What's in a Choice?
Sometimes Ginny Weasley wished she'd been born a boy.
Not that she disliked being a girl—she was actually rather proud of being the only girl among six brothers. It made her feel special. At the same time though, she hated the way they excluded her from their games, as though girls were somehow inferior when it came to gnome tossing or Quidditch. Course, she was going to shove it in their stupid faces later when she became Quidditch Captain—but that's beside the point.
At least she got her own room.
It had previously belonged to Bill, before he'd left for Egypt. He'd left behind some odds and ends—couple posters of ancient wizarding tombs, a blood red throw pillow, some stale Bertie Bots Every Flavor Beans, and a couple matchless socks. She planned to stich a dragon onto the pillow when she could do it justice. Her skill with a needle wasn't great. Maybe Charlie could make her a pattern—he kept sending her dragon sketches. Anyway, Percy got Charlie's old room across the hall—a reward for becoming prefect. Which meant Ron ended up with his own room too, but Ginny thought he kinda deserved it after living with Percy for so long.
Her door closed, Ginny leaned against the wood and listened to Mum telling off Dad for fighting at the bookstore.
"Really Arthur, what were you thinking? And stopped by a boy Ron's age—"
She stared at the ceiling, resting her head against the door and no doubt annoying the Holly Head Harpy poster that she'd pinned to it. She couldn't help but feel somewhat responsible for what'd happened at Flourish and Blots, even though everyone had assured her otherwise.
"Malfoy was looking for a fight," George had told her as they'd walked back to the fireplace in the Leaky Cauldron. "And he's the one who took your book first, isn't he?"
"With Dad's new legislation passing, he's probably in trouble. What's the bet he's got some dark artifacts from his Death Eater days still in the cupboards?"
Still, Ginny couldn't help but think that nothing would've happened if she hadn't been there. It was stupid, but now Mum was yelling at Dad and her gut churned uncomfortably at the sound. And how Merlin had stopped the fight? Well, that was something else entirely.
She didn't know much about Merlin. Fred and George seemed to like him a lot, and talked about their adventures constantly. During last year, Ron had complained about him and his friendship with Fred and George. It's like they don't even know he's Slytherin! But the more Ron had ranted, the more Ginny had started to agree with Fred and George. He didn't sound like any of the Slytherins their parents had told them about. In fact, it sounded like the twins were the ones corrupting Merlin, what with sneaking him out of the castle and getting him involved in their shenanigans. At the time, Her one memory of Merlin had been that of his smiling face as he'd waved goodbye to her through the train window.
A rather cute smile, if she was honest with herself.
Now she didn't know what to think. Even though Ron had mentioned how Merlin had collapsed a bookshelf in the library, and Fred let slip that Merlin had somehow exploded a broomstick, she'd never been able to picture him as a powerful wizard. She'd only seen someone like Ron cowering while Quirrell advanced—definitely not the display of wandless magic she'd just witnessed.
After Merlin had left the bookstore, everyone had been too stunned to say anything about it. Fred and George had picked up Merlin's dropped books and run after him with that Hermione girl. Ron had complained about her friendship with Merlin too. And about her know-it-all behavior. Maybe he liked her. Anyway, Mum had finished paying for all their books while Lockhart unsuccessfully tried to rope Dad into an impromptu interview and photo-shoot—then they'd left. Fred and George had met them outside, ice cream lingering about their identical smiles, but no one talked about Merlin and his magic.
Except her mother just now while yelling at her father.
Maybe she'd talk to him herself on the Hogwarts express—ask him what he'd done. Shaking her head, Ginny pushed off her door and glanced toward her pile of textbooks strewn haphazardly across her bed. She hadn't planned on opening them until term started but even Ron had recommended taking a look at her potions textbook beforehand. Apparently, the professor liked to quiz students the first day and was merciless if you didn't know the correct answer. Unless, of course, you were Slytherin and somehow Ginny doubted she was destined for that house.
Call it a Weasley hunch.
Figuring that she should at least organize her books—maybe throw a couple of them into her trunk and be done with it—she sat down on the edge of her mattress and started grabbing each volume in turn, glancing at the first few pages before setting it down on the floor in a neat pile.
But as she went to add her transfiguration book to the growing stack, a second, much smaller volume fell onto her bedspread. Ginny stared at it, looking from her transfiguration book to its dark cover with confusion. She'd gotten most her textbooks used so—so someone must have forgotten it or something. She picked up the black leather-bound book and thumbed through the pages.
It was blank.
On the back someone had inscribed the name Tom Marvolo Riddle in gold lettering. But whoever this Riddle was, he hadn't bothered to use the diary at all. Or journal—she wasn't really sure what the difference was. But… Ginny hesitated, running her hand over the slightly yellow pages again.
She's always wanted a diary. She'd considered starting one several times, asking Mum to pick up a blank book for her while out shopping. She never had because asking for such a selfish object had made her feel guilty—she wasn't blind, she knew their family had money problems. But she liked the idea of being able to write about her worries, her frustrations, the little things she noticed of life—the things she'd never been able to talk to Mum about. Last year had been the first time she'd gotten Mum all to herself but by then she'd learned how to deal with things on her own. Mum had always been sorting out some catastrophe her brothers' had caused, so when she'd finally gotten the change to talk about girl things, she found she didn't know how.
