Merlin has never favoured staying near Hogwarts for too long, even if he wasn't necessarily close or inside the school, he could still feel the strong vibrations of magic pulsing through the ground. It wasn't that he didn't enjoy the feeling — it was a part of him after all, but it was rather the particular memories that came flooding back to him like a punch in the face. Just by merely viewing the overtowering castle of the school pained his heart, for it was a part of Camelot, his former and second home. Hagrid had tried to prompt him to stay longer, but he knew that it was all in vain. Although they enjoyed their time conversing with one another, filling in the vacant gaps of what they did over the years, it was time for the warlock to leave.

The snow has long since dispersed among the land, being replaced by new crisp grass the moment the last few lingering blankets of white dissolved. Once the winter season was over, spring came flowing into action almost immediately as plants and flowers started to grow across the forest and nearby mountains. There weren't a lot of people that really questioned the quick change in nature and simply took it as it was, much to Merlin's luck and appreciation. They shrugged it off as one of the many perks of being in the wizarding world, magic as it was.

The last of July was quite eventful to say in the least, and Merlin was just grateful that it wasn't directly about that no-nosed wannabe wizard. Keyword, directly. It was just so recently that there was a break-in at Gringotts Wizarding Bank, they didn't take anything at least — and it surely didn't take the Daily Prophet long to get the news about it. Albeit their proclaims were very embellished, they gave enough accurate information to make out the picture of what happened.

August, on the other hand, was better than previously, although the news was still making a big fuss over the supposed thief. At that point, Merlin decided to cancel any incoming parchments and saved it for him to collect in another week or so. The Daily Prophet had a way of prolonging a certain event for so long that it was almost criminal in a way — thanks to that Rita Skeeter reporter though. Just by reading the first few sentences of the newspaper it had ended up in the garbage along with his other papers. It made him wonder just how nosy that woman could be, but it also made him curious as to how long she could keep up with the papers if he, Merlin Ambrosius, were to suddenly appear. He had his bets on perhaps a year and a half, not that he wanted to find out.

Time had passed him by like a golden snitch would in a quidditch match, the days seeming to go as they pleased without him even acknowledging it. That didn't mean that he hadn't gotten any time to muse with himself though, far from it, rather, it was a little bit too much for him. Some of his most recent interests would have to be in some of the town folks talkings, specific topics that had caught his attention. As for these 'topics', all together they were only one, one that revolved around the Dark Lord himself. Was he back? He would hear uncountable whispers of his name, an expression of panic and fear spreading across a person's face at the mere mention of it.

Once Merlin realized that all he was ever going to be hearing about was Lord Voldermort or The Dark Lord returning, he had to sit back in his chair and let out a long dreadful sigh. This man — person — if you could even call him that, was causing way too much trouble in the wizarding society. That much was clear from his perspective, and quite frankly, he was getting overly incensed and livid when he heard others prattling about it. If he could, he'd use euphemisms to sputter his insults. And to his surprise, he had found himself slipping further away from the leash that controlled his magic every time he grew frustrated. The walls would start to rumble and shake, imitating that of an earthquake — curtains would catch on fire, his hands would start burning, and many other unordinary things that began to show. Eventually, after a few days, he was able to properly compose himself and calm his nerves.

Since then, it was finally decided, he had made his mind up and nothing was going to stand in his way of achieving it. At first, he was dubious to his decision, but with that building up tension came his determination, his will power to fight back. He was going to become a professor at Hogwarts.

Call him mad as you would, but nothing would've changed his mind. Merlinus Evans. Or, as he was still getting used to; Professor Evans. He didn't mind the name, but he didn't like it either. All in all, he was just grateful to himself that he had kept that small vestige of his name true. Merlinus, translated from Latin, means Merlin. So in truth, he wasn't necessarily lying about it. That didn't make him feel any better though. Obviously, he couldn't go in saying that he was Merlin Ambrosius, heavens no. Anyone he would come across would think him insane, not to mention that everyone knew him as an old crumpled up old man with a beard that was way too long for comfort. It was a wonder how Dumbledore could even stand having such an extensive beard without being frustrated of nearly tripping over it every time he walked — maybe that's why he always held his head up so high.

Some of his prime concerns were the subjects that he was going to be teaching, and to be brutally honest with himself, he could practically teach them all if he so wanted to. Excluding the matter of using broomsticks in Broom Flight class alongside Rolanda Hooch, the flying instructor. Merlin was able to distinguish most of her appearance when he was wandering around the school earlier in the year, having had an eagerness to look around the place. It was his school after all.

