The Quirinus Case

"Merlin, eat something!"

They'd overslept.

The excitement surrounding Silas hadn't died down until long past midnight, and even Florean had slept in. He hadn't been surprised that Silas had magic. Apparently, the teachers at the magical primary school had also noticed and even Snape had mentioned the likelihood while asking him to foster the boys. But while Merlin had loved the sheer joy that spread over Silas' face when he'd realized that he'd be joining Merlin at Hogwarts in a year, he was also worried.

Part of him had hoped Silas wouldn't have magic.

Maybe that was cruel—he knew better than anyone how beautiful and amazing magic was. But last year he'd come face to face with none other than Lord Voldemort. At Hogwarts! The idea that Silas might get hurt—maybe he'd ask Florean to consider sending Silas to a different magical school. There was more than one, right? But then, there was nothing to stop trouble from happening at those schools either. Chaos followed magic around like an indentured servant.

He would know.

"Merlin."

He glanced up. He had been pacing in front of the kitchen table, too agitated to sit. He and Florean would be leaving to Quirrel's evidence hearing in a few minutes, as soon as Florean made sure everything was fine in the shop downstairs. Silas was watching him, holding out a piece of toast.

"You really should eat something." Now he'd made Silas worried.

"I'm not hungry," Merlin managed, resuming his trek around the table. How could he eat? He would have to submit memory evidence, talk about what had happened, how he had defeated Quirrell. The comfort that he got to choose which memories he wished to give was minimal. Just like Snape, they would wonder why he didn't give them the memory. The fight. And while he knew no one would suspect his identity at first, awkward questions would arise if they saw him use ancient druidic spells.

"You'll do fine," Silas said and he gave a reassuring smile. "Just tell them what happened, and it'll be over before you know it."

Not until Voldemort himself is defeated.

The sound of rushed footsteps scaling the stairs saved Merlin from answering. Florean entered, wearing a waistcoat of royal purple with silver stitching—the only one that had managed to avoid ice cream stains. The star-shaped buttons twinkled brightly in the morning light, and Florean checked to make sure they were all closed as he caught his breath.

"Right, kiddo," he said crossing the room and grabbing a piece of toast. "We need to leave." He held the toast in his mouth while he consulted a bronze pocket-watch. His eyebrows rose. "Immediately."

"Okay." Merlin took a deep breath. He could do this. What was he even worried about?

"Wish I could come," Silas muttered, giving Florean a look.

"No, we've already had this conversation," Florean said shaking his head. "This is by invitation only. Do some homework while we're gone."

"What—"

"Merlin, let's go." Florean led the way back to the door.

"Wait!"

Merlin turned as Silas ran up to him and stuffed a few pieces of toast into his hands. "Just in case you get hungry," he said. Although he was grinning Merlin could see the earnest look in his eyes, his assurance that Merlin would do great, that there was nothing to worry about—a good luck hanging unsaid in the air.

Merlin managed a smile. "Thanks," and he ran out the door. At the bottom of the stairs Florean was consulting his pocket-watch again. He looked up as Merlin approached.

"We have barely half an hour."

Merlin nodded. "How are we getting there?" he asked while Florean waved goodbye to his employees and led Merlin out of the shop. "Are we walking?"

"Course not," Florean snorted. "You've apparated before, right?"

Merlin blinked. "Yeah, with Snape."

"Good, because we've got no time for anything else." He put his hand on Merlin's shoulder. "Take a deep breath," and he turned on his heel.

Merlin felt the magic wrap around them, intertwining and bending, changing their bodies as they vanished and reappeared with a crack. They were standing in the wide entrance of the Ministry of Magic, where he and Snape had first arrived, on one of the several platforms lining the black tiled walls.

"You all right?" Florean asked him as he led the way off the platform, his hand resting reassuringly on Merlin's shoulder.

"I'll live," Merlin said, and he faked a grimace. He'd decided that he wanted to bring as little attention to himself as possible. The more normal he appeared, the better. Sure, Snape knew he hadn't gotten sick while apparating but that didn't mean everyone had to. And although Merlin liked Florean very much, he didn't know him that well yet. "Where's the hearing?"

"Down in the courtrooms." Florean led the way through the crowd and—Merlin groaned.

"Doesn't this place have stairs?"

"What's wrong with the lift?"

Merlin swallowed. "I'm just—not a huge fan," he said awkwardly.