She'd never been particularly open with her feelings anyway.
But a diary? She could vent all she wanted—it was the perfect thing for her. Grinning, she leapt off her bed and went to her desk, pulling out a feather quill and an inkbottle. She opened the diary to the first page and sucked on her quill, wondering how to best to begin.
Dear Diary,
I'm Ginny Weasley. I'll be starting Hogwarts this year, so I thought it might be a good time to start keeping a diary. Never too early, as Dad likes to say.
She paused, re-reading what she'd wrote. Maybe she'd write about the incident at Flourish and Blots, get her thoughts straight before she talked to Merlin. But, before she could bring the quill back to the page, her words started to disappear.
Ginny froze, watching transfixed as the sentences sunk into the parchment, leaving it just as clean as before. Was—was that supposed to happen? She held her quill suspended above the page, racking her brain for some explanation as to why the diary had just eaten her words, when suddenly words started to reappear. But they weren't hers.
Hello Ginny Weasley,
I'm Tom Riddle. How did you come by my Diary?
She couldn't breathe. Now that definitely wasn't supposed to happen. She stared at the beautiful script, a small voice at the back of her head saying that she should probably tell her father, and stop writing this instant. The diary was clearly enchanted (and possibly dangerous). But—but it didn't' feel dangerous, she argued, watching as the letters faded away again. And she wanted to talk to someone, anyone, so badly. She closed her eyes and gritted her teeth. What was the worst that could happen?
It was just a diary.
Oh, hello.
Someone forgot you in one of my textbooks—Transfiguration if you were curious. But it looks like you're mine now. Can I tell you about my day, Tom? It was pretty crazy and I don't know what to make of it.
Of course. That's what I'm here for.
Okay. It begins with this boy named Merlin—
Only A Boy
"Still got that headache then?"
Merlin stopped pinching the bridge of his nose and looked up at Florean. Kings Cross breathed around them, trains staggering to a halt while others pushed out of the station. But busy as the station was, the storm of witches and wizards trying to board the Hogwarts Express needed to stagger their passage through the barrier between platforms nine and ten. The unofficial queue that had formed strolled slowly down the platform, pausing to appraise the train schedule, and looped back up to where one could slide into the barrier—or run into it, as seemed to be the fashion among younger students.
When Merlin didn't reply right away, Florean reached for his forehead, as though intending to feel for a fever. The motion startled Merlin, and he jerked back—shaking his head as color touched his cheeks. Florean had been behaving increasingly paternal since the court case, and Merlin wasn't sure what to make of it.
"It's fine," he said. "Just didn't get much sleep."
Florean held his gaze, a frown still lingering about the corner of his mouth. Well, Merlin wasn't lying—he had stayed up most of the night talking with Silas. The primary school Florean had enrolled Silas in had started today as well, which although exciting meant he couldn't come to the train station to say goodbye. They'd said their farewells at the flat of course, but it still felt strange without him. And yeah, he was returning to Hogwarts confident he'd left Silas in far better hands than last term, but he still would've liked to spend more time with him. Summer had gone by far too fast.
"Hm—well, if it gets any worse go see Madam Pomfrey," Florean said as they circled the barrier and came to a stop right beside it. "Or Snape," he added as an afterthought.
Merlin nodded once, avoiding his eyes. He'd hoped that whatever damage the dementors had inflicted would've healed by now—instead, it felt as if a pervasive cold had settled in his bones. Every morning brought the same soft pressure wrapping around his temples and settling behind his eyes, hands that increased their vice like grip as the day wore on. But he could handle a little discomfort. The pain was bothersome but bearable, and plus he didn't want to deal with the whole dose situation a trip to the infirmary would inevitably result in.
He probably just needed a little more time to heal.
"Right." Florean cleared his throat, straightening his striped orange and cream waistcoat. "It's our turn." He gave Merlin another lingering glance before striding toward the barrier, pushing the trolley with Merlin's trunk toward it—which was feather-light but of course the muggles didn't need to know that. Merlin followed him, and together they vanished from sight, to reappear on a packed platform featuring a brilliant red steam engine.
Florean consulted his pocket-watch. "Ten minutes," he said, "plenty of time." He tapped Merlin's trunk with his wand and it rose a few inches off the ground. "There, that's easier to maneuver. Just tap it with your wand when you get to a compartment." He pushed the trolley off to the side where an array of them was stacked against the wall, waiting for the careful return to muggle London.
Merlin almost laughed. Having told Hermione, Silas, and the twins about his fake wand he'd almost forgotten he hadn't told Florean. And speaking of—he still needed to tell Draco. It just hadn't felt right, putting something like that in a letter. He glanced around now, wondering if Draco had arrived yet, but didn't notice his blond hair amongst the crowd.
"So, I guess this is goodbye."
Merlin turned back to Florean. The man seemed awkward, fidgeting with the silver buttons of his candy-colored waistcoat, coffee-brown eyes crinkled in sheepish affection.
"Thanks," Merlin said, scratching the back of his neck. "For everything," he added, and he smiled.
