The Voice

"Well, you survived the first week," Draco said, slapping Merlin on the back.

He glared in reply. He was still disappointed that Snape hadn't slipped Gilderoy Lockhart some Hair Raising Potion during dinner after their first—well, he refused to even call it a class. He had fully intended to skip all future classes with the imbecile, but his fellow Slytherins had assured him they wouldn't allow a repeat performance to occur. They needn't have bothered, for though Lockhart continued to read from his books, he didn't ask Merlin to act it out—much to everyone's relief.

But even without Lockhart, the demand for homework had started and Merlin just didn't know what to do with it. Sure, he and Flitwick had managed to come to an arrangement but the other professors weren't nearly as accommodating. Professor McGonagall made no such allowances and even Snape seemed to think that writing essays would be good for his character. And by Friday, the mountain of homework that he had to complete by Monday was staggering, as was his total disinterest in doing it.

"I don't know how I'm ever going to get all of this done," he grumbled. "McGonagall and Binns want essays, and Snape has that potion ingredient write-up."

"Don't forget Lockhart." At the look on Merlin's face, Draco had to smother a snort of laughter. "Right, well, I think Hermione has a plan," he said as they walked through the entrance hall, back towards the dungeons.

"When did you two talk?" Merlin asked, surprised.

"Oh, just in passing," Draco said with a shrug, "But anyway, I told her that you were already having homework problems."

"Bet she expected that. Well?"

"Well," came Hermione's voice from behind them, "I said we should do a study group, didn't I?"

They turned around, and Merlin groaned. He remembered their study groups from the end of last year. "Already?" he said looking from one to the other.

"Not like that—more like communal homework sessions," Hermione clarified, correctly reading the look on his face. "That way you have someone to ask questions and we can make sure you stay focused."

"And she's got the best notes," Draco said with a shrug.

Merlin had to admit, doing his homework with the two of them sounded better. He still resented the idea but he couldn't just give up without trying. With a resigned sigh, he nodded and said, "All right. When should we meet?"

"How about tonight after dinner? Usual place in the library?"

"Wait," Draco said, holding up his hand. "Not tonight."

"Why not?" Hermione asked, frowning. "Might as well get it out of the way."

"Well," Draco said sneering, "other than wanting a break from a week of education, I've got Quidditch tryouts."

"So? Why not after the tryouts?"

"So," Draco continued, "tonight there'll be a party to honour the new team." He raised his eyebrow, "Of which I fully intend to be a part of."

Merlin smiled and raised his hand, "And I second that whole, 'need a break from education' thing."

Hermione groaned. "Fine, have it your way. Saturday," she said eyeing them both. "And you better come. I know Draco doesn't need it. But if you," she said nodding toward Merlin, "neglect your homework, just know that you'll probably end up doing it in detention anyway."

Merlin grimaced. "Right. I'll be there, promise."

Hermione held his gaze for a moment, as though making sure he meant it, and nodded. She turned to Draco, raising her eyebrow, "You're trying out for the Quidditch Team?"

He smirked. "Of course," he said, and he lifted his head. "We're actually headed back to our dormitory so I can grab my broomstick. Merlin is going to help me practice a bit before the tryouts."

"I'm going to throw some apples at him," Merlin said with a grin, and he showed Hermione the few he'd snagged from lunch. "Want to watch?"

She hesitated. "I've got to drop off a few books first," she said nodding toward her bulging bag, slung over her shoulder. "When are tryouts?"

"The Slytherin tryouts," Draco said, looking at her oddly, "Are just after dinner."

"Right." She deliberated for a moment before shaking her head, "Maybe I'll see you later." She smiled and headed for the staircase, leaving Merlin and Draco to stare after her.

"You don't think she intends to come to tryouts, do you?" Draco asked, frowning.

"No idea," Merlin said. "She might, if she ever manages to pull herself away from the library."

Draco looked doubtful. "Well, that'd be the day," he drawled. "Come on."