Florean laughed. "Well, unfortunately we don't have time to find the stairs—I'm not even sure they have them, as a matter of fact." He joined the small queue that had already formed in front one of the lifts and surveyed his watch. "Yup, sorry kiddo. Definitely don't have time."

Merlin sighed, but when the doors opened he got in after Florean all the same.

"Floor?" a man next to the buttons asked.

"Ten, thank you," Florean said and the lift closed.

Merlin tried not to groan. They were the last floor, below the Department of Mysteries. He tensed as the lift shuddered into life, dragging them down. They stopped just one floor down—and were pushed further back as more people filed in.

"So, know what you're gonna say?" Florean asked him.

"Sort of." Merlin paused. "Why can't they just take Quirrell's memories?" he asked. "Wouldn't that answer everything?" He was the guy who was being charged, after all.

"You need to have evidence," Florean said. "If memories aren't volunteered, you need to have reason to take them."

"We have a reason."

"But you need some proof," Florean sighed, readjusting his waistcoat again as they went down another level. "It's a serious invasion of privacy, and can get painful if you fight it."

Merlin shot him a panicked look.

"I said, if you fight it."

Merlin wasn't sure that made him feel better. "So, innocent until proven guilty and all that?"

"Precisely. If all goes well today, I believe they'll withdraw some of Quirrell's memories. Even if he doesn't let them but—Merlin, memories are not the most reliable piece of evidence."

"What do you mean?" Merlin stumbled as several people leaving the elevator jostled him.

"Okay, well how you interpret a memory can change it. No one remembers all the details of day-to-day life, so when you remember something your brain fills in the gaps. The weather, what you were wearing, all of that." They shuddered to a halt, the cool female voice telling them they'd reached the Department of Mysteries. The last two people left and they were alone.

"Two people can remember the same thing differently, depending on what a person thought they saw. Do you understand?"

The lift opened for the last time and Merlin followed Florean out, mulling over this information. "I think so," he said slowly. "But, why allow memories at all then?"

"Why allow testimonies?" Florean countered. "They're the same thing, just spoken."

Merlin frowned. "So how can anyone know what happened for certain?"

"There's no certainty. It's called beyond a reasonable doubt for a reason. And, if all the testimonies match up on certain points, and the hard evidence—material evidence—supports what the witness says, then you can get a pretty good idea of what the truth is." When Merlin didn't reply Florean glanced at him. "It works most of the time."

"Yeah."

Looking ahead, Merlin saw a small crowd of people, queuing to get into the courtroom. And, waiting next to the door wearing navy blue robes, was Albus Dumbledore. He smiled merrily at them, and walked forward to meet them.

"Mr. Fortescue, pleasure to see you again, although I wish it was under—ah—different circumstances."

Florean beamed back at him, and heartily shook the hand that Dumbledore extended. "As do I. Come round my shop sometime, I've improved the lemon sherbet."

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled and he laughed. "It seems news of my favourite flavor has reached you." He turned to Merlin. "I'm sorry to put you through this, Merlin."

"Anything to stop Voldemort."

"Merlin!" Florean said in an urgent whisper, and he looked around them as though half expecting him to appear.

"It's perfectly all right, Mr. Fortescue. Fear of the name only increases the fear of the thing itself." He surveyed Florean through his half-moon spectacles until Florean turned pink and nodded.

"Now, Merlin," Dumbledore continued, "I'm believe Severus has told you that Quirrell will not be here today?" He waited for Merlin to nod. "Don't be nervous, everyone in that room just wants to hear what happened and will decide what to do with Quirrell accordingly. I'm leading the case against him, and I will call you up when it's time."

Merlin released a long breath. "Okay."

Dumbledore smiled at him, and then gestured toward the door. "You'll be sitting first row on the left. It's been marked."

Merlin nodded again and Dumbledore left them to speak to a witch wearing a monocle. Florean led the way through the doors and Merlin swallowed a lump building in his throat.

They'd entered a large hall, with a high ceiling, and arranged so that every single one of the raised seats was angled toward an open marbled floor. A tall wooden podium stood before them—glossy and chipped with age. No one was sitting up behind it yet, although scattered through the seats were several wizards adorning purple robes with gold lettering conversing with one another. Florean gave a sigh of relief as he looked around too and Merlin glanced at him.

"They've removed that hideous chair for the hearing."

"What?"

"Oh nothing—just supposed to be a chair with chains in the center of the room. Probably removed it because this is just an evidence hearing."