Florean stared back at him, and then threw his arms around him in a tight hug. Merlin froze, startled. Would Florean really miss him that much? Maybe the sight of Merlin bleeding in Dumbledore's memory was still fresh in the ice cream connoisseur's mind. He was just wondering if he should pat Florean's back, when he pulled away. He ruffled Merlin's hair, messing up the untidy strands even more.
"You take care of yourself, kiddo," he said. Florean shook his head. "I don't want to read in the papers that you've—that you've blown up a greenhouse or something."
Merlin and a feeling that sentence had originally been heading somewhere much darker. He decided not to think about it. "I'll do my best," he said heaving an exaggerated sigh, "but if a greenhouse looks at me the wrong way…" he smirked.
Finally, Florean brightened. With a laugh he said, "Get on the train, you troublemaker." Merlin beamed back and started leading his trunk toward the express, but just as he reached it he heard Florean call him back. "And kiddo!" he said, some of the concern returning to his eyes, "don't be afraid to be yourself."
Anxiety flared unexpectedly at his words. Merlin swallowed, knowing he couldn't pretend this year. He wouldn't be able to. He lifted his head higher, and waved. "Till the holidays!" he watched one last smile stretch across Florean's face, and then boarded the train, still mulling over their parting words.
"Finally."
Merlin turned to see Draco marching up the corridor toward him, his collar loosened and blond hair missing its usual slicked back quality. "Well," Merlin said, noting his frown, "nice to see you too."
Draco glowered, and then peaked behind him out onto the platform. "My father didn't talk to you, did he?"
Merlin stared at him. "No," he said slowly. "Should he have?"
Draco shook his head, his eyes darkening. "Ever since that fiasco at Flourish and Blots he's been acting different." He inclined his head for Merlin to follow him down the corridor, dropping his tone as they passed full compartments.
"I take it by your tone it's not a good different," Merlin said guiding his trunk in front of him.
"He tried to transfer me to Durmstrang!" Draco continued, hissing the word. "And then when mother convinced him otherwise, he's done nothing but drop ominous threats." He paused and cleared his throat, adopting the soft clipped tones of his father. "It would be wise not to trifle with Mr. Evans any longer."
"I take it I'm no longer in his good graces," Merlin said, watching as Draco ran his fingers through his hair. "What happened to not antagonizing power and all that?"
"That's different. But—ah, it's complicated," Draco said, glancing back at him. It wasn't just the untidy appearance, Merlin realized. Draco looked tired, strained even, with shadows beneath his eyes and though fury was etched in the jut of his jaw, Merlin saw something else in his eyes—fear.
But of what?
Draco came to a stop beside a compartment and pushed open the door, revealing a lone occupant. Theodore Nott was a timid Slytherin who had nonetheless befriended Merlin during last term. As such, Merlin was surprised to see him shrink back, wringing his hands and avoiding eye contact. He exchanged looks with Draco, and entered—he'd have to clue Draco into everything later.
"What's up?" Merlin asked, taking the seat across Theodore while Draco stowed the trunk, stopping the levitation spell with a tap of his wand.
Theodore swallowed, his eyes darting between Merlin and Draco before settling on the latter. "My parents don't want me to associate with Merlin anymore." He started picking at his thumb, his ears turning red. "Said it'd look bad on the family."
Draco gave a derisive snort and flopped back onto the seat beside Merlin. "Yeah, same with my father but I've decided I don't give a flying—"
The compartment door swung open again and Blaise poked his head inside, interrupting Draco's expletives. He must've heard their conversation from the hallway because he jumped onto the topic without missing a beat. "Like I said last term, my mother doesn't care," he said taking the spot beside Theodore. "And even if she did, it's not like she can stop me."
"Exactly," Draco gestured toward him, grinning.
"Besides," Blaise continued, surveying Merlin closely, "there's only room in this world for one Dark Lord, isn't there?"
Merlin had almost forgotten he'd said those words at the end of last term to the whole Slytherin common room. He hadn't meant it like that, of course—or maybe he had. Maybe Blaise noticed the weight of his words because he didn't wait for a reply. "Anyway, tell us about the case, Hufflepuff! You never said you'd actually seen the Dark Lord. What'd he look like?"
As the seam engine began its long trek to Hogsmeade, Merlin recounted the Quirrell court case in as much detail as he could. Even Draco—who had already heard everything—hung onto every word. By the time he'd finished Blaise was staring at him and Theodore was meeting his eyes again.
"So—so Quirrell's sure that he's coming back," Theodore swallowed, his eyes wide.
Blaise whistled. "No wonder your families are getting twitchy," he said, leaning back in his seat and slinging his arms behind his head. "I wouldn't want my loyalty questioned either."
Draco had fallen silent, white-knuckling his knees.
"I guess I'll just have to persuade them over to my side," Merlin said shrugging.
Blaise snorted and even Theodore cracked a smile. "Good luck with that," Blaise said shaking his head. "You might have a few things going for you, but you're eleven—"
"Twelve." Merlin leaned forward, propping his chin on his palm.
"Happy Birthday—but I mean," and here Blaise grimaced. "You're coming up against a guy who's literally conquered death. If he comes back like Quirrell thinks he will, I think he'll gain more followers than ever."
"And you can't just stop being a follower either," Theodore added, his eyes darting toward Draco.