Some of Madam Hooch's key highlights that made her stand out from the rest was her spiky grey hair that was cut short, as well as those piercing, yellow, hawk-like eyes of hers, usually hidden behind those goggles she wore on her head. He noted down that she only wore them whenever she was either going for a fly on her broom, or while teaching a class. Usually, she wore a white button-down collared shirt and a black necktie with the Hogwarts crest, under a cloak. However, when the times of feasts (dinner, breakfast, lunch) or emergency meetings in the Great Hall came into motion, she donned more formal black robes with a hat while taking her seat with the other professors.

He didn't know all of the professors — at least not yet — but he was hoping to become acquainted with them sooner or later. There was one that caught his interest though, a rather dark and volatile professor that seemed to deviate from conversations and people. In a way of its own, it gave Merlin a sort of reminder of who he was and what he did, to go into hiding, to avoid people. Only, he did it for a few centuries before he grew curious. He wasn't distinctly positive that he would be able to befriend the solitary shadow of a man, but there was always the choice to at least try. Even if he had a distinct feeling that it would be in vain.

Merlin didn't stray too far away from Hogwarts, in a matter of fact, he lived just beyond the mountains across from the Forbidden Forest. Unlike Hagrid who took a liking to his small, cramped little hut on the downslope of the school, Merlin was more intrigued by taller structures; such as towers. It evoked certain memories from his past, one as such, where he would be gazing out the window in Gaius' chambers, a trifle testily waiting for the old physician to ask about his agonizing day as a servant. Most of which he was ignored.

At that point in time, he decided to build one deep within the forest where the peak of its tip would be poking out through the trees. He had built it himself, with his bare hands — and his magic of course — most of its construction was forged by magic, not that he would admit to it. The insides of the walls were adorned with herbs and plants alike, the occasional pot of flowers being spotted on the window sill alongside another. Most of the items and objects inside his abode dated back to his era, souvenirs he would call them. A smattering percentage of them held great backstories that wouldn't be possible to comprehend in today's modern society, and so, he kept them hidden away, deep within the prison of his basement. There wasn't a single crevice or crack that wasn't mended with a charm or two for safety measures, his basement being the most secured.

Trotting through the Forbidden Forest was thought to be a death wish to many, young and old wizards alike. However, to Merlin, it was like a stroll in the park for him. Having lived within these parts of the woods for an unfathomable amount of years meant that he had quite a few acquaintances and relationships with the creatures that dared to dwell within it. The centaurs, for example, grew very attached and accustomed to him despite their nature. He couldn't be sure that it was because he was Merlin, himself, or because he knew their ancestors before them. This sudden newfound wisdom that he acquired from their kind was beneficial in its own ways. It gave him the relief of not being abruptly attacked out of nowhere with arrows whizzing by his head, and it also gave him some special connections between himself and the beings of the dark woods.

Merlin wasn't the type of person to dress up to be ostentatious, he would rather be invisible to those around him, as he had grown into the habit of it. With that, he never had a good sense of fashion, he never kept up with the latest trends of clothes because it just felt so irrelevant to him. Of course, it didn't mean that he had taken to the regular rags that he had worn back in his younger days, far from it. Instead, he had grown a little if not by a lot more attracted to the darkest color there was — black, raven black. Although black was turning into his favorite, there was always the outstanding magnificentness of gold. Blue and especially red were always going to remain in his top five favorites.

On his way to the school by traveling through the Forbidden Forest to avoid the ongoing stares or glances he might gain, his shadowing cape billowed behind him with the crisp coldness of the wind greeting him with a wave of air. If by some coincidence or twist of fate he was spotted, he had a feeling that he would be misunderstood as a trespasser on the grounds, which wouldn't exactly be sending a positive first impression to the headmaster. Not that it overly concerned him — not too much at least.

The forest hums with life, callings of the birds, and other mystifying creatures residing within its woods. There were no paths to lead the way for the newly accounted professor, no markings for him to follow, there was nothing. And the only thing he could do was push forward while gazing across the forest with admiration, glancing down at the outgrown roots that decorated the grounds with wildflowers and fallen leaves crunching beneath his feet. The sweet fragrance of minty grass and the damp earth fill his lungs with each fresh breath, each one giving him the thought of breathing water. It was only until the molten stench of fire and smoke mixed into one that he was reminded of his whereabouts.

Following the light that brightened the end of his trudge, the sun's rays came beaming down onto him at full power, his free hand rising to the corner of his forehead as a protector from the direct light. Squinting his eyes as they quickly adjusted to the sudden change of brightness, Hagrid's tarnished old hut came into view along with the rest of Hogwarts. He couldn't help but stretch a cheeky grin from ear to ear in delight, a wave of relief washing over him as he absentmindedly sighed.