Merlin followed him to the left side of the room, where some seats had been marked, "reserved for witness," and sat down. Across he spotted some wizards in regular black robes, and one witch in acid green. She had short curly blond hair and a crocodile skin handbag, which she had propped on her lap. Florean groaned.

"How did she worm her way in?"

"Who?"

He nodded toward the woman. "That's Rita Skeeter."

Merlin recognized the name. "The woman who wrote that Daily Prophet article?"

"The same." Florean shook his head. "I had hoped they wouldn't let her in, but then again I'm not surprised. It's big news."

"Oh." Merlin wasn't sure how he felt about a reporter being there to witness his testimony. He looked jerkily away from her, and spotted a platinum blond head he couldn't forget. Lucius Malfoy was sitting a few rows above Rita Skeeter, donning a Victorian collar with his robes. As Merlin watched, he looked over at him and after a moment, nodded curtly before beginning a conversation with the man next to him.

"You all right, kiddo?"

"Yeah, just thinking." Merlin sighed and leaned back in his chair, watching as people continued to file into the courtroom. A woman with a monocle took the seat behind the podium. "Who's that?" he asked.

"Madam Amelia Bones. She's Head of Magical Law Enforcement."

That made sense. Merlin turned and smiled when he saw a familiar face entering the room. Madam Pomfrey came and took a seat on Florean's other side, and she leaned over to smile at him.

"You all right, Evans?" Madam Pomfrey asked, meeting his gaze. He wondered why everyone kept asking him that.

"Yeah. Why are you here?" He blinked, realizing that may have sounded rude. "I mean, are you testifying as well?"

"Of course. I was present for the aftermath of the staircase incident."

"Right!" Merlin smiled back. Dumbledore took the last seat on the end. Somehow, with so much backup Merlin couldn't help but feel that there was no chance Quirrell would get away with what he'd done. And neither would Voldemort. Merlin turned back to the rest of the room, noticing how it had filled. Not a single seat was left unoccupied, and everyone was talking, laughing, which should have relaxed him but only made him more anxious. He'd have to speak in front of all of these people. He turned his gaze back to Amelia Bones, and as Merlin watched—she stood.

The conversation died at once, all eyes turning toward the woman as she adjusted her monocle, straightened the parchment lying on the weathered podium with meticulous grace, and cleared her throat. He held his breath, feeling the tension of the room soar as energy rose in the air. His clamped his shaking hands together. His palms felt sweaty. Beside him, Florean placed a comforting hand on his shoulder and squeezed.

The hearing had begun.

"The Wizengamot is here today to hear the evidence against Quirinus Quirrell, previous Defense Against the Dark Arts professor of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardy, and to determine if the case should proceed to criminal trail."

There was a ripple through the jury as Amelia Bones spoke, and Merlin felt their flickering glances. He shifted in his seat, but kept his eyes fixed on the department head. Even from across the room, he could hear the scratch of a quill dancing across parchment. Florean clicked his tongue in annoyance and dropped his hand from Merlin's shoulder. Rita Skeeter was already penning her opinions then.

"As Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement I will conduct this hearing." She paused a moment, and Merlin thought he caught amusement in her frosty gaze. "I call Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts, Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards, and Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot to present his case against Quirinus Quirrell."

Dumbledore left his seat from the end of Merlin's row and strode down to address them. Conversation broke out at once, and Merlin heard snippets from around him.

"Dumbledore's the plaintiff?"

"I think the outcome of this case has already been decided."

Merlin frowned and looked at Florean. "If Dumbledore's Chief Warlock," he asked slowly, "doesn't that mean he's usually the one overseeing the court?"

Florean looked amused. "Only for the most serious cases. Madam Bones presides otherwise."

"Yeah, but," Merlin glanced down at Dumbledore—who had just responded to a wave from someone in the crowd—and trailed off. Florean seemed to know what was troubling Merlin because he sighed.

"Professor Dumbledore has a lot of influence in the Ministry, and the fact that he's the plaintiff tells everyone how important this is. Does Quirrell stand a chance?" Florean shrugged. "The Wizengamot is supposed to make unbiased decisions, looking only at the evidence presented to them—but there's a reason he's Chief Warlock. Wizards trust his judgment. You couldn't have asked for a better advocate."

