him with respect when he is a decent human being," he growled. "I give my respect to those who deserve it."

"Dumblee-door," Maxime purred. "Do you let all your students speak with such… impertinence? Or just Mister Potter?"

"I assure you, this is not typical behaviour, of young Harry or otherwise," Dumbledore replied solemnly. "But we must of course give the boy some leeway - he is under a lot of stress, after all."

"Ha!" Karkaroff barked. "If he couldn't handle the stress, he shouldn'ta entered!"

"Listen, you simple minded fool," Harry said calmly. "If I have said it once, I have said it a hundred times: I did not enter. Get it through that thick skull of yours."

"Why you-"

"Ahem!" Dumbledore cleared his throat. "Now, if I may announce the plan for this spectacle. We have with us today Mister Garrick Ollivander of Ollivander's Wands, who shall assess each wand in turn, making sure that each is in working order, before we will have a press conference, in which representatives from various different newspapers will have the opportunity to ask some questions."

"What?" Harry blurted. "Press conference?"

"Hah!" Fleur snorted. "The Boy-who-lived, scared of the paparazzi. Perhaps you shouldn't have entered, little boy."

"Why do I waste my mind on such simple minded clotpoles?" he wondered aloud, ignoring the outraged sniff from Fleur, the grunt from Krum and the deepening glare from Cedric.

"Mister Potter, if I hear one more word of impertinence-"

"Yeah, yeah, whatever, let's just get this over with."

McGonagall huffed, but didn't respond, turning to Dumbledore.

"Yes, well," the Headmaster said, before turning to the wandmaker. "Ah, Mister Ollivander. It's your show."

"Hmm," the elderly wandmaker nodded, turning towards Krum. "Your wand, please."

The Bulgarian roughly jabbed it out, extending it towards the man. Ollivander delicately plucked it from his grip, examining it reverently. He held it to his ear, gently shaking it.

"Ten-quarter, hornbeam, dragon heartstring," he muttered, flexing it gently. "Thicker than typical, and quite rigid. Yes, a wand made for combat. A Gregorovitch creation, yes, very good." He frowned slightly. "Wood is slightly worn, wind damage, but there shouldn't be any noticeable decline in capability. Avis!" A flock of birds emerged from the end of the wand, and the wandmaker nodded, handing the wand back to the famed Seeker. Harry nodded to himself. Indeed, such a spell could prove quite useful.

"Now, Miss Delacour," Ollivander continued, taking the offered wand with a slight flourish. He ran his nose along the polished surface, taking a deep breath in. "Nine-half, rosewood… veela hair?"

"Oiu," the French champion nodded. "One of my grandmother's."

"Indeed," the wandmaker nodded, turning back to the wand. "Inflexible. A family made wand, hmm? In most cases, this would be inadvisable, but this particular wand is… uniquely matched to you. Good condition, too - a wand made for charms likely encounters little danger. Orchideous!" A bouquet of flowers erupted from the end, and Ollivander smiled, returning the wand. That spell, Harry thought, was not quite so useful.

"Mr Diggory," Ollivander smiled, taking the wand from the Hogwarts Champion. "Yes, this is one of my wands, I do believe. Twelve-quarter, ash and unicorn hair. A dueller's wand, yes, with an aversion to the Dark Arts. Similar wind damage to Mister Krum's, but the wood itself is otherwise in extremely good quality."

"Yes," Cedric said proudly. "I polish it every night."

Ignoring Harry's snigger, Ollivander nodded, waving the wand. "Fumos!" From the tip of the wand, a steady stream of smoke erupted, before the wand was returned to its owner. Harry inwardly noted the incantation of the spell.

"And now, Mister Potter." Harry looked up, seeing that the attention was now upon him. Digging his wand out from his pocket, he passed a piece of wood to the wandmaker.

"Yes, I remember this one well," Ollivander reminisced, without even looking at the wand. "Eleven, holly and phoenix feather, nice and supple. A wand that is for those destined for greatness. A most difficult customer you were, with a very peculiar wand. Yes, very-" he paused, his eyes bugging out as he looked at the wand for the first time. "What on earth have you done to this?"

Harry blinked. "Is there something wrong?"

"Yes!" the wandmaker gasped. "I was expecting the wind damage, but this scratches and nicks and cracks - this could destabilise your spells!" He stuck the tip of the wand in his mouth, before giving a sickened grimace. "And these foreign substances! I taste some sort of mucus…" he gave another lick. "Yes, troll mucus. And some sort of venom, the likes I have never tasted!"

"Erm…" Harry stammered. "That would be Basilisk."

"Basilisk!" Ollivander ranted, eyes bugging out. "This is not a wand - this is a disaster waiting to happen. Tormentus!" There was a quiet pop, seemingly surprising the adults around him.

"Uh… I'm guessing it's not meant to do that," Harry murmured.