Ten minutes later saw Draco zooming around the Quidditch Pitch on his brand new racing broom. He had hoped to purchase new brooms for the entirety of the Slytherin Team, but he and his father were still on shaky ground. He'd told Merlin that his father had given him a new broom as a sort of apology—an attempt to buy his son back. Maybe when Lucius finally placed his bets on Merlin instead of the Dark Lord, he'd buy brooms for the rest of the team.

Merlin enchanted the apples to zoom around the field, subtly controlling their movements with his fingers. After a while, during which Draco sped after the impossible-to-catch-apples, he seemed to realize what Merlin was doing and dive-bombed him.

"You're supposed to be helping me!" he shouted, as he sped back up in the air, frowning as Merlin laughed.

"I am!" Merlin called back and one of the apples shot directly at Draco, forcing him to serve wildly in order to avoid collision.

"The hell? Snitch, Merlin! Not Bludger!"

Merlin laughed again. "C'mon, after training like this, Quidditch will be a piece of cake!"

Draco grumbled something Merlin didn't hear and shot off after one of the apples hovering by the goal posts.

They went at it for the rest of the afternoon, and when they finally trudged back up to the castle for dinner, Draco had managed to catch all of the apples.

"We should've been doing that all week," Draco said with a sigh. He dished out some mashed potatoes onto his plate. "I didn't realize how out of practice I was."

Merlin drenched his plate in salad dressing, amused by the disgusted look on Pansy's face from across the table. "You did great," he said. "And you got them in the end. The snitch is going to be way easier to catch."

"But harder to see," Draco countered.

"Just stay focused. Block out everybody else and don't taunt the other seeker because then you're not paying attention."

"You know, for not even knowing what Quidditch is, you are quite a good trainer," Draco said, with only the barest hint of sarcasm.

Merlin shrugged and took an enormous bite of cottage pie. "I'm full of surprises," he said with his mouth full, and Draco rolled his eyes.

After dinner, they headed back onto the pitch. Merlin glanced sideways at Draco. The blond looked paler than usual, and there was an unfamiliar tension along his jaw as though he were biting his cheek. Merlin clapped him on the back.

"You'll do fine," he promised. "I'm going up to the stands to watch, okay?"

Draco nodded stiffly, and Merlin ran to the Slytherin section. Already there was Pansy, Daphne, and Theodore, and they waved when they saw him coming. A little further down the row sat Crabbe, Goyle, and two girls Merlin barely ever saw: Tracy Davis and Millicent Bulstrode.

They glanced curiously in his direction before returning their attention to the pitch.

"Blaise is trying out too," Theo told Merlin when he'd sat down next to him. He pointed onto the pitch and sure enough, there was Blaise standing next to Draco, a fifth-year girl he didn't know, and a couple fourth-year boys. Also trying out was the old Slytherin team, though he only knew the old seeker, Terence, by name.

"Blaise told me earlier that every position is up for grabs," Pansy said with a smug grin. "Draco is sure to make seeker."

Merlin wanted to agree, but seeing Terence—who was a seventh year, and looking downright furious with Flint—he was a little less sure.

"Am I late?"

Merlin turned to see Hermione rushing up the steps of the stands. Merlin gaped at her, before glancing toward the rest of his classmates. He didn't think they'd ever really interacted with Hermione outside of shared classes. He turned back to her and smiled, making room for her on the bench.

"Nope, just in time."

The others were all looking at her now. Pansy sniffed loudly, raising her eyebrow as Hermione took the seat on Merlin's other side. "You know," she drawled, "the Gryffindor stands are on that side of the pitch."

Hermione ignored her, and Pansy frowned. She opened her mouth, closed it, blinked, and then continued, "In fact, why are you even here at all?"

Merlin turned to her, "Because I invited her," he said shortly. "Everyone, this is Hermione Granger. My friend," he said hoping a formal introduction might smooth things over.

"Hermione, this is Theodore Nott," he said, indicating the boy next to him. Theo smiled nervously, but didn't speak. "Daphne Greengrass," he went on, "and Pansy Parkinson."

Hermione smiled back at them, though it faded quickly at the sneer on Pansy's face.

"You came just because Merlin asked you to?" Daphne asked after a moment's pause. She had cocked her head to the side, staring at Hermione with a mixture of surprise and awe.