Merlin didn't reply. He felt conflicted. Although the system was quite obviously more fair than a King bestowing a hasty judgment with barely any evidence except someone's word, Merlin had a feeling this system had moments of failure too. He half wondered if Quirrell would get the same verdict if Dumbledore weren't a factor—no. Merlin shook himself.

The man had tried to kill him, after all. And that was easily proved.

"As you may already know," the headmaster began, a serious edge in his tone now, "last year, Quirinus Quirrell took the post of Defense Against the Dark Arts at Hogwarts and over the course of the year it became clear to my staff and I that he was intending to steal the Philosophers Stone." He paused a moment as though waiting for questions, though none came. The room held its collective breath.

"Many," and here his blue eyes flickered over to Rita Skeeter, whose acid green quill was dancing across her parchment, "have criticized the wisdom in placing a highly valuable artifact inside a school. Allow me to explain. The genius behind it, Nicolas Flamel, is an old and dear friend of mine, and over the summer he became aware that it's location had been leaked and that leaving it in the care of Gringotts Bank—although a truly fine establishment—would be most unwise. I encouraged this, and volunteered to take the stone under my possession. You can imagine my surprise that someone would attempt to steal the stone while it was in my care."

One person laughed, and the headmaster smiled. "Precisely."

Merlin had never felt such a pleasant and electrified mood. The way Dumbledore commanded the floor made him feel very small indeed— somehow it didn't process that he had done just the same at King Arthur's Court.

"Because a series of events, my staff and I came to suspect Quirinus of possessing a more malevolent nature, but by then we were unable to secretly move the stone. The testimonies that you will hear today will force you to question matters the wizarding society has buried for years. I can only ask that you consider them with the urgency they deserve." He offered his hands, Madam Bones ruffled her papers.

"The first piece of evidence," she read, "that you wish to submit regards an incident taking place on Halloween night, yes?"

"Indeed, yes—but you must forgive me, as some professors wish not to be named. They have submitted their testimonies anonymously, as I'm sure you understand."

Madam Bones nodded. "We have discussed this matter. You may proceed."

The headmaster inclined his head to her, and began. "On Halloween night, Quirinus Quirrell ushered a mountain troll into my school." A shocked silence met his words. "During the feast, Quirrell ran to the head table and announced that a troll had somehow found it's way into the dungeons. I—who had already begun to suspect him—had one of my professors keep an eye on him, while I led the rest to confront the creature. The professor encountered Quirrell while he was on his way to the third floor, where the stone resided."

"And the troll?" asked Madam Bones.

"Had somehow found its way into the second corridor."

"I'm sure you understand that this is circumstantial, at best?"

"Of course."

Madam Bones nodded. "Please continue."

Dumbledore then spoke about how Quirrell had been seen acting strangely, wandering the corridors at night and speaking to a disembodied voice. One of his professors had managed to catch Quirrell during one of these episodes and reported the behavior, and how it became clear after piecing together all the snippets of conversation that he was planning on stealing the stone.

"I was not the only person to have pieced this together either. One Merlin Evans," and here all the eyes flashed toward him before returning to Dumbledore, "discovered the professor's intent. And he very nearly paid for his discovery with his life." He paused again. "I call Madam Pomfrey to the stand."

Merlin glanced down the row as the medi-witch got to her feet and joined Dumbledore on the floor. She politely declined the offer of a chair, and Madam Bones surveyed her through her monocle for a long moment before asking, "You are the medi-witch of Hogwarts, correct?"

"I am."

"Headmaster, you and your witness have the floor."

But Dumbledore didn't ask any questions. Madam Pomfrey cleared her throat and began at once, sending a tender look in Merlin's direction. "Merlin was brought to the hospital wing just after dinner by Professor Quirrell, after a supposed nasty fall down the stairs."

"I'm sorry, did you say Professor Quirrell brought him?"

"I did indeed."

"And why would he have done that, if he had attempted to kill him?"

"He wanted to silence Merlin, not kill him. If a student had been killed, the school would've gone into lockdown and he would never have made it near the stone. Professor Quirrell brought him in unconscious, and I must say that even I didn't expect him to regain consciousness so quickly—he had fallen two flights of stairs. But he woke while I was talking to Quirrell and immediately accused the professor of attacking him."

She shook her head. "I assumed his head injury had confused him. At the time, I didn't understand why the man would hurt Merlin if to bring him to the hospital wing either. But he used the incident as an excuse to give Merlin a sleeping draft. And, as Merlin's agitation made him liable to further injure himself, I saw no reason not to agree."