"The cannon charm, Mister Potter, is supposed to let off an almighty bang, that of a cannon!" exclaimed McGonagall. "There is something wrong with your wand!" Another useful spell, he thought.

"I'll say!" Ollivander spat. "What have you done to it? The core - it's practically burnt out. The sheer amount of power one has to force through it to do even that…" he shook his head. "How can you even manage the most simple of spells?"

Harry shrugged, snatching his wand back. "I've never had any problems. Sure, things may be a little difficult to get going, or require a bit more power, but they work in the end."

Ollivander shook his head. "I expect you to visit my shop after the press conference. You are getting a new wand."

Harry nodded meekly. "Yes. Great."

Dumbledore stood silently for a moment as the wandmaker left, seemingly as shocked as the others, both staff and students. "Well," he said at last. "Shall we?"

The Champions followed in silence, entering the next room, sitting behind a long table, a crowd of reporters before them. Almost as soon as they were spotted, a cacophony of volume.

"SILENCE!" Dumbledore boomed, and the crowd obeyed. "Now, I know you wish to ask some questions, but it will be done one at a time. If you are selected, state your name and who you represent, state the name of who you wish to question, then ask away. Now, shall we begin."

"Dermot O'Lee, Irish Blog" a squat man in green asked with a thick Irish accent. "For Mister Potter. Do you think your age puts you at a disadvantage?"

"Well, yes!" Harry replied, seemingly surprising the reporters. "Of course it will, I have, what, three less years of education? Of course I'm at a disadvantage." Well, three less years of education as Harry, but they didn't need to know that.

"Igor Vermidos, Quidditch International," a burly Russian man said. "My question is for Mister Krum. How do you think that your quidditch career has prepared you for this tournament?"

"Well," Krum began in halting English. "Quidditch is… tactical, make me think. I will need to think in tournament, yes?"

"Roberto Monique, French Gazette," a man in a pinstripe suit asked. "For Mademoiselle Delacour. Do you think your Veela heritage will aid you in this challenge?"

"Non, Monsieur," Fleur replied softly. "My heritage is irrelevant - I will win this as a witch, no more, no less."

"Oscar Polo, Manchester Traders," another man said. "For Cedric Diggory. What was your reason for entering?"

Cedric shrugged. "Hufflepuff could do with a bit more positive exposure. I mean, the head of the British Aurors is a Hufflepuff, as is the world famous zoologist Newt Scamander, and yet we are always seen as inferior."

"John Brown, Ministry Weekly," said a bureaucratic looking man. "Harry Potter. What skills do you have that led you to believe that you could win?"

"Um, I'm not sure I'd say I think I could win," Harry replied, lips pressed together into a hard smile. "But I will try. As for my skills? I think I'm quite good at improvisation, and I seem to have an affinity for defensive spells."

"Rita Skeeter, Daily Prophet. Also for Mister Potter. How did you get past the age line?"

Harry had to struggle to keep his voice above a growl. "Now, I don't know why everyone thinks I entered, but I didn't. I just wanted a normal year."

"Daniel Walker, Salem Monthly. Do you think your fame will protect you from the public backlash of your entry?"

Harry blinked. "Did you not hear what I just said? I didn't enter. I don't want to be in this. This is a freaking assassination attempt?"

"Mr Potter, please answer the question."

He rolled his eyes. "No, I don't. You know why? Because people have somehow got it into their heads that I am an attention seeking git. Happy?"

"Morgan Williams, Edinburgh Times. Harry Potter. Why did you enter as a fourth champion, rather than as the Hogwarts Champion."

"I didn't," he hissed, irritation thick in his voice. "I didn't enter. Someone is trying to freaking kill me with a tournament designed for adults."

"Xenophilius Lovegood, Quibbler. For Mister Potter."

"Look," he snapped. "I know I'm famous, but why don't you ask the other champions some questions. I mean, Krum is famous too, for something he can actually remember doing!"

"But Mister Potter…"

"Fine. What do you want me to say? How many times do I have to tell you that I didn't enter? That someone's trying to kill me? And this isn't even me being paranoid - Voldemort is still out there, and, surprise surprise, he's holding a fucking grudge. Or what, that this nation is batshit insane, and that the schoolkids are bloody psychos? I've had two attempts on my life so far this week, that I know of. So, excuse me for not being in the best of moods right now. Ask someone else for once. Just let me be."

"But Mister Potter, you still haven't answered my question," the man continued stubbornly.

"Fine," Harry snapped. "Ask away. But I am done being respectful."

"Is it true that you are the reincarnation of Merlin, in love with the Lady Morgana Le Fay, and that we will all be descending into war in the imminent future?"

Harry blinked. "Where did you even hear that?"

The man smiled, scribbling something down. "The nargles told me."

"Huh."