"Well, not unless you want a spot on the Dark Lord's hit list," Blaise sighed. He paused a minute before frowning, "Speaking off—" and his eyes narrowed slightly, "should we get you food tasters or something? I wouldn't put it past Crabbe to try scoring a few points by poisoning you."
"Wait." Merlin dropped his hand, sitting up. "Do I—" he turned to Draco, "—do I need to be worried about that?" Would his fellow Slytherins attack him? He hadn't even considered the idea. At the end of last term he'd felt accepted by his house, even with his muggle-loving ideals. "What ever happened to, our parent's mistakes not ours?"
Draco scratched the back of his neck. "That's true and all," and he glanced at Theodore now, "but we also have to go home and live with them. It's not like—" he faltered, his frown deepening.
"It's not like we have a choice," finished Theodore in a bare whisper.
He'd been so stupid. Merlin leaned back in his seat, casting his eyes to the ceiling. He had hoped that by influencing his housemates, they in turn would inspire their parents but instead he'd just created more conflict. Now his friends were trapped, imprisoned by their new ideas and progressive thinking in a cell built by their parents. He understood Draco's fear now, understood Theodore's. They were scared that in order to survive they'd have to realign with their parents and knowing that if it came to it, they'd do it.
They didn't have a choice.
Merlin wished he were older, able to influence the adults in charge of everything. Not to say he couldn't do anything as a kid, but Blaise was right—no one in their right mind would ditch an all-powerful Dark Lord to follow him. Not unless he became a real player in this game of power, an actual contender—not some lucky student. And Merlin had no illusions—one way or another Lord Voldemort would find his way back to corporeal form, and even the most powerful warlock couldn't defeat a whole army on his own.
Well, not a magical one.
He didn't need to tell the world he was Merlin, Prince of Enchanters. Even if he did he doubted anyone would believe him. Besides that Merlin was a different person, one that had founded magical society, who'd had a different destiny. He didn't need people to know who he used to be, only what he was now.
Merlin Evans.
"But," Draco added after a moment. "I don't think anyone will actually try to poison you. He's not back yet, and not even Crabbe's stupid enough to try something right under Dumbledore's nose."
"Yeah, plenty of time to persuade everybody over to Team Merlin," Blaise sneered. "What're going to call your followers? The Death Eater Eaters?"
Merlin rolled his eyes. "I'm not going to be some cult leader," he said while Draco burst into laughter. "I mean, does Dumbledore's followers have names?"
"Uh—"
"Actually, yeah," Theodore said, blinking in surprise. "They're the Order of the Phoenix. I remember my mum mentioning them."
They stared at Theodore for half a second, then—
"Okay, now you definitely need a name." Draco said clapping his hand together.
"Think it should have some magical creature in it? Merlin, what's your favorite creature?"
"Guys—" Merlin tried to say but Blaise ignored him, leaning forward to converse with Draco.
"What about the Threatening Thestrals?"
"That sounds like a Quidditch Team."
"Pity the Order of Merlin is taken—should we try to steal it back?"
"No, that'd get confusing for everybody."
Merlin groaned loudly as Theodore joined the discussion, all the noise aggravating his headache. He could just imagine the panic that would ensue if people thought he was amassing followers under the name Threatening Thestrals. Not exactly the message he wanted to send. After a few more failed attempts to switch the topic, he stood up.
"Where're you going?" Draco asked.
"Yeah, and hey—what about the Deadly Casters?" Blaise said, looking up too.
"Awful. I'm gonna find the toilet," he said, and as he shut the compartment door behind him, he heard Blaise and Draco argue over whether or not the name should include Order of or not.
Merlin paused in the corridor for a minute, rubbing his eyes. Sometimes he forgot just how young his friends were—and just how old he was. Sure, however he'd managed to de-age himself had left him more child-like than he would've expected—and he'd argue that he'd always been a child at heart—but there was a definite difference between his maturity and theirs. He heaved a sigh, and as he turned to walk up the train nearly collided with someone.
"Sorry—" he said automatically, taking a step back. Then flaming red hair caught his eye, and he realized he knew the person. It was Ginny Weasley. They stared blankly at each other for a moment, her brown eyes widening in delayed recognition.
"Oh," she said softly, and her cheeks went pink. "Hello."
"Hey," he said, and watched as she bit her lip. She tugged on a strand of her hair, glancing behind her.
"Um… Hermione's back at my compartment." She looked back at him. "I mean," she added, "if you going to looking for her."
"Oh! Right. I'll swing by, thanks."
They stood there, awkward for another moment before Ginny gestured behind her with a sheepish smile, and led the way back down the train. But after a dozen steps, she paused again and looked back at him, all trace of redness gone from her face. Instead her brows were knitted, frustration in her eyes—as though she'd been considering a complicated puzzle for days. Merlin stopped too, regarding her cautiously.
"Yes?" he said when the silence started to drag.
Ginny's frown deepened, then— "How do you know wandless magic?"
Merlin stared at her.
"Because," she continued as though she hadn't expected him to respond, "no one seems to know. I tired to ask Fred and George, but of course they're sworn to secrecy," she rolled her eyes. "Dad thinks it was accidental but you meant to do that, right?"
"Well—"
"He said we won't cover it at Hogwarts until six or seventh year," she went on, frowning now. "And most wizards don't even bother with it because it's so difficult. I asked—" she faltered and shook her head. "Well, everyone I asked doesn't really know what to make of it. Not to mention that whole thing with Quirrell!"