"I take it then, you were not one of the staff members to suspect Quirinus Quirrell."

"Not at the time, no. I was not part of the protection for the philosopher's stone, and frankly had little interaction with the professor." She narrowed her eyes. "I am disgusted that he could—"

"Thank you, Madam Pomfrey," Dumbledore said kindly behind her. She clamped her mouth shut, nodded, and returned to her seat.

"Would you please call your key witness?" Madam Bones asked, and Merlin swallowed. The eyes all moved to him again, and this time they didn't leave.

"Ah yes. If you could join me, please Merlin?" Merlin quickly got to his feet, and as he passed, Florean patted his back reassuringly. For a minute he thought Madam Pomfrey was going to break into tears—thankfully she didn't. Merlin released a long breath when he reached Dumbledore and looked up at Madam Bones. Somehow, the room felt much larger from this vantage point.

"You are Merlin Evans?"

He cleared his throat. "Yes." He pretended he was just in King Arthur's Court again, that he had to give another speech to the advisors. He stood straighter.

"Please explain what happened."

So he did. He told them how he had started to suspect Quirrell after the troll incident, and how one day he forgot his book back in the classroom. He decided to go retrieve it after dinner, and when he entered the classroom he heard Quirrell talking to someone in his office and thought nothing of it until he'd heard a high cold voice reply. He had then crept to the door and when he peaked through the open crack he saw another face on the back of Quirrell's head—with red eyes and a flat snake-like nose.

Immediately, there was an uproar. Several people jumped to their feet. Rita Skeeter took the quill in her hand and started writing feverishly. Dumbledore put his hand on Merlin's shoulder.

"You mean to say that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is involved?" one man shouted from the top row.

"Impossible," said another. "He was defeated over a decade ago. This is preposterous!"

"Possession of that kind has never been documented!"

"Order!" shouted Madam Bones, and she slammed her mallet onto the podium. "Headmaster, do you go on record claiming that Professor Quirrell conspired to steal with philosopher's stone with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, in addition to attacking your student?"

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled. "I do indeed." He looked around at the shocked and furious faces before him. "Because as this is difficult to swallow, Merlin has graciously volunteered to present his memory of the incident for collaboration."

There was a shout of approval. "Bring a pensive!" Madam Bones called, and at once the doors opened. Two men entered, one leading a pedestal with their wand, while the other carried a large silver basin. Merlin and Dumbledore moved away as they placed the pensive in the middle of the room.

Dumbledore turned to Merlin. "Do I have your permission?"

Merlin's throat had gone dry. "You do." He hoped his voice sounded firmer than he thought it did. Dumbledore smiled at him and led him to stand beside the pensive.

"Now, I want you to think of the memory, especially the beginning and the end. I will place my wand against your temple and draw it while you think of it—do you understand?"

Merlin nodded, and Dumbledore placed his wand against his temple. It was an odd sensation, and not altogether unpleasant. Merlin saw the moment play in front of his eyes in fast forward, and within a moment Dumbledore had drawn a long silver strand with his wand. He then carefully transferred it over to the basin.

"If the Wizengamot would please turn their attention to the pensive," Dumbledore said, and Merlin nearly rolled his eyes. As if anyone's attention was elsewhere. His memory swirled in the basin for a minute before jumping up, and the scene started to play before them like a film.

Merlin carefully pushed open the door to the classroom and peered inside. It was dark and empty. He smiled and walked inside, strolling casually over to his desk and grabbing his bag. He slung it over his shoulder and was just about to leave when he heard voices. Confused, Merlin glanced toward Quirrell's office door. It was ajar, and he could hear someone mumbling when another voice cut sharply across.

"We cannot wait much longer!"

Merlin froze. The high, cold voice did not belong to the professor. It still sent chills down his spine, made his stomach writhe with disgust. It felt cloyed with decay and malice, a pathetic creature that was just barely hanging onto life.

Merlin slowly climbed the steps to Quirrell's office listening all the while.

"Master, we cannot act while Dumbledore is watching our every move! He would stop us before we even started playing the music for that oafs dog!"

"Then get him out of the castle," the other voice cut like an ice shard. "We only require a few hours. One urgent message from the Ministry of Magic should be enough to distract him."

"And what of Severus, he know something—"

"He is of no consequence."