Hermione blinked. "Yeah. He's supporting his friend," and she nodded toward Draco on the pitch, "and I'm supporting mine."

"Yeah?" Pansy said, shooting a glare at Daphne, "and what about when we kick your ass in the match? Will you still support him?"

Hermione folded her arms. "If you win," she said testily, "you'll have my congratulations. Though when we win, I doubt I can expect the same level of sportsmanship from you."

Merlin thought Pansy looked ready to pull out her wand and hex Hermione on the spot, so he interrupted, "Stop it, they're about to start."

Which was also true. Marcus Flint had started talking to the assembled players. From what Merlin gathered, he was asking what positions people were trying out for. He did seem keenly interested in Malfoy's Nimbus 2001, and even took it in his hands to examine. After that he started splitting people into different groups.

"Can you hear him?" Hermione asked Merlin, softly. Pansy heard her.

"Well, some positions don't have anyone trying out for them," she said, and she laughed as though everyone should have known this. "See? He decided to keep Miles Betchley as keeper."

Miles was tall, lanky, and had very closely cropped light brown hair. But as far as Merlin could tell, he seemed to be the only player Marcus had decided on. They were organized by the position they wanted, and there were several extra in every group.

Then, they all kicked into the air and the tryout began.

It took a moment for Merlin to realize that Marcus must have organized them into two teams. And with all the balls released, it turned into a mock-game of Quidditch. The only difference was that Marcus occasionally intervened and switched up the team of Chasers and Beaters. As only Draco and Terence were going for the seeker positions, Merlin assumed that whoever caught the snitch first got the position.

But of course, that wasn't that easy. The first game Terence caught the snitch—but the second one, Draco beat him to it. And he did again the time after that. After about an hour, Marcus switched it up, and had everyone fly to the ground except the chasers. And of course, the entire time Pansy kept up a steady commentary with the occasional insult thrown in Hermione's direction.

Merlin was impressed by how Hermione handled it all. He suspected she had expected this sort of treatment and had prepared accordingly, but he still wished Pansy would drop it. Finally, after a jab at Hermione's Quidditch knowledge dragged her parents into the mix, he put his foot down.

"Parkinson!" he snapped, turning toward her. He didn't say anything else. He didn't need to. The long glare he shot at the girl was enough of a message, and she swallowed visibly.

"My apologies," she threw at Hermione, before jerkily turning away from them.

Hermione gave Merlin a look.

"What?" he muttered in an undertone, so that the others wouldn't hear.

"Oh, I just didn't know."

"Know what?"

She blinked. "How much they respected you."

Merlin stared at her. He'd never thought of the Slytherin's respecting him. It'd always been more of a tacit understanding between them, but then things had changed after the incident with Quirrell.

He glanced at Pansy and then added, with a laugh, "Not enough to respect my friends, it seems."

Hermione smiled too, and the rest of the tryout session passed with less conflict. By the end—by which time Merlin felt cold and sore from sitting on the hard wooden bench—it'd gotten very dark and they could hardly see the players on the field at all.

"Right, back to the common room?" Pansy said getting to her feet and stretching.

"But, the team?" Merlin said, getting up too.

"Oh, Marcus will probably announce it in the locker-room anyway. They'll tell everyone back in the common room."

"Ah, okay," Merlin glanced at Hermione, hesitating.

She stood up. "Well, you can tell me at our study group tomorrow," she said with a smile. "So you have to show up!"

"I know! I already promised," Merlin said, shaking his head. She gave him another long look, nodded and then glanced around at the other Slytherins.

"It's been lovely meeting you all," she said, with a rather cold glance at Pansy, and left ahead of them.

Merlin watched her go, before turning on Pansy. "Are you incapable of being polite?" he snapped.

Pansy folded her arms. "No. I just don't like her. Oh stop it," she added when she saw Merlin open his mouth to speak, "yeah, that whole muggle-loving thing suits you well but I'm not convinced."

"You were pretty convinced when Draco said it," Merlin said, coolly.

Pansy flushed and dragged Daphne up to her feet. "We're heading off," she said, and they headed after Hermione into the darkness.

