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The Memory Curse
Merlin stood on the Dueling Club platform, royal purple cloth beneath his shoes. He could feel the eyes of a hundred silent faces watching him, but he refused to shift his gaze. Standing in front of him was Gilderoy Lockhart, dressed in violently red robes, and bowing with a single extravagant sweep of his arms. Merlin saw the way Lockhart's hand tightened on his wand, a manic glint in his forget-me-not eyes, and acted. With a jerk of his wand, Lockhart flew back in a high arc, crimson billowing about him, and landed with a shattering thud on the other end of the platform. The ends of his robes drifted slowly to the ground, like party streamers. And then, the fabric shifted, oozing in a slow river of blood, until it stained Merlin's shoes.
"Murderer."
It began as a whisper, a soft chant, until the crowd was yelling, screaming it into his ears.
"MURDERER!"
Merlin clamped his hands over his ears and ran, ran into the entry hall and out the front doors. He ran until he was deep within the Forbidden Forest, blackness encroaching upon his vision. And as his pace slowed, he heard a voice light with laughter that brought him to a staggered pause.
"I don't think Rowena will ever forget that one."
It was his voice.
Merlin backtracked, following the sound of muted chuckling, and broke into a clearing where two people sat around a crackling campfire. It was him. Though he was older, imposing with silent power. He could see it in the fine blue robes he wore, not at all like his days as a servant. But, he was still relatively young, his hair still dark, the hem of his robes stained with clay-like mud from the road. Opposite him was a man he recognized as Salazar Slytherin. He was leaning against a piece of deadwood, his dark robes tinted with green and gold. Like Merlin, he had dark hair but it was longer and well kempt, even here in the middle of the woods.
Salazar laughed at the other Merlin's comment, before the sound tapered off and his green eyes darkened. "Everything's changed."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean now that King Arthur has legalized magic again. I saw a child in the town we past, openly playing with a magic ring—no doubt gotten it from his parents. He'd amassed a crowd of villagers, all admiring the image of a dog he had created with water from the well." Salazar paused and shook his head, looking troubled. "A little over a year ago they would've dragged him screaming to the pyre."
"We fought hard to get here," Merlin said, slowly.
"Indeed." And Salazar paused again before leaning forward and bringing his hands together. "But, what about the hundreds of druids and warlocks who were burned at the stake? The villagers play nice with us now, but they were once our executioners. Are we expected to just forget it ever happened?"
The scene began to swirl with blackness, but Merlin strained to hear Salazar's words.
"Where is the justice?" Salazar went on, now getting to his feet. "I know children that have watched their parents murdered before their eyes, and parents who've had to bury their children. And while they nurse their grief, the murderers walk free."
Murderers.
Murderer.
His head was splitting. The scene dissolved before his eyes and Merlin woke with a start. He was standing in the middle of the common room. He managed to grab the back of one of the black couches before his knees gave out beneath him, his breathing fast and shallow. The pain, so sharp and intense before, melted away and in its place came the fogginess of the headache potion.
He'd never sleep walked before. Perhaps it was a side effect? He'd taken a dose last night to help him sleep.
Merlin shivered, his bare arms prickling with Goosebumps and staggered over to the fireplace. He sat down in front of it, staring at the flames as the heat danced across his skin. Maybe he should mention it to Snape in the morning—or maybe he should stop taking the potion at night. It probably wasn't meant for sustained use like this. His eyelids drooped, and before he even registered falling asleep, he felt someone shaking his shoulder.
"Merlin! Did you sleep here last night?"
Merlin opened his eyes. He seemed to have curled up on the hearth in front of the fire. Draco kneeled next to him, his eyes wide and concerned. He helped ease Merlin into a sitting position, and Merlin grimaced, his hand going to his head.
It felt like—like he'd been out drinking all night at the pub. A dull pulsating throb had settled somewhere next to his temple. What was he doing here? Why wasn't he in bed?
"Do you not remember?" Draco asked in a panicked whisper.
"I think I'm going to skip class today," Merlin said, now pinching his nose. He'd feel better after a couple more hours of sleep—not to mention another dose of that potion he had hiding under his bed. He got gingerly to his feet with Draco's help.