Merlin had reached the landing, and on his hands and knees he looked through the crack of the open door. He clamped a hand over his mouth so that he wouldn't scream. Quirrell was sitting at his desk holding a mirror in his hand, while sitting in front of another. His purple turban lay discarded on the floor. Reflected in the mirror was, not the back of Quirrell's head but a face. The most awful face Merlin had ever seen.

Several people in the Wizengamot gasped. One woman offered a faint scream.

He had no nose. Instead, there were crude slits cutting into the pallid and peeling skin. And his eyes, red gleaming eyes that shone in the darkness of the office. There was no mistaking who that was even if Merlin had never seen him before.

Without waiting there a second longer, he tiptoed back down the stairs. Back into the main classroom, and he made a mad dash for the door but halfway there he heard a clatter and froze. His bag had caught one of the chairs, knocking it over.

He heard some movement from Quirrell's office, and the next minute the professor had emerged, tugging his turban on straight.

"Evans?" He said softly, looking down at Merlin.

"S-sorry, professor," Merlin said quickly, putting the chair back by the desk. "I-I just forgot my bag this afternoon. Thought I'd come pick it up after dinner." He took a step back. "I didn't mean to disturb you. I'll just be going."

Quirrell didn't say anything for a long moment. Merlin hovered next to the door.

"Yes," Quirrell finally said nodding. "Be sure to study for exams."

He had no stutter. Merlin nodded nervously and slipped out the door but once he was in the hallway, he ran as fast as he could. But when he reached the head of the stairs, he found out why professor Quirrell hadn't bothered to keep up his charade of the poor stuttering professor. And like he had thought, he hadn't wanted to know.

He didn't have time to turn around when he heard a mumble behind him. The curse hit him hard, like a kick in the back and he fell from the top of the stairs. One flight, and then a second. Merlin had a fleeting glimpse of the ground rushing up to meet him before he collided with it and with a flash of horrible pain the world dissolved into darkness.

The memory dissolved back into the basin, and for several minutes no one spoke. Merlin took a deep breath. It had been very different watching it unfold before him. He looked up to the stands and found Florean's white face staring back at him. When he met his eyes though, he offered Merlin a reassuring smile. Madam Bones cleared her throat.

"Please continue your testimony, Mr. Evans."

Merlin nodded. "So—so after I woke up in the hospital wing, I knew that Quirrell was going to go after the stone and—"

"Just a minute, Madam Pomfrey said she gave you a sleeping draft—and yet you managed to wake from it?"

Merlin met Madam Bone's gaze evenly. "Yes."

"Our potions master has informed me that Mr. Evans has an uncommon tolerance to potions," Dumbledore added. While it wasn't surprising that Snape had told Dumbledore it still stung. Merlin swallowed thickly and nodded in agreement, hoping the movement didn't suddenly look stiff. Madam Bones glanced at Dumbledore before back to Merlin and motioned for him to continue.

"So—and I'll preface this by saying I wasn't really thinking—" he thought he heard a few chuckles in the audience, which eased the tension coiling in his stomach, "—I snuck out of bed and decided to head him off. I ran into my friends—" Merlin faltered and glanced at Dumbledore. He knew Hermione wouldn't mind getting drawn into the testimony but Draco—and Lucius was in attendance. Dumbledore seemed to know what was troubling him because he cleared his throat.

"Their names have already been submitted, yes?"

Madam Bones glanced at her papers and frowned. "I don't—ah yes, I see." She returned her gaze to Merlin. "You encountered them in the hallway?"

"Yes! They had been sneaking up to see me, you see," and he smiled at the memory. "So I told them what happened and had them go get my head of house and the headmaster, while I went directly to the third floor corridor."

"But why?" A man spoke up and there were several murmurs of agreement. "What did you expect to do in your state?"

Merlin shrugged. "I don't know. I just had to hold Quirrell off long enough for the other professors to arrive.

"You did more than that, as I understand it," Madam Bones said. She was perusing the documents again. "I see here that the stone was guarded by a series of obstacles?"

"Protection for the stone, provided by some of my professors," Dumbledore said. He glanced at Merlin and raised his eyebrow. "But I believe they were for the most part defeated by the time Merlin arrived."

Merlin nodded. "Yes, Quirrell pretty much paved the way for me." Merlin held his breath as Madam Bones surveyed him. Yes, Fluffy and the Devil's Snare had all been taken care of for him but that'd still left Flitwick's obstacle and he didn't really want to explain how he'd managed to break the door down. Luckily it seemed that she didn't require any further explanation.