"Are you actually looking for an answer?" Merlin asked when she paused finally to take a breath.
"Looking. Not all that optimistic about finding." She gave him a surveying look, chewing on the inside of her cheek. "So it was wandless magic, then?"
"I—" He better get used to telling people. He had the sinking feeling he'd be repeating himself a lot in the near future, especially if he wanted to attract the attention of more than just his classmates. "Well I meant to do it, so—yes." It was a strange feeling, admitting it to someone he didn't know well. Nerve-wracking. Exhilarating. Freeing. Ginny was still watching him expectantly, her arms crossed.
"Well," she said when he didn't continue.
"Well what?"
She rolled her eyes. "How?" She gestured vaguely toward him. "How do you know wandless magic?"
"Oh." That was an unanswerable question, even if he'd wanted to tell her the truth. He remembered Gaius asking him something similar, wondering how he could catch a falling bucket of water without a spell at all. "I don't know, I just do. I was born like this." He gave an embarrassed smile.
She was staring at him again, her brown eyes wide and disbelieving. Then she shook her head and turned on her heel, continuing down the train. As he followed, he could hear her muttering under her breath, "Don't know what I expected. I—" she glanced back at him, "Wait, didn't you nearly fail first year?"
Merlin groaned. That was forever going to haunt him, wasn't it?
"Was that intentional?"
"Yes…"
"Why?"
"Are we close to your compartment?" he asked instead and she looked back at him again, stopping in the corridor.
"Why?" she repeated, emphatically.
"Other than this right here?" Merlin sighed. "I just didn't want the attention, all right?"
"Oh, and now you do?"
What was with this girl?
"It's not my fault Quirrell decided to go dark side," he snapped. "And I don't have much of a choice at this point, do I?"
She blinked, opened her mouth before changing her mind and closing it again. Merlin realized he'd raised his voice, and some of the other compartments had cracked open their doors to listen in. He swallowed and scratched the back of his neck, avoiding Ginny's eyes.
"The compartment is just at the end."
She had turned around and started leading the way again. The back of her neck was flushed, and there was a stiffness in the way she stepped. Merlin almost didn't follow her, still frustrated by both the conversation and his reaction to it. He hadn't expected Ron's sister to be so forward, and yet there'd been something about her questions that reminded him of Gwen. That in itself was jarring.
He shook himself and followed her down the corridor. As they came near the compartment she paused one last time before she opened the door, looking at him with a much softer expression than he'd expected, "Thanks, by the way—you know for stopping Dad."
He managed a smile. "S'nothing."
She nodded and pushed back the compartment door to reveal Hermione seated with Ron and Neville.
The range of emotions that met him was nothing short of hilarious. Hermione beamed at him, her hair bushy as ever, and motioned for him to take the seat across her. Ron seemed torn between grudgingly acknowledging his presence and ignoring him. And Neville's mouth dropped open, stammering what Merlin assumed was his name, and giving him the most terrified smile he'd ever seen on a person.
Merlin appraised them for a moment, thoroughly amused. "Good to see you all remember who I am," he said, sliding into the seat Hermione had indicated.
Ron snorted. "Hard to forget, what with your name constantly plastered across the paper." He twitched as Ginny took the empty seat next to Merlin.
The thought of everyone reading those articles made Merlin cringe. "Right." He looked at Neville. "How was your summer, Neville?"
The poor boy went stark white, but took a deep breath and said, "G-good. Gran let me tend the garden, and even got me a few extra potions books."
"Cool. Can I ask why you look like you've just seen a ghost? Or have I died, and just don't know it?"
"Wouldn't that be something," Ron said leaning back in his chair.
Hermione smacked his arm. "Stop it Ron, you can't possibly think Merlin is just like all the other Slytherins now, can you?"
"I don't. But that doesn't mean I have to like him."
"Fair enough," Merlin said, rather surprised that Ron had admitted anything at all. He looked back at Neville, waiting for the kid to reply. But Neville only spluttered, and avoided his eyes.
"His Gran is worried you might turn into another Dark Lord," Ginny supplied. "She's told him to be careful."
Merlin leaned back his chair and rubbed his temples. The headache was getting worse. "Fantastic," he said. "The fact I stopped the current Dark Lord counts for nothing, right?"
"Of course it does!" Hermione said leaning forward. "They just don't know what you're like. Tell him, Ron."
Ron heaved a huge groan, rubbing his eyes. "Right. Even I know you're not going to start killing muggleborns… Course, it doesn't help when we see you being all chummy with the other Slytherins."
"They're not all bad," Hermione protested. "I saw you too," she added, giving Merlin a small smile, "but didn't want to intrude."
"I doubt they would've minded," Merlin said, surprising himself. "And even if they did, they wouldn't say anything."
"Yeah," Ron said, "because you'd probably send them to Azkaban too."
Merlin and Hermione stared at him. Neville seemed to finally find his voice again and said, in a shaky voice, "I-I don't think Merlin would do that."
"Thank you, Neville," Merlin said giving him the warmest smile he could muster. "Look at that Ron, even Neville knows I'm not a prat."