"Good idea," Draco said though he still looked nervous, "I'll tell Professor Flitwick you weren't feeling well."
Merlin nodded and stumbled back up the stairs to his dormitory. He didn't pay any attention to the other boys who were getting ready for the day, and instead collapsed into bed, clumsily yanking the curtains to hide him from view. He was asleep seconds after his head hit his pillow.
When Merlin woke up several hours later it took him a few moments to remember why he was still in bed while everyone else had gone to class. It came to him like a half-remembered dream, Draco waking him next to the fireplace.
"Get it together," he muttered, shaking his head. The movement made him nauseas with pain, and he reached under his bed to grab another dose of headache potion. And with the pain muted, Merlin got dressed and headed down to the common room.
A quick look at the clock told him he was missing History of Magic. Merlin hesitated a moment, then made his way out of the dungeons. He'd just had a bad night, that was all—a bad night following that terrible display at the Dueling Club.
It burned just to think of it. Yesterday, after storming out of the Great Hall, Merlin had been so furious with Lockhart that he'd sworn off ever going to another one of his classes. It's not like the man was capable of teaching Merlin anything. And, he shouldn't have let Lockhart get away with embarrassing him like that! Yes, allowing the "professor" to beat him might calm the panic about being Slytherin's Heir—or it might make everyone think Merlin was fair game. He should've just—the dream from that night popped into Merlin's mind and he winced.
Or maybe it really had been for the better and he was just being bitter.
Merlin was so preoccupied with his thoughts that he collided with something massive and unyielding in the corridor. The strong scent of pine and animal musk filled his nostrils.
"Yer alright there, Merlin?"
Merlin took a fast-step back, shaking his head. "Yeah," he said, looking up into bearded face of Hagrid, the Groundskeeper.
"Why ain't ya in class?" Hagrid asked, and Merlin wondered for a moment whether the giant also suspected he was the Heir of Slytherin. Everyone knew Hagrid got on well with Gryffindor house. But, Merlin saw crinkled concern in the giant's dark eyes and relaxed. It was somehow encouraging to know that not everyone hated him.
"Rough morning," Merlin said glumly, and Hagrid appraised him for a second.
"Don' let them bother you, Merlin. Yer a good kid."
"Thanks," but Merlin couldn't find it in him to smile. Not sure what else to say, he looked down and was somewhat surprised to find that Hagrid was holding a dead rooster.
"Oh, this?" Hagrid said, noticing. "The second one killed this year, an' I need the Headmaster's permission to but a charm 'round the coup."
Merlin nodded, silent.
"You sure yer alright?" Hagrid asked.
Merlin didn't know how to answer that, but he was spared from trying. At that moment, he heard that terrible chilling voice drift down the corridor, and stiffened.
"Kill… time to kill…"
Hagrid must've noticed his abrupt change in posture because he asked, almost urgently, "What's the matter?"
"It's attacking again," Merlin whispered, turning on his heel and looking wildly around the corridor. It had sounded so close. Without a backward glance at Hagrid, he ran, straining to hear the voice again over the sound of his pounding footsteps.
Merlin careened around a corner and tripped over something in the hallway, crashing to the ground. Knee smarting, Merlin rolled over to see what he'd fallen over and closed his eyes in dismay.
He was too late.
There, lying on the floor was a boy in Hufflepuff robes. Dimly, Merlin recognized his face. Justin—something. He had been at the Dueling Club last night, too. But floating just above him, and far more concerning, was Nearly Headless Nick, the Gryffindor ghost. Merlin got shakily to his feet, staring at the apparition who was no longer a shimmering silver but a heavy unnatural charcoal. They both wore an expression of shock, eyes wide and mouth slightly ajar.
Breathing hard, Merlin looked up and down the corridor. What should he do? He could hear Professor McGonagall shouting at a student a few doors down in the Transfiguration classroom—something about a student turning his friend into a badger. But would she believe that he didn't have anything to do with this? Merlin hesitated, feeling unsteady on his feet. What if he just left?
The sound of thunderous footfalls told him that Hagrid had followed him, and sure enough, the giant came around the corner a moment later, the jerking movement of his hands sending rooster feathers all over the corridor. He stumbled to a stop just before he too tripped over Justin's petrified body. He looked from the boy to Nearly Headless Nick to, and finally, Merlin.