"What happened when you reached Professor Quirrell?"

For a long moment, Merlin couldn't speak. He saw Quirrell clearly in his mind's eye, standing in the middle of the chess board, just about to win—and then he saw himself. He remembered how good it had felt to stop pretending, to confront the professor. Merlin lifted his head.

"He was in the middle of the room, about to win the chess game—that was the obstacle, except the pieces were life-size and you had be one of them. He saw me." Merlin glanced at Lucius Malfoy, noting the way the man was leaning forward. "He asked me to join him."

"I assume you said no," Madam Bones said, and Merlin was relieved to see that she actually seemed amused.

"You would assume correctly." He sighed and scratched his head. "I realized that the best way to buy time would be to get the game to reset—so I stepped onto the board and fired a blasting charm at the doors." He shook his head. He knew he was seriously downplaying himself, but knew no one would pay too much attention to that. "Somehow it worked, and the pieces all cleared for another game and Quirrell—well, he was pissed. I dived behind one of the chess pieces, and it blocked most of his spells. I just threw whatever spells I knew at him, and basically prayed that the headmaster would arrive quickly."

He paused, knowing that his lack of detail was frustrating Rita Skeeter. She had looked up from her notepad and was frowning at him. Maybe she'd just hoped for a thrilling tale of him beating the professor in a duel or something. But the next part—well there was no way to reinvent that.

"He—Quirrell I mean—cast a spell that animated the chess piece or something because it turned on me and hit me with it's sword." He thought he saw Florean flinch out of the corner of his eye. Merlin swallowed, trying not to focus on how the stone sword had slammed into him, breaking ribs and flesh. "I—remember hitting the ground. I was losing consciousness, and that knight was getting ready for another attack. I just—I just panicked. I let myself panic." He took a deep breath. "I've had some problems with accidental magic before, and I could feel it building in my chest and I tried to channel it, you know? I mean, it sorta worked because I survived, but I also brought the roof down."

"Let me see if I understand this correctly, Mr. Evans," said Madam Bones, cocking one of her eyebrows. "You somehow managed to collapse two floors with accidental magic?"

Merlin felt his face grow hot. He shuffled his feet, but managed not to look away. "Yes." The crowd of onlookers didn't say anything. Instead there was a shift of movement as they glanced at each other and Rita Skeeter was writing feverishly again. He waited for Madam Bones to ask another question, to say something about the sheer power it would require to cause such destruction or maybe that it was impossible to direct accidental magic at all, but she turned to Dumbledore instead.

"It was you, Headmaster, who first reached the third floor corridor, correct?"

"It was indeed," and Dumbledore smiled. "Along with Professor Snape, Merlin's head of house."

"Can you explain what you saw when you reached Mr. Evans?"

"Certainly, however I would rather show you." Dumbledore glanced around the Wizengamot. Several nodded eagerly, and Madam Bones gestured to the pensive before them.

Dumbledore placed his wand against his temple and withdrew the memory, dropping it with practiced ease into the basin. Like it had done with Merlin's, the image rose to become a pillar and expanded until they were looking at a projection of the memory as if it were a three-dimensional filmstrip.

The Headmaster was running through an underground passageway, walls lined with what looked like charred plant matter. He said nothing to the man accompanying him, not even when they entered the next room, bright with cold white light and filled with flying keys, and saw the door blasted off it's hinges—dust and debris spilling over the threshold.

But he did look at the man. Severus Snape did not meet his gaze, his expression tight and gaunt. Dumbledore jerked his attention back to the defunct door and stepped onto the rubble, his wand held firmly in his grasp. The sight that reached him—it forced him to pause, his lips parting for a breath. The ceiling had given way, a chasm of stone stretching the entire length of the room. Three classrooms from the level above had been caught in the blast, and splintered desks, cracked chalkboards, and bent chairs were strewn about the crater. Most of the chess pieces appeared to have been buried, but some poked through the fallen rock like sprouting flowers.

"Merlin!" Snape shouted, the panic of his tone unmistakable. It was a quality rarely heard in the Potion's Master voice—soft but thick with emotion that pushed the sound toward desperation.

The light in Dumbledore's eyes had vanished. He looked much older, but as he flicked his wand and sent a stream of light to slither over the rocks in search of life, the old power was tangible, even through the memory. Snape took a deep breath, watching the light as it circled settled on a spot just to the left of them. He lifted his wand.