"But you could," Ginny said suddenly. Merlin glanced at her, raising his eyebrow. She shrugged and continued, "I mean, you sent Quirrell to Azkaban."
"Yeah," Merlin said slowly. "But he was trying to bring back Lord Voldemort."
Everybody flinched. Ron's ears turned red and he snarled, "Don't say the name!" while Neville whimpered. Ginny recovered first and continued, with a sharp glance at Ron, "And they know that if they do the same, you'll stop them."
"We're like twelve, Ginny," Merlin said with a laugh. "I don't think any of us can do any resurrecting."
"Their families could," she pointed out. She had the same intense look in her gaze as earlier, as though searching for something particular in Merlin's eyes.
"Yeah," Ron said jumping on board. "Let's say Malfoy tried to do something and Malfoy Junior told you about it—would you send his dad to Azkaban?"
Merlin swallowed. He hadn't thought of that. Hermione seemed to notice because she said, "I highly doubt Lucius Malfoy would try something when he's so involved with the ministry." She cleared her throat. "Anyway, have you started reading Lockhart's books yet?"
As Hermione began speculating what classes would be like—mainly Lockhart's—Merlin leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes. He listened to Hermione and Ron bicker, Ginny laugh, Neville's voice slowly regain confidence, but his stomach curled into knots.
The headache hadn't gotten any better, and there was something else. He hadn't noticed it at first, but it grew on him, like a tide coming in until it was sweeping over his insides. He felt—sick. Like he'd eaten something rotten and it was trying to claw its way out of him, but he'd barely eaten all day. He couldn't really focus on it. A fog was settling over his thoughts, a churning cloud that pushed against his temples.
"Hey, you all right?"
He opened his eyes. Hermione was looking at him, and even Ron looked somewhat taken aback. "You look a bit peaky."
"Yeah, fine. Just didn't sleep well. I'm going to head back and take a nap." He didn't wait for a reply before standing up. "I'll see you guys at school."
"See you…"
He found that Blaise and Draco had moved on from discussing possible follower names, and onto whether a chimera could take on a dragon in a fight. Theodore was engrossed in his new spell books. They didn't protest when Merlin announced he was going to take a nap, making him think he looked nearly as bad as he felt. And as he started to drift, Draco and Blaise's furious whispers oddly calming, he felt the tide begin to recede.
Only A Boy
In the few hours since Snape known Lockhart, he'd managed to lose every last vestige of respect for the man and had come to the conclusion that Mr. Most Charming Smile Award was a complete nitwit with not enough brains to fill a teacup. At least James Potter had been able to back up some of more arrogant boats with clever wand work—which only made Lockhart's appointment as Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor even more insulting.
Snape could understand Dumbledore's reasoning. To some extent he even agreed with him. After all, there was no possible way Quirrell was in league with the Dark Lord and therefore, although a pompous imbecile with no real qualifications save for his downright spurious books, he would make a safe appointment. The fact that he was the only applicant came second. Snape already had a running bet with McGonagall on what would drive the celebrity from the school at the end of the year. His money was on Lockhart accidentally hospitalizing himself. Hers, that Merlin would somehow prove his incompetency—which he'd have bet on himself if she hadn't beaten him to it. He never thought he'd be glad of the curse on the position that limited all DADA professors to a year—or less, his mind hopefully reminded.
He swept into the Great Hall, black robes billowing, and found Lockhart had seated himself right by where he usually sat, near the end in front of the Slytherin table in robes of forget-me-not-blue. If he had to spend another hour listening to those driveling stories—Snape ignored the seat entirely and took the vacant chair on Dumbledore's other side. McGonagall cast him a curious look before glancing down the table. Her lips thinned and she turned her gaze back to the doors of the Great Hall, tapping her fingers on the table.
Needless to say, he wasn't the only one Lockhart had managed to alienate.
Dumbledore raised his eyebrows, his blue eyes twinkling. "Why, Severus, this is a surprise."
Snape glared at him. The seating arrangements were fluid, although tradition had pushed the head of houses to align their seating arrangements with their house. Probably why Professor Flitwick regarded him with a startled expression as he walked past to take Snape's usual seat.
"A change of scenery seemed in order," Snape replied curtly.
"I see." Dumbledore gave him a long searching glance. "I must say I'm almost impressed, how did he manage to offend you so quickly?"
Snape's lip curled. "Breathing."
To his surprise, he heard McGonagall grunt in agreement from Dumbledore's other side. "You too, Minerva?" Dumbledore asked sounding amused.
For a long moment she didn't reply, then, "You know very well I didn't approve. But," and here she grimaced as though she'd just swallowed a lemon, "Clearly we didn't have any other options." Her eyes met his, and Snape resisted the urge to snarl.
She knew every well how badly he wanted that job.
"My dear professors, let's at least wait until he's had his first class," Dumbledore said placidly, looking from one to the other. "His qualifications were quite spectacular, however," and the twinkle in his eye shone brighter, "one never knows how these things will play out. I have heard rumors about a certain wager."
McGonagall turned very slowly toward him, her brow rising. "Oh, you've heard that, have you?"
"What, going to tell us we're crossing some ridiculous ethical line?" Snape sneered. "Will the curse kill Lockhart because of our insensitivity?" Wouldn't that be lovely?