"I don't mind her," Theodore said after a moment and Merlin laughed.

"Thanks, Theo. Well, we might as well go after them."

Only A Boy

"I can't believe you actually came to tryouts."

It was Saturday night, and the three of them were situated in their usual spot at the back of the library. Draco was gazing at Hermione, surprised and confused. He shook his head and glanced at Merlin, before turning his attention back to her.

"Pansy couldn't stop talking about it."

Hermione hummed but didn't reply. She was reading one of Lockhart's books again, having already finished her essays.

Draco had made the team, though narrowly. What with it being Terence's last year, the confrontation between the old seeker and captain had turned rather ugly in the locker-room. Marcus had ended up giving Terence a position as chaser, and reserve seeker, though neither was quite happy about it. Every other old team member had been reinstated.

Merlin suspected that Draco's new broom had been the tipping point for Marcus in deciding.

"I said I would come," Hermione said without looking up from her book. "Why is that so hard for everyone to understand?"

"Probably because of the rivalry," Merlin grumbled, rubbing his eyes. They'd been there already for several hours, and he felt no nearer to completing his work.

At last, Hermione looked up. She narrowed her eyes. "Why aren't you writing?" she asked Merlin, indicating the sheet of parchment in front of him, which only had a couple sentences on it.

Merlin groaned. "Because," he said, pushing his parchment away from him. "I don't get it."

"Well, the act of transforming the beetles—"

"—is unlike killing them because they can be returned to their living state," Merlin finished, shaking his head.

"Then what's the problem?" Hermione asked, frowning.

Merlin looked from her to Draco. "I don't get the point of that," he said. "So turning beetles into buttons doesn't kill them, big deal! I don't care about a couple beetles."

"Well," Draco said slowly, "would you care if it was a dog?"

Merlin blinked.

Draco shrugged, "I mean, you'd want to know if transforming your dog into something might kill him."

Merlin paused. He hadn't thought of that.

"Exactly," Hermione said, nodding. "It's important to know that transforming living things into inanimate objects doesn't actually change them permanently, and vice versa. The transfigured object can be returned to its original state."

"But," Merlin said, shaking his head, "I mean, why would it kill him in the first place? It's magic."

"That's true, but magic uses the energy of an object during the transformation," Hermione said. "Haven't you noticed that we always transfigure things of similar size? Matches into needles, beetles into buttons—you can't just turn a pebble into a bed. The pebble doesn't have enough energy. But that also means it's easier to turn a living creature into an inanimate object than the other way around, because animals have more energy."

Merlin stared at her. "Are you telling me magic has laws?" It was hard to imagine applying any sort of logic to magic.

Hermione grimaced, "In a very loose sense, because after enough practice and education, wizards can stretch that law by using the energy around them during the incantation as well. And you could just materialize the bed with a conjuration spell but it won't last forever." She took a breath. "But, back to the dog—since we're using the dog's energy to turn it into a chair or something, if we were to damage that then transfigured chair, it'll have less energy when we turn it back into a dog."

"I don't think I understand."

Hermione hesitated and then dug in her pocket to retrieve the coat buttons she'd made in class. "See these?" she said, placing them carefully on the desk. "If I were to slam my book on them—I'm not going to do it," she added when Draco eyed the transfiguration textbook at the top of the pile of books next to her. "But if I did, I'd damage them right? Well, if I transfigured them back into the beetles they used to be, they'll also be injured or even dead. I mean, why do wizards bother creating anything when they could just transfigure it?"

"Because," Draco answered with a sneer, "no one wants dead beetles for buttons."

Merlin laughed, and Hermione smiled.

"That," she said, "but also because anything a wizard transfigured can be returned to its original state via untransfiguration. They recognize that it takes more skill to craft something. Not to mention that anything transfigured can't last forever. It expires, kind of like enchantments do after a period of time."

"Right, Hermione," Merlin said with a laugh, "At this rate, I think you could teach transfiguration yourself."

She huffed and folded her arms. "I know when I'm being made fun of," she said frowning. "There's nothing wrong with liking to read! And I think my marks speak for themselves."