"I didn't—" Merlin started to say, unsure of why he was defending himself when he'd just been with Hagrid, but he was interrupted by one of the side doors bursting open with a bang.
Peeves the Poltergeist emerged and cackled at the sight of him. "Why, it's Merlin! What's ol' Merlin doing skipping classes? Why—" he flipped and froze in mid-air, his eyes falling on the petrified forms of Justin and Nearly Headless Nick. He flipped back up again, filled his lungs, and just as Hagrid boomed, "Wait!" shouted into the corridor, "ATTACK, ATTACK, ANOTHER ATTACK! NO MORTAL OR GHOST IS SAFE! RUN FOR YOUR LIVES! ATTACK!"
The doors along the corridor slammed open, one after another, a mass of students rushing toward them in a mad stampede of electrified panic. Merlin found himself getting swept up by the crowd until Hagrid seized his shoulder and brought him to stand next to him, his broad girth protecting Justin from getting trampled.
"E'rebody calm down!" Hagrid roared, sticking out an arm to stop a Ravenclaw boy from accidentally walking into Nearly Headless Nick.
"You caught him!" someone shouted, pointing to Merlin hovering next to Hagrid.
"No, I—" Merlin tried to say but he drowned out by yells of congratulations, while others snapped that, "it was about time," and Merlin would finally, "get what's coming to him."
Merlin clenched his fists, even as Hagrid tried to tell the deaf crowd otherwise. He despised mobs. Nothing good ever came of them. They were swelling masses of fear and hysteria, acting impulsively in order to satisfy their own panic. He could just imagine what might've happened if Hagrid hadn't been around to act as a barrier.
"Professor!" Hagrid said, turning. Merlin turned too—Professor McGonagall had arrived with her class, one of the boys behind her still with black and white hair. She set off a loud bang with her wand, silencing the crowd.
"Everyone return to your classes!" she ordered.
Above them, Peeves cackled maliciously. The Poltergeist danced above the heads of the retreating students, and as McGonagall and Hagrid bent to examine the petrified student and immobile ghost, Peeves broke into song:
Oh Merlin, you Slytherin, oh look at that smirk,
You're finishing Ol' Salazar's noble work—
Merlin shot the ghost a poisonous look and Peeves finished with a loud wet raspberry, before zooming away backward, laughing manically the whole way.
Professor McGonagall conjured a stretcher for Justin and Hagrid lifted him onto it with ease. But, what about Nearly Headless Nick? Even Merlin felt a prickle of anxiety—what could do that to a ghost? How were they supposed to revive him? Professor McGonagall conjured a fan, which she gave to one of her students with the order to waft him down to the infirmary, though Merlin wondered what was the point if they couldn't undo…whatever had been done to him. But as soon as Nearly Headless Nick vanished from view, Professor McGonagall turned and Merlin knew at once she blamed him.
"Professor," he began, swallowing. "I didn't—"
"This is out of my hands, Evans," she cut across.
"It wasn't him," Hagrid said, frowning. "It can't have been. I was talkin' to him seconds before it happened. He never had time."
"Be that as it may, the Headmaster would still like to talk to him in light of—this," Professor McGonagall said stiffly. "Hagrid, please go tell Madam Pomfrey what's happened, I'll be along shortly," and with that she led the way down the corridor. Merlin gave Hagrid a feeble smile—really more of a grimace—and followed her.
Well, at least Dumbledore would believe he was innocent, Merlin thought as he followed Professor McGonagall up a staircase and down another corridor. He kept his eyes trained on his shoes, still seeing the blackened ghost behind his eyes. Ahead, Professor McGonagall came to stop and Merlin stopped just before he walked into her, looking up to see a large stone gargoyle at the end of the corridor.
"Sherbet Lemon," she said.
Merlin watched as Gargoyle sprang aside and the wall behind splitted in two, revealing a spiral staircase. He followed the professor onto the stairs, which jerked into movement beneath them, the walls closing with a thud. Honestly, why didn't they have moving staircases like this in all of the towers? Just as Merlin started to feel rather dizzy the staircase came to a stop before a glossy oak door with a brass knocker in the shape of a griffin.