"Nothing of the sort," Dumbledore said smiling now. "Although, I'm surprised at you Severus. Smart money is surely on young Merlin, is it not?"
"Do you mean to tell me," McGonagall said dropping her tone to a bare whisper, "that you hired Lockhart for the sole purpose of exposing him?"
"My dear Minerva, of course not. He was merely the only reasonable applicant. There's no reason to suspect that he needs exposing of any kind, however," Dumbledore lowered his tone as well, and they both leaned forward to hear him, "if such a thing occurs, I'll not be entirely surprised."
Any resentment that Snape felt toward Dumbledore's decision vanished at once. McGonagall on the other hand, was less amused.
"He's supposed to be teaching!" she hissed. "We can't put the education of our students in jeopardy like that!"
"If he is true to his word, our students are likely to receive the best Defense Against the Dark Arts instruction for several years," Dumbledore said lightly.
"But you don't think that's so," McGonagall grumbled, folding her arms.
"I sincerely hope it is, Minerva. I really do."
They looked up to see the doors of the Great Hall swing open, and the older students began poring inside. McGonagall stood up, straightened her black pointed hat, and strode through the side door. Snape knew she was going to meet the first years in the entry hall.
"You could have told me that earlier," Snape said. "It's a better reason than, well at least this one won't try to perform necromancy."
"I told you the truth, everything else comes secondary." Dumbledore brought his hands together in a steeple. He sighed, and Snape glanced at him. The twinkle had dimmed. "Frankly, I hope I'm pleasantly surprised by our new appointment. I'd rather not have to search for a new professor midway through the term."
"But you're already looking, aren't you?" Snape said his eyes widening in realization. He had only entertained the idea that Lockhart was a fraud on a hopeful whim—the man had an entire book list that had been verified by several other skeptics, after all. But now it seemed a real possibility. He wasn't sure whether he felt smug satisfaction at being right, or depressed.
Dumbledore met his eyes, and gave a sad smile. "I'm always looking."
A little of both, then.
He looked down at the students filing inside and his eyes caught Merlin taking a seat at the Slytherin table. The boy yawned widely, and rubbed his eyes—his black hair more messy than usual. Even as he watched, Draco reached over to pull Merlin's collar down. It looked like he'd just woken up from a nap, his grin bemused as he talked with his housemates. But he was fidgeting, and Snape caught him looking at the door nearly five times in a single minute. Was he waiting for someone?
The older students had only been sitting for about five minutes before the doors swung open again, revealing McGonagall leading the troop of terrified first years to their sorting. Snape checked if Merlin was indeed waiting for someone, but although his eyes surveyed the newcomers for a moment, he retuned to eyeing the main doors—now chewing his cheek. He wanted to leave. That much was plain to see. But why? McGonagall placed the hat on the stool, and Merlin finally turned his attention toward the ceremony, seeming to resign himself to staying a little longer.
The sorting hat, patched frayed and dirty as ever, sat motionless on the stool for a long minute before the rip near the brim widened, and it burst into song.
A hat I am, but be not fooled
I was there when Hogwarts began
And watched the founders four
Come to Camelot with a daring plan
To create a school at last
And return magic to the land
Where cruel Uther once declared
All magic must be banned
Brazen Gryffindor lead the way
Clever Slytherin slipped after
Noble Hufflepuff boistered along
And wise Ravenclaw much faster
They came to Great Emrys first
And then talked to King Arthur
A school yes, but who to teach?
That was a decision much harder
Ravenclaw thought those studious
And intelligent deserved admission
While Slytherin held blood purity
In high regard with great ambition
Gryffindor wanted only those like him
Brave souls who fought reckless
And Hufflepuff, honest and diligent
Why, she would take all the rest
So they created the houses four
And chose me to help them choose
For I'll see where you ought to go
So put me on! I'll give you the news!
As Snape clapped with all the rest, he couldn't help but noticed the shell-shocked expression on Merlin's face. Granted, the hat had indirectly referenced his namesake—and even Snape was a little vague on who Uther was—but, well, it was probably different for Merlin. Even stranger, now that he thought about it, considering how well he was living up to his name. He wouldn't be surprised if this Merlin would also bring about some major change in the wizarding world, and if Dumbledore was right about him being the boy of the prophecy, he would.
As McGonagall began reading the names and first years ran to their respective houses, the boy began fidgeting again. Luckily, there were few hat stalls—the hat had taken nearly four minutes to decide what to do with Luna Lovegood—and McGonagall removed the stool.
Dumbledore stood. "Welcome, welcome to another year at Hogwarts," he told the silent students. "Now, before we begin the feast allow me to introduce our new Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor, Gilderoy Lockhart!"
There was a scattering of applause, and an outbreak of whispers among the girls. Lockhart got to his feet and beamed, flashing his sparkling teeth and waving. Snape was almost surprised he didn't try to make a speech, and instead politely sat back down—though continued to smile and wink at the students.
"Yes, he has graciously offered to take on the teaching position, cutting short his book tour." Lockhart batted his hand as though it was nothing at all. "On that note, I'm sure most of you have been keeping tabs on the Daily Prophet this summer, and the fate of our previous Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor."
You could have cut the tension in the air with a butter knife. All eyes flickered toward Merlin before settling on the Headmaster again.