"Yeah, I think we know that by now," Draco drawled with a sneer.

Hermione glared at Draco, before grabbing Merlin's essay and tossing it back at him. "There," she said. "Now you get it, so finish the essay. I would like to get back to my common room before curfew."

Merlin sighed, but took the essay and began writing again.

Transfiguration was a topic he hadn't expected to be as complicated as it was. He'd had difficulty with it before—in Camelot. Turning a statue of a dog into an actual dog had taken him all day and night. It might have been easier had he known about the molecular composition and energy requirements. He had so much raw magic that transforming things was easy, but at the same time he had to admit that—as Hermione had said—an understanding of the composition or biology of the thing to be transfigured and what into, required less effort on the part of the wizard. In Camelot, most people had been less concerned with the why and the how, and more about whether or not one could. He had never stopped to wonder how a statue turned into a dog—just if he could make it happen.

He finished his essay with a flourish and leaned back in his chair, stretching. "Done," he said, yawning.

Hermione took the essay and began reading. He saw her shrug. "There are a few places were you could have gone more in-depth but I don't think Professor McGonagall will mind." She handed it back to him.

"I think she'll just be impressed by the fact you did it," Draco said.

"Yeah, well. Having low standards will be in my favour then." Merlin rolled up his essay and started packing his things. "I'm done for the night."

Hermione sighed. "Fine, but you still need to do Professor Lockhart's write-up sometime."

Merlin stared at her, incredulous. Next to him, Draco snorted into laughter.

"Now, that's a good one," he said shaking his head. "Merlin doing homework for Lockhart—I didn't know you could make a joke, Hermione."

She folded her arms, a twitch in her jaw. "I'm not joking."

"Pity. That would've been a good one." Draco sighed. "Now, we're going back to our common room to enjoy what's left of our Saturday night."

Hermione rolled her eyes, and got stiffly to her feet. "Fine." She glanced at Merlin. "See you tomorrow," and she stalked out of the library.

After she'd left, Draco hissed loudly in frustration, "How can she not see what an idiot Lockhart is? The guy actually set loose pixies in her class."

"Blinded by the smile." Merlin sighed, and began packing his things. "Anyway, I refuse to complete a single assignment for that man. I don't care what you guys say."

"You've got no argument from me," Draco said, yawning and getting to his feet. "I've already complained to my father about his incompetence. You know, in case the Board of Directors could do something about it."

"Well?"

"He told me it should be easy for me to pass his class then," Draco groaned. "So, I'd join you in protesting his homework but…" he trailed off, hesitating.

"Yeah," Merlin said, slinging his back over his shoulder. "I don't need to give your father another reason to hate me."

They headed out of the library and into the deserted corridor.

"He doesn't hate you," Draco said, but he looked uncertain. "More like what you stand for."

"Great."

"Or rather, what he thinks you stand for."

"Thank you for the clarification," he said sarcastically.

They turned the corner and descended the stone staircase. They stepped onto the third floor landing, and Merlin was just about to ask what exactly Lucius thought he stood for, when he heard it.

"Come, come to me."

Merlin stopped dead. He couldn't hear what Draco asked him—his mind had violently shifted languages and English sounded strange and foreign. All he could hear was the voice—rasp and soft, a whisper poisoned by harsh chilling violence.

"Let me rip you, let me tear you, let me kill you."

It was moving. He could hear the voice traveling further down the corridor, and without a second thought, he ran after it. Merlin thought he heard Draco shout his name, but the numbing panic soaking his brain wouldn't let him reply.

It was going to kill someone.

He skidded to a halt at the end of the corridor, straining to catch the voice again. Merlin looked around, as though he might find the speaker hiding in a dark corner.

On an impulse he shouted, "Where are you?" into the hall, turning on his heel.

He could hear his heartbeat reverberate against the stone walls of the corridor—or was it against the bones of his chest? His eyes traced up and down the hall, falling only on flickering candlelight and shadowed darkness.