Professor McGonagall did not enter with him. She opened the door, ushered him inside, and left him alone as the door shut with a snap behind him.
Save for a sickly red bird sitting on a perch near an immaculate oak desk, the room was devoid of life. Merlin breathed in relief. Now that he was here, he was less confident. Surely Dumbledore believed him? He shook his head and took a moment to admire the delicate instruments that filled the beautiful circular office, each spinning and giving off soft little chimes while puffs of light blue smoke rose into the air. Portraits elderly witches and wizards lined the walls, snoozing gently in their frames. And there, on a shelf behind the claw-footed desk, was the Hogwarts Sorting Hat.
At the sight of something so familiar, Merlin felt a rush of longing. He crossed over to it, and ran his fingers over the tattered material. This—this was something from his time. He lifted it off the shelf, eying the rip that had announced his house and thought of something. It was from his time. Maybe it knew something about the Chamber of Secrets, back when it was built! It was worth a shot. He put it on and it slid over his eyes, just as it had last time.
For a moment nothing happened and then he heard a voice in his ear, far more concerned than he had expected it to be. "Why Merlin! This is not good at all!"
What? Merlin thought, confused. What's not good?
"You have not noticed?" The Sorting Hat said, sounding almost indignant. "Do you not remember what I said about the memory curse?"
It took a several moments for Merlin to remember what the hat was talking about. When it had sorted him into Slytherin, the Sorting Hat had mentioned he had some sort of curse on his memories. It was why he couldn't remember meeting the Bloody Baron, or Lady Helena, or, indeed, much of anything after signing the order to build Hogwarts.
What about it?
"It's active again! You have numbed the pain, but it is attacking your mind."
Merlin frowned. But as a memory curse it would surely attack his memory and he didn't recall any serious gaps.
Are you sure?
He got the distinct impression the hat was exasperated when it spoke. "A curse like this one affects more than immediate memories. Pain, lapses in judgment, the—"
A loud shriek next to him distracted Merlin completely, and he lifted the hat in order to see the bird next to him burst into flame. He stared, taken aback, dimly aware that the Sorting Hat was still whispering just above his ears when he heard some soft laughter above him.
"I think it's a bit big for you, although you do look quite fashionable if I do say so myself."
Dumbledore was standing on the balcony above, not at all concerned that his bird has just exploded. Merlin yanked the hat off his head and put it back on the shelf. "Sorry, Headmaster, I—"
Dumbledore held up his hand, a twinkle in his blue eyes. "Not to worry. I sometimes find myself using the hat to explore my thoughts as well. It was the unique ability to reflect one's mind and give insight into your mind without ah—shall we say bias?"
Merlin nodded, fidgeting his hands. If that was true, then was his own mind ignoring the curse? Or was it the paranoia that had been reflected? Not wanting to wrestle with this under the watchful eye of the Headmaster, Merlin turned toward the pile of ash now beneath the perch.
"Was that… a phoenix?" he asked, taking a step toward it.
Dumbledore gave a delighted, "Yes," clapping his hands together. "His name is Fawkes," and he waved for Merlin to join him next to the perch. As Merlin watched, a tiny bird poked its head out of the dust, looking somewhat like a fluffy ball of grey. "Pity you had to see him on a burning day, he's usually quite magnificent." Dumbledore went on, though Merlin saw the warm crinkle in his eyes as he appraised the newly born Fawkes.
Something told him Dumbledore never tired of seeing the phoenix reborn.
"Do—do you know why I'm here?" Merlin asked after the silence began to drag.
"Yes," and Dumbledore straightened. He walked around to sit at his desk, and Merlin took the chair opposite him. "I wanted to know what the snake said."
Merlin frowned. "Nothing different. Just the same, Time to kill bit." He paused while Dumbledore nodded, looking grave. The twinkle in his eyes had vanished. "Sir, is it really a good idea for the school to still be functioning like this? I mean, why hasn't there been a formal investigation?"
"I know it must seem like we're not doing all we can," Dumbledore said, bringing his hands together in a steeple. "But, rest assured, that we are taking all the precautions we can. In light of this new attack, the students will be escorted around the castle by a teacher and no one will be allowed to wander about on their own."