"I must ask you to not bother Mr. Evans about the particulars." Snape saw Merlin sink in his chair. Maybe he'd been mistake on why Merlin wanted to escape the Great Hall. "If you are truly curious, feel free to come discuss it with me. Now, enough talk. Let the feast begin!"
Food immediately appeared on the sparkling platters, decadent and aromatic as ever. Snape filled his place without paying too much attention to what he was grabbing—he'd learned a long time ago that everything the house elves made was delicious—and began to eat, still keeping on eye on the boy.
Merlin grabbed chicken, beef, potatoes, carrots, and heaps of salad. He doused the entire plate in liberal amounts of dressing—possibly ranch, though from this distance he couldn't be sure. And then began to stuff his face with such speed that Snape was sure he would make himself sick. Perhaps Merlin felt his eyes on him, because he looked up and paused, swallowing. Very slowly, so that Merlin couldn't mistake his meaning, he shook his head and glanced toward the door pointedly. Leaving right now would not make matters better.
Merlin deflated. Snape thought he actually saw a pout. Then he dipped his head and began to eat at more normal speed.
"I see Merlin's not too pleased," Dumbledore said next to him. Snape grunted and took a swig of his pumpkin juice. "Although, considering he intentionally hid his skills all last year, I'm hardly surprised."
"And I highly doubt the students will leave him be," Snape said. "Even with your request."
Dumbledore took a bite of his steak and kidney pie. "Some will," he said. "He's reiterated that story too many times already."
"Maybe." Snape paused, regarding the boy again. He was chatting animatedly with the other Slytherins. He had worried that his house would avoid him after the case, but judging from the way Blaise was laughing he had been wrong.
As the feast came to close and Dumbledore gave his usual start of term notices—no magic in corridors, don't go in the forbidden forest etc.—Snape knew Merlin was up to something. The instant Dumbledore finished his remarks, Merlin was on his feet and making a beeline for the door—and Snape knew he wasn't heading for the common room. He cut through the side passage by the high table and came around the corner to see Merlin making a run for the main doors.
"And just where do you think you're going?" Snape called after him.
Merlin stopped dead. He turned slowly around, looking a bit like he'd gotten his hand caught in the cookie jar. He lifted his chin. "Out."
"Out?" Snape repeated, coming to stand in front of him. "I think not."
"It's not curfew yet!" Merlin snapped. "I can go where I like still."
Snape's lip curled. "Don't take that tone with me. The grounds are off bounds after dark, unless of course you want me to accompany you?"
Merlin frowned.
"I didn't think so," Snape sneered. "Do you think that because of Quirrell the rules don't apply to you anymore? Or that I'm just going to let you do whatever you want this year because you've been in the paper a few times?"
Merlin glowered at him. "Of course not!"
"Then?" Snape said nodding toward the door. "Suspect the Dark Lord to come riding in on a centaur?"
Merlin rolled his eyes. "No."
"Then it can wait for the morning. Get back to the common room, and if you try to sneak out tonight, I'll know."
Merlin sighed and turned on his heel, trudging back down the hall where the rest of the Slytherins had already vanished. Snape fell into step just behind him. "Stop looking for trouble," he said softly. Merlin glanced sharply up at him, his bright blue eyes searching. Snape almost winced; he knew it'd sounded more like a request than an order.
But if Merlin kept trying to stop the Dark Lord, then he'd definitely fulfill the prophecy.
Snape paused by his office door, his hand on the doorknob. Merlin had stopped too, still watching him. He cleared his throat. "We've got our eyes on it already. Just keep your head down and do your coursework. For once," he added. He shut the door behind him with a snap.
Only A Boy
"I can't."
Merlin didn't say it until the door had long closed, still standing in the corridor where Snape had left him. He hadn't been looking for trouble—all the stares had sent him desperately wanting to see Korrizahar. He'd been out of contact with the dragons all summer, and he needed to know they were okay.
But he wouldn't stop looking for trouble either. He couldn't. He knew Voldemort would be coming back, and he had to stop him. Somehow, Merlin had the feeling Snape already knew that—he'd more than proved it last year. Merlin shook his head, and headed down the hall toward the Slytherin common room, staring at his feet.
This was all so complicated. He felt lost in the wilderness without a compass. He needed to build a reputation, a following that he could call on when the time came. He needed to figure out Voldemort's next move and take counter-measures. And then there were the Slytherins with Death Eater ties—how to make them jump ship? Oh yeah, and he had dragons. There was just so much that if he kept thinking about it he was going to explode. Focus on his coursework? In light of everything else it was such a pointless prospect—but it was the only thing he could do at the moment, wasn't it?
Merlin came to a stop at the stretch of wall that hide the entrance to the common room, and realized he didn't know the password. Figures. Snape probably hadn't told him on purpose. Not wanting to walk back up to his office to ask, Merlin bent down to inspect the engraved snake that curled along the bottom of the wall. Last year, he'd heard it speak—welcome the first years when the prefect opened the door. In the dim lighting, the green-gem set eyes seemed to flicker.
It was worth a try, wasn't it?
"Open." But it wasn't English that passed his lips. As soon as he spoke, the snake moved and the wall began to slide open, replying in Parseltongue, "Welcome back."
Merlin grinned and entered the common room. "Well, that's handy."