Ever since the break-in of Gringotts Bank, he hadn't been able to get in touch with Hagrid at all. The half-giant hadn't been at his home for a while and it was beginning to trouble him — just where on earth was he and what was he doing at this moment? However, seeing the hazy greyish smoke emitting from his chimney told him otherwise; was he back? There was only one way to find out for sure. He swung his cloak behind him as it rolled through the waves of the air, the fabric wrinkling itself further as he sped his pace up.

Once arriving at the footsteps of the hut, he looked up almost exasperated with a smile etched across his face. Succinctly, he fretted about the wellbeing of his close friend. Without a second thought to taking in the regards of Hagrid probably not wanting anyone to trespass in his house, he pushed open the door with a loud bang as it made contact with the wall on the inside. Fang was there, obviously perturbed by the not so subtle clang of metal hitting the walls, sitting on the cold hard floor. He looked at him knowingly, the smile that once rested on top of his lips faltering into a frown before focusing back on Fang.

"Where's Hagrid, Fang," he crouched down on one knee with a hand balancing on his cap, his tone soft with an inkling of concern. The Neapolitan mastiff gives in to his abundant wrinkles and folds as he slumps back down onto the ground, not even bothering to take Merlin's question into account. Much to the warlock's chagrin, he clicks his tongue before rolling his eyes like an arrogant teenager. He was patient when it was needed, but his curiosity and concern to find out what Hagrid was up to was stronger than that. "Fine."

Without another word being exchanged between the two of them, he clutches a hand on the side of the door before clamping it shut as soon as he gets outside. To summarize everything that was going through Merlin's head was simply put; checking off a checklist. Hagrid wasn't home, check. Fang was still as lazy as ever, check. His whereabouts, unknown. He clicked his tongue again, having held an embitter expression. Something was going on. But he didn't know what, and that frustrated him to a great expense where he had to pinch the bridge of his nose. It wasn't that he was angry at the half-giant for not being at his house when he wanted him to be, but it was just out of pure concern and distress for if he was safe or not. He hadn't seen or heard from him in several days since his last visit after explicitly telling him to send him letters — he even told him to pass it to the centaurs so they could deliver the message to him. Maybe he was being a little bit anticlimactic, he told himself, but that build-up of worry still hadn't died out just yet.

With a displeased sigh escaping his pursed lips, he retracts his hands back to his side as he continues along the rough bumpy path that led up to the castle, his eyes sharper than ever. He wanted to see Hagrid before greeting the headmaster to calm his nerves a little, seeing as the whole The Dark Lord returning still hadn't completely left his thoughts in solitary yet. Somehow, he knew that those rumors were true — or at least, they were going to come true, and that moment was soon.

Hiking up the ancient stone stairs made him muse about his time in Hogwarts and how he would be spending it. He didn't mind taking part as just a side-teacher that would watch over the students, as long as he was involved in being part of the staff was fine. Professor or not, he didn't complain. Although, he did fancy the position of being the Headmaster. But then again, that by itself was out of the question because he was too overly irresponsible — he wasn't even sure if he would be able to get the job as a side-teacher, let alone being the Headmaster of Hogwarts. Knowing Dumbledore though, he was sure he'd make the part, if not briefly.

The corridors were just as he had remembered them by, not a single portrait or torch holder being removed or modified from where they were placed centuries ago. The very view of it made him smile unknowingly, his lips trembling ever so slightly as a chorus of voices played back in his head. He had walked along these paths, long, long ago that he could still faintly hear the laughter of students resounding through the castle walls as well as the newer and younger ones clapping their shoes against the stone tiles. Students that he had known while his time as headmaster, the staff he had taken in to teach alongside him, people that he trusted. And now, centuries later, none of them had remained, none of which were alive.

"Emrys? Is that you?" A gentle, yet brittle voice came from his side, it was one of the portraits that were hanging from the stone brick walls. He turned his head, the line of his lips quivering with even more power than before, heart pounding against his chest. Bevan, if he was remembering correctly. One of his first-ever students that he had begun teaching when Rowena finally persuaded him to become a professor of the Dark Arts. He was a jolly and cheerful young lad that seemed to always be in the center of trouble and pranks that were carried out throughout the school. Merlin actually took a great liking to the tyke for his mischief behavior, mostly because it reminded him of how he was like back in Camelot.

"Nice to know that you still haven't forgotten about me, Bevan." both of them grinned cheekily, Bevan giving the largest as his eyes glinted with ecstasy. Merlin grew forever grateful to the creation of moving ink.