"Careful," Dumbledore cautioned, but it didn't feel directed at the action. Snape gritted his teeth and swish-flicked his wand. Dumbledore joined and together they levitated rock from the spot as quickly and carefully as they could. From the rubble they unearthed a black knight, fallen forward, a tuft of black hair just visible through a gap in the stone.

"Merlin!" Snape shouted again. "Merlin! Albus—"

Dumbledore didn't answer immediately. He removed the chess piece covering the boy, and Snape approached at once. For a second, all they could see was Snape's billowing robes as he bent over Merlin Evans. Dumbledore cleared his throat, defeat in his voice.

"Is he—"

Snape gave a loud sigh of relief. "He's alive. Dumbledore, he's alive." Snape shook his head and conjured a floating gurney. He carefully levitated Merlin onto it, revealing him for the first time. He was out cold, an uncomfortable amount of blood caking his clothing. "I've stopped the bleeding," Snape continued, and he waved his wand over Merlin again. "At least he won't die of blood loss. The idiot."

"A brave one."

"No—" Snape whirled around to face Dumbledore. "This was not bravery. This was sheer stupidity. I don't know how badly—he's got several broken bones, a concussion—Bloody Hell Albus, the boy was stabbed! He was an idiot to even try. How could a child hope to fight a professor on equal terms?"

But Dumbledore cast his eyes around the destroyed room, "How indeed," he said and Snape deflated as the memory faded.

Sometime during the memory, Merlin had wrapped his arms around himself. His hand rested against the line of raw pink scar tissue where the chess piece had hit him. He hadn't even noticed the scar until he'd come home for the summer. His own memory of the incident swam to the surface and he resisted the urge to wince, instead tightening his grip on the tender flesh. It was only now that it hit him, after watching himself being lifted bloody and limp. This had happened to him just a few weeks ago. It hadn't even been a month since the incident. Without magic he would still be on the mend—or dead.

"Are you all right, Mr. Evans?"

Merlin snapped out of his musing, and realized that everyone had been watching him silently. He dropped his arms, nodding. His throat felt too tight for speech at the moment. Madam Bones watched him a moment longer before clearing her throat.

"All those in favor of proceeding to trail." There was a rustling, and a clear majority raised their hands. Madam Bones looked around the room, her own hand in the air and nodded. "The trial of Quirinus Quirrell will take place the first week of August."

And with the bang of a mallet, the hearing concluded.

Only A Boy

Merlin shouldn't have seen that.

Florean shook his head, and leaned back in his armchair. The boy in question was asleep now. They'd returned from the hearing to Silas waiting tables—which Florean had a feeling might actually be illegal. But at the look on Merlin's face, Silas had apologized at once, taken off his apron, and accompanied them upstairs for a rundown of the hearing. Merlin had behaved almost normally, and if weren't for the way Silas watched him Florean wouldn't even have realized something was wrong.

And maybe nothing was. Maybe he was just reading too much into it. Florean grunted, and brought his pipe to his lips again, taking in a long breath. Purple smoke furled from his nostrils, and he blew the remainder into the air. But the image of Merlin's bloody form was seared into his mind. He couldn't shake it. Now, he was glad that Merlin had decided not to submit his memory of the actual fight. He wasn't sure about everyone else was—but he didn't need to see the boy fight to know he'd done something both amazing and terrifying. He felt it like an ache in his bones.

Florean frowned, and extinguished his pipe with a wave of his hand. He set it gently back into the cabinet behind him, and got up. He had no doubt that Rita Skeeter was going to put something in the Daily Prophet about Merlin living with him, and be damned if that didn't mean his shop would be full of people hoping to get a look at the boy. Great for business—bad for privacy.

Florean walked down the hallway and paused outside their room. He pushed open the door and peered inside. As he had thought, they were both asleep. Silas' blankets were slipping to the floor, covering Merlin's bed, and it was with a small smile that Florean entered the room and picked up the fallen cover. A glint of silver caught his eye in the dim light. He blinked, placed the blanket back over Silas' shoulders and bent to the floor. Just beside Merlin's bed was a long silver chain holding a beautiful ring.

It must have fallen off Merlin's neck while he'd slept. Florean picked it up and surveyed the ring for a long moment. The wings of the merlin caught the light and shone, the blue illumined. He looked past the unique ring, to the sleeping child and smiled. He placed the ring on Merlin's bedside table, and closed the door behind him with a soft click.