"Sebastian Ducler, Paris Paper. For Harry Potter. Why did you think that you, an underaged Englishman, could beat the best that France could offer."

Harry rolled his eyes. "I'm done with this farce. To all you clotpoles: piss off, and have a shit evening. I'm out of here."

There were shouts of outrage, but he ignored them, walking up to Dumbledore. "I assume I can take your floo to Ollivander's?" A dull nod was his only response.

Moments later, he was walking into the dusty store that was Ollivander's, immediately being relieved of his wand.

"Hey!" he objected, wincing as the man snapped the tool in two.

"How on earth did you overpower a phoenix feather?" Ollivander asked, holding a limp and tattered feather, grey with flecks of gold. "This is supposed to be red. Red and full, as hot as a fireplace. Look at it!"

Harry blinked. "I was using… that, to do magic."

"Somehow," the wandmaker grumbled, pushing open a side door. "Come, I have a feeling that none of my premade wands will work for you, and I'd rather we avoided burning my store down, hmm?"

"Err…" Harry stammered. "How likely is that?"

Ollivander raised an eyebrow. "You have the power to burn out a phoenix feather, and continue using it as if it were normal. It is very likely, Mr Potter."

"Great," he drawled. "Is this a common problem?"

"No, no, not at all!" the wandmaker chided. "The last recorded person to burn out a wand core was the Voivode of Wallachia, Vlad III, who would perform so many magical experiments on himself that he could no longer be considered human!" The man paused. "But don't tell him that. He's a Count now, you know. Has been since his presumed death in 1477."

Harry's eyes bugged out. "The last person was… immortal?" he squeaked.

"Oh, don't worry, that's not a common trend. You may have heard of him, actually - goes by the name of Dracula, I believe. First of the Transylvanian Vampire hoard."

"Dracula? I'm as powerful as Dracula?"

"Hmm," he nodded. "Probably more, since he only overpowered a unicorn's hair. Lower magical resistance you know?"

"Why does this keep happening to me?" Harry groaned. "I just want to be normal."

"Ha!" Ollivander laughed. "No reason you can't be. Power isn't everything. If you don't know how to use it, it doesn't change anything, just lets you learn spells easier. Though, we will need to make you a special wand…"

"How special are we talking?"

"Well, the last four people were Vlad, who made a wand out of his own finger and blood, Antioch Peverell, who's wand inspired the legend of the Elder Wand, Salazar Slytherin, whose core was made of Basilisk venom, and, of course, Merlin Ambrosius himself, who required the use of a staff."

There it was again, Harry thought to himself. Assumptions on my life. I never needed a staff - it just amplified my spells. I'd never even seen a wand back then. And where does this Ambrosius shit come from? My name was Merlin, or Emrys, and I could perhaps understand it being remembered as Merlin Emrys, but Ambrosius?

"Of course, a staff is out of the question," Ollivander continued, oblivious to his inner turmoil. "Since they were made illegal in the eighteen hundreds when the wizard known as Jack the Ripper, despite having about as much magic as a squib, was able to use a staff to enhance his magic to fuel his… terrorist endeavours."

"Right," Harry nodded, numb. "Jack the Ripper. Wizard. Right."

"So!" the wandmaker said suddenly, clapping his hands together. "This'll be a challenge."

Harry nodded, walking up to the worktable that lay before them, covered with all manner of materials, most of which were various types of wood. "I assume these are what might be used to construct wands."

"Correctamundo!" the wandmaker cried, before grimacing. "No, I'm never saying that again."

Harry frowned, picking up a small chunk of metal, before dropping it, his fingers singed by some sort of electrical discharge. "Ow!"

Ollivander chuckled. "Not electrum, then. Doesn't seem to react well with you at all."

"I thought that wands had to be made of wood?" Harry asked, examining the various materials on the table, none of which he recognised.

"Understandable, but wrong," the wandmaker answered. "They need to be constructed by something that can channel and enhance the energy that makes up the field which we consider to be 'magic'. Wood is the only non-magical substance that can do so, and that is certainly a relief, as few have enough power to handle a magically based wand shell. You, my boy, are one such person - in fact, I doubt a mundane wood could handle you. As such, we're going to delve into my special store of materials, many of which have remained untouched since the early ninth century - since Merlin was born!"

Once more, Harry frowned. He had been born in the eighth century, nearly five decades before the invasion of William the Conqueror. How had the magical world got so much wrong about him? "So, what do I do?"

"Pick them up, Harry," Ollivander urged. "Here, try this - Grootos, a wood that remains alive whether it remains attached to the tree from which it was grown or not."

Harry picked it up, and was struck by a feeling of revulsion. The wood was moving, ever so slightly twitching and quivering in his grasp. "No, definitely not."

"Hmm, hmm," the wandmaker nodded, swapping the chunk for another. "Now, this is Deku wood, from an ancient, sentient tree that has not been seen in millenia."