"You too, but…" he scanned his former teacher from head to toe, eyebrows rising to the trim of his hairline. "Is it just me or have you gotten younger? Weren't you like, a hundred or something when you were teaching here? How are you even still alive- I mean," he choked on his own words before catching up, "You're supposed to be dead."

As true and right his words were, magic always had a way of its own. Merlin, slightly affronted from his statement, gave a wry smirk before shrugging. "Magic works in mysterious ways," he chuckled, "And aren't you supposed to be more respectful to your former professor and headmaster?"

"Alright, Professor Am-"

"It's Professor Evans," he corrected mockingly back.

"New identity? What's the occasion? Have you returned to begin your reign of terror like you did back when I attended?" Bevan had placed a hand on the edge of his hip, the other hand that was holding firmly onto a broomstick lowering down as his smile broadened even more. It was hard to believe that he was just a painting of the past, yet he had more emotion than a human being.

"Nah, although, I'll take that idea into consideration for future preparations." Merlin gave a loud hearty laugh before wiping his sleeve across his mouth and wetting his lips. He hadn't realised how much he had missed chatting away with his students, maybe it had become a habit of his. He always did have a charm for talking to others - especially Arthur. He could quite confidently boast about how Arthur adored the sound of his voice, principally when they started their bickering sessions on which the knights enjoyed listening to in the halls. Merlin could have sworn that he had once heard laughter coming from the other side of Arthur's chambers when he was slapped against the head.

As the two chatted away like old friends finally beginning to catch up on each other's lives, both of them failed to notice the loud gasps of surprise that came from the other portraits that decorated the stone walls. The small clicking of footsteps pattering down the stairs in a fast and agile stride down the staircase echoed rather loudly down the hall, a dark black cloak billowing furiously behind the straightened figure.

"Ah, Professor Snape!" One of the knights that resided within one of the many portraits gave a bellowing guffaw, intentionally being disregarded by the said man. Many of the portraits had either stiffened or leaned back at his presence, a clear sign for how alarmed and terror-stricken they were from merely looking at him. Heaven knows what would happen if he glared them straight through their eyes.

Severus Snape was a thin man with sallow skin, a rather large hooked nose — that was bound to get some comments or witty remarks from Merlin — and yellow, uneven teeth, though they still had some sparkled charm to them. Adorned with long flowing robes which, oddly if not conveniently, made him resemble an overgrown bat. His hair, on the other hand, was greasy-looking — which would once again receive another comical comment from none other than Merlin himself — that had a familiar shade of black to that of Merlin's. Only, his framed the side proportions of his face like curtains to a window. But what really drew the most attention to him were his curled lips and dark, penetrating eyes that starkly duplicated that of tunnels. It was no wonder they were afraid of the shadow-like professor.

Merlin, still as oblivious as he ever was, continued with his little prattle between the portrait and himself without a care in the world. As he brings forth his right hand, he spreads his palm out and stretches his fingers, standing a few steps away from the painting with a cautious if not imprudent smile. Snape pauses in his furious stride, his mouth opening slightly before shutting down, a tendril of curiosity pulling him down. Just what was this man doing?

Still ignorant of the bat-like professor only a few feet away from him, a small sparkle of flickering lights emitted from the center of his palms like miniature fireworks that would shine in the midnight sky. Earning himself a burst of bewildered and cheerful laughter from the boy within the painting, he looks up with a toothy grin. He felt as though he was a child managing to impress their parents for his remarkable talents — and he couldn't very well say that he didn't enjoy the feeling of mild accomplishment. It was, after all, what he enjoyed most. To use his magic, and if it made even one person happy, or even smile at the very least, he was proud to call himself a wizard, a warlock.

Snape furrows his brows into tight twisted knots, his mouth ajar as his brain sputters about in his head, trying to fully gather what just unfolded before him. Wandless magic? Wandless magic was the performance of magic without the use of a wand, or anything at all. No enchantments either. Such magic was often difficult to perform, and the after-effects of attempting it could have unexpected or turbulent results if not done correctly. It made it severely challenging for Snape to believe that someone — so young as well — other than the headmaster, would be able to wield that much skill and control over their magic. If he weren't so stubborn as to concede to the fact that he was, indeed, jealous, he would have questioned his methods.

"Mr. Evans," his voice had become increasingly strident as his hands interlinked with each other over his chest.