The familiar third-floor corridor now felt foreign, and dangerous—as if he had taken a turn into some back alley were death had long ago permeated the ground. He itched to run, to run and never stop. His ragged breathing swallowed the silence; his shoes scuffing the stone as he turned were thunderclaps.

His eyes locked on Draco, who had come to an abrupt halt in the corridor, some twenty feet in front of him. Draco took slow soundless breaths, watching as he searched the space for something unseen and unheard. Then, Draco cleared his throat and spoke in a low, halting voice that gave weight to air.

"You're a Parselmouth."

And Merlin knew from the quiet horror encompassing his bloodless face, that fact alone scared Draco more than anything else Merlin had ever done.

"I—" Merlin swallowed. He wanted to say, I can explain but the words died in his throat.

The silence that followed deafened him. He wanted Draco to say something, anything.

"I should have told you—" Merlin started at last, but Draco held up his hand. He had stopped staring, and instead dropped his gaze to the floor as he collected his thoughts.

"No." Finally, Draco looked back up, still ashen faced but resolve hardening in his grey eyes. "No, I understand."

Merlin took a tentative step toward him. "What do you understand?" he asked, slowly.

"We shouldn't talk here," Draco said, looking around himself now. And before Merlin had a moment to process it, he'd rushed forward, grabbed his sleeve, and begun leading him toward the forbidden corridor.

Not that it was forbidden any longer. Unused, dust filled Merlin's nostrils and he smothered a building sneeze as Draco pushed him into the room, and closed the door behind them. He took a deep breath.

"It all makes sense," he said. His voice was soft but in the still air it echoed, striking and final. "That's why you play everything so close to the vest."

"What do you mean?" Merlin asked. He could feel his heart jumping in his throat. It made it difficult to breathe.

"Well," and Draco put his hands in his pockets. "If I spoke the same language as the Dark Lord himself, I wouldn't want anyone to know about it. Especially being in Slytherin myself. It would make everyone think that I would lead the next reign of terror."

"So you—you don't think that I'm—" he couldn't finish, but Draco knew what he was going to ask.

"A Dark Lord?" He raised his eyebrow. "No. Though if you became one, I'm not sure that'd be such a tragedy. Unless you're going to tell me all that about muggleborns and fighting for the light was a lie?"

"No."

"Well then." Draco took another deep breath. "We need to keep this quiet. Hermione and I know you, but if anyone else found out—" that look had returned to his face, the fearful panic, and he shuddered.

Merlin stared at him. Draco hadn't been scared of him? "You're okay with this?"

He didn't respond immediately, instead surveying Merlin with a long calculating look. "My father is a Death Eater," he said. He grimaced, and dropped his gaze from Merlin's. "I was all ready to join the Dark Lord whenever he returned to power before you showed up. I would have hexed you back into the stone age before willingly hanging out with a muggleborn, let alone call one my friend."

He looked back at Merlin. "So, become a Dark Lord, or don't. I don't care. You have my loyalty, Merlin—no matter what you end up doing. It doesn't mean that I'm not scared out of my wits—I am. I mean," and he gave a derisive laugh, "You won't tell me anything, you wander the school and the forbidden forest at night, you—a first year, mind—killed a mountain troll, not to mention dueled his Defense Against the Dark Arts professor and won, and you don't even use a proper wand!"

He laughed again, and ran his hands through his hair. "But here I am, thinking about what happens if someone who doesn't know you finds out all these things, and all I can think is that either the wizarding world or some devout followers of the Dark Lord will try to eliminate you before you become more of a threat. And maybe that's irrational—maybe I am a little scared of you too, like the way you fear a dormant volcano or anything with more power than yourself. Because you are powerful, scary powerful, and I don't think I really understood that until now."

Draco paused a moment, his expression sobering. "Just," and he hesitated, "Just tell me the truth, for once," and at that moment, Merlin promised to tell him anything he asked, identity and all. "Why were you speaking Parseltongue in the middle of the corridor, in the first place?"

The question brought back the memory of the voice like a douse of ice water. Draco must have noticed because he stiffened, and asked, "Merlin, what's going on?"

Merlin cleared his throat, "First, thanks. Second, we have a major problem, and it involves a snake."