Harry took it, and felt… "Nothing. Just feels like a chunk of wood to me."

"Oh," Ollivander frowned, taking it back. "Perhaps… ah, yes, let's try a chunk of Whomping Willow."

Harry didn't even take the wood. "I have had some bad experiences with that tree."

The wandmaker huffed, but handed him something else. "Kingsfoil - a healing plant."

Harry almost winced at the magical backlash that surged through his body. "I don't think it likes me very much."

"No," Ollivander sighed wistfully. "You do get injured a lot. Here, Nimloth - the tree of the Ancient Kings of the first Albion, called Arda."

"From Arda?" Harry asked, eyes widening at the seemingly innocuous piece of white wood. Gaius had spoken of Arda on occasion, a mythical state of the world from before the current age.

"Yes," Ollivander nodded. "The oldest wood in my collection, from before the reformation of civilization, before the elves left the world. The tree was found, half fossilised, under the great mountain Ben Nevis."

Harry blinked, before placing the wood down. "It is amazing… overwhelming. I do not deserve such a wood."

"No," Ollivander agreed. "It seems to be waiting for another. Alas, it seems that wood is not the way for you to go. Perhaps a metal may do well for you. Here, Orichalcum - the metal of Atlantis."

Harry held the blue chunk of metal, feeling it in his hands. "It is beautiful, and I can sense the magic… it just doesn't react."

"That's a surprise," the wandmaker said. "I thought for sure that would work. Perhaps this?"

Harry took the sharp piece of metal given to him, and nearly threw up in revulsion. "What… what is that?"

"It is a shard of Clarent, the sword of the Black Knight Mordred. Said to have been shattered as the boy died, remaining in his foe's body to avenge him."

Merlin stared at the revolting piece of metal. This killed Arthur. This was the shard that was poisoning him, while he sat helpless. "No. No, this is not for me."

Ollivander frowned, but took it back. "Ah! I know."

Harry took the next chunk of metal, and rejoiced in the rush of warmth and power that ran through his veins. "That's… that's incredible. This is it."

"Ah," the wandmaker smiled. "That is Draconic Mythril - a legendary metal on its own, even before it was burnished by a dragon's flame. And no ordinary dragon burnished that blade - it was the Great Red Dragon of Cymru itself, the mighty Kilgharrah! Yes, it is a metal for those with great destinies and overwhelming power, those whose souls are practically kin with the dragons of old!"

Merlin nearly snickered. Kilgharrah, red indeed! At least he wasn't the only one misremembered. It was fitting, though. He was a Dragonlord, the kin of the dragons. If only the Elder Dragons still remained. "So, I assume it's onto the core next?"

"Yes," Ollivander nodded. "Yet this will be easier. I know the sort of things that will react well - we can simplify it to just those." He pulled out a crate from under the desk, filled with all sorts of substances. "Perhaps… Yes, Serket venom. A substance from a creature that, like the Elder Dragons, has been extinct since the days of the Warlock King!"

Warlock King? Harry thought. I'll have to look into that. He looked at the substance dubiously. "I doubt that will work for me - I've had negative experiences with venom in general." Not to mention the Serkets themselves.

"No, I should have thought of that," he said, before pulling out another object. It was a sliver of gold, yet seemingly mundane. "Here, a shard from the Cup of Life! A relic from the Warlock King, surely a match for the metal."

Harry took it, raising an eyebrow at the inert piece of metal. "This is not from the Cup of Life. It's inert." Not to mention, it's sitting in Hogwarts, also inert."

"Hmm," the wandmaker frowned, passing him a vial filled with ash. "Elder dragon ash. I think it speaks for itself."

Harry took it, smiling slightly. "Yes, this could work."

Ollivander raised an eyebrow at him. "Are you sure? You don't look so enamoured."

Harry shook his head. "No… it feels like it's missing something. Perhaps…"

He reached into the box, pulling out a small crystal, humming with power.

"A crystal from the fables Crystal Caves…" Ollivander murmured reverently. "One of three known to exist." His eyes widened. "Don't look into it! Its knowledge is not for our mortal minds!"

But it was too late, as once again, Merlin fell into a flurry of images.

A/N 2: So how was that? Enjoyed it? Did my magical theory make sense? Let me know!

So I know that custom wands are a bit cliché, but I think they make sense for Merlin - someone who doesn't just have magic, but is magic. Doubly so in this fic. Plus, I needed an excuse to include the crystal.

So, next chapter has quite a bit: the visions, the wand, a bit more Magic (the person) and last but not least, the Quidditch trip. (And a bit of Mergana/Haphne - whoop whoop!) So, look forward to that!

If you liked this, please favourite, follow and review, and feel free to PM if you have any questions.

We made it to 200 follows: can the favourites catch up? Can the follows hit 300? Lets find out!

This is JaguarAJG, signing off.