With wide, twinkling eyes and a slightly opened mouth, Merlin snapped his head to face the petrifying man in all his wrath. At that moment, Merlin had jumped at the abrupt deepness of the voice, if not by the professor's appearance, with the flashing ball of light he was just so recently showing off to Bevan leaping off his hand and into the air. Glancing back at his hands to ensure the light had diminished, he noticed the faint outlining of it soaring above him freely before pelting straight after Snape. Without a second thought in his reckless actions, he snapped his fingers in a swift motion. Barely inches away from the Potions Master's hooked nose, it shattered into minuscule dust particles, completely harmless to the skin. Hopefully at least.

"If you were nothing but an incompetent student of mine, I assure you that you would, without a doubt in my mind, be serving an entire month's worth of detentions," he sneered, the faint silhouettes of his few wrinkles now visible due to his unrelenting furry.

Merlin gulped, but gave him his best daring grin, "But just this once we'll let it go?" It was all a very familiar experience to him, one that he had endured during the medieval era. Although his memories were feebly blurry because of the years that had passed, Uther Pendragon wasn't a face he'd ever forget under any circumstances — not even old age. The ungrateful tyrant murdered those that had similar talents to his own, he didn't even stop at children but infants too.

Snape cocked his head up, his dark blackening eyes seeming to pierce through the warlock like he was a mere parchment of paper. They traveled downwards from his face first, then to his feet where he took the time to gather up the spiteful comments of his attire. It was fairly clear to tell that Merlin hadn't even bothered to look as much presentable as he could muster up — and so Snape labelled him as; lazy and inadequate. Alongside a couple of other notes he kept inside his head. So, basically, he was just like another one of his students, but older, full stop.

"So," he drawled, reinforcing his hands locked together, "you're the new professor that Dumbledore mentioned." Merlin's smile broadened as he opened his mouth to say something before he was beaten to it. "A pity, really. Someone so young like yourself should have been made a student, heavens know why you have even accepted the position in the first place."

Merlin, having been affronted from the passive-aggressive insults that were so mercilessly thrown at him, wrinkled his brows down in annoyance, the fury and anger stirring inside his eyes being clearer than the swept corridors beside them. However, in less than a minute of heavy breathing, any remnants of frustration vanished from his eyes with a new beam of joy overcoming him — though it was considerably forced, not that he had known that. There were still some traces of irritation and displeasure, but he managed to sugar coat it just fine by himself.

"Appearances can be very misleading and deceptive if one isn't too careful," he chuckled lightly, mockingly copying his actions and intertwining his calloused hands together. "Severus Snape." He finished off with one of his famous smirks, one of which was quite known to be shown after a mess of chaos he had created. And boy, did he leave a big one or what?

In response, the Potions Professor merely arched an eyebrow at the warlock before pursing his lips into a thin, narrow line. "Indeed, they can." He found himself beginning to question what house the bloke would be placed under, and he was slowly, but surely, starting to think that he was more likely to fit in with the Gryffindors — after all, he matched their description. Which was — in Snape's personal opinion — arrogant, barbaric, and foolish if not a little witty and self-absorbed. Which begged the inquiry of how exactly this man knew his name at all. He was justly certain that his name wouldn't be included in the letter Dumbledore must have sent him, unless, of course…

"Onto more pressing matters, I expect you to have an official letter from the headmaster himself?" Snape wasn't at all impressed by his potential colleague's mimicking behavior, a matter of fact, he seemed to be even more disgruntled than before if that was even possible. It truly was incredible how far one man's irritation can be extended even beyond the presumed limit. His attention was side-tracked to the trembling shake that was coming from his wand pocket before looking back up quickly as if he was unfazed, Merlin expressing great confusion before forming a small oval shape with his mouth. "What?" he eyed him gingerly.

"I don't have it," he stated blatantly, taking a step back as he patted himself down briskly. He quietly cursed himself — of course, he didn't have a letter, he hadn't even bothered with it at all, it was his school after all. Perhaps he should have been a bit more thorough when planning this whole thing. It never seemed to amaze him how forgetful he could still be at the age of literally one thousand years old, maybe more, which only made issues worse. He needed to improvise, and quickly. He could tell just by raising his head to face the stern professor that he was about to be kicked out — out of his own school at that. He blamed his impetuous self for it.

"Mr. Evans, a marvelous coincidence to see you once more," feet patted down the stairs in a nimble gait, the voice reverberating down the hall boisterous with energy. The two raven-haired professors — which peculiarly pointed them out to be similar to brothers or in a father and son relationship — rotated their gazes to the thick toned elderly voice that had caught their attention.

"Headmaster," Snape trailed off, sparing a quick glance towards the boy before looking back again.

Merlin, who was the first to have regained his power for speech, split into a wide, furtive grin. "A pleasure to see you once more, Albus."