The way he said it made Merlin feel like the Headmaster wasn't totally unaware of his nighttime wanderings. He fidgeted his hands again, waiting for Dumbledore to question him, but he didn't. Instead he asked, "Where were you exactly when you heard the voice this time?"
So Merlin told him all about running into Hagrid just down from the Transfiguration Corridor and running after the voice. "But it's not really the snake we have to be worried about, is it?" Merlin said when he'd finished. "It's whoever is controlling it."
The Headmaster peered at him from over his half-moon spectacles. "Whoever indeed. Now, is there anything else you wish to tell me? Anything at all?"
Merlin's eyes flickered over to the Sorting Hat. Should he tell Dumbledore about the memory curse? It was true, even with his headache kept at bay by the potion he still felt… off. This morning alone was cause enough for concern. He shouldn't ignore it. Something was clearly wrong and if Merlin was in his right mind he would mention it.
But, as it was—
"No, sir. Nothing."
Only A Boy
Ginny sat cross-legged in one of the couches in the Gryffindor common room, absentmindedly flipping through her Transfiguration textbook. She was just wondering when they would reach the chapter about turning tortoises into teapots when the portrait hole burst open, and Lee Jordan rushed inside.
"There's been another attack!" he announced, breathless, an anxiety on his brow that Ginny had never seen before. "Justin Flinch-Fletchley and Nick!"
"Nick?" came Hermione's voice somewhere behind Ginny and she turned to see Hermione standing in the doorway to the dormitory, her eyes wide. "The Gryffindor Ghost?"
"Yeah!"
At this, there was an outcry of panic. A ghost was attacked? But how was that possible? Ginny sat, stunned, as the conversation swelled around her. It sounded like Merlin had been seen standing next to the new victims, but he'd been in the company of Hagrid. Speculation ran rampant. Ginny's heart did funny little somersaults.
Where had she been, fifteen-twenty minutes ago? She'd only just sat down here to read after finding herself in her dormitory with several long rooster feathers on her robes. What had she done?
Knowing that no one would notice her, Ginny pulled out her diary.
Dear Tom, there was another attack today and I don't know where I was.
She wondered if Tom could read the panic in her shaky script. She waited, her breathing shallow as she watched the letters sink into the page. After a moment, he replied.
Slow down, Ginny. What happened?
She wrote down everything she could overhear from Lee Jordan, who was now retelling what had happened to new arrivals.
And, I had another blackout, not fifteen minutes ago! I found more feathers on my robes and I know heard Hagrid complaining about someone killing his roosters the other day. Oh, Tom, what am I going to do? I think I'm going mad…
Her hand hovered above the page, her heart fluttering in her throat. She brought down her quill again, working to keep her hand steady as tears pricked at her eyes.
…I think I'm the one attacking everyone, Tom.
He wrote back at once.
Ginny, how could it be you? You're not Slytherin's heir. Merlin said he heard a snake, didn't he? You don't know Parseltongue—how could you be the one attacking people?
Ginny felt her lip tremble. I don't know, I don't know, she wrote, shaking her head. I know it doesn't make sense. But it's too much of a coincidence!"
Why don't you go to Merlin about it?
Ginny blinked. Merlin? She'd never considered—Do you think he could help?
Well, he's the only one you know who speaks Parseltongue. And from all that you've told me, he seems like the type of person who would be able to prove that you're not capable something like this. And if you are—Tom seemed to pause a moment, as though choosing his next words very carefully—he'd be the only one who could stop you.
Ginny read, and then re-read the words as they faded back into the page. A small part of her still hoped she was overreacting or that she'd developed some sort of rare condition and could be cured after a weekend in St. Mungos. Or, even, that she was completely delusional. She'd take madness over unconsciously attempting murder any day. Still, Tom's words calmed her. However getting a chance to speak to Merlin was going to be difficult, what with the holidays coming up.
He's going home for the holidays, I think, she wrote back in dismay.
Well, that gives us time to come up with a plan. After all, we're going to have to do this delicately. We want him to take you seriously, don't we?
Yes! Ginny wrote back, the tears gone. And as Tom started giving suggestions on how to broach the topic with Merlin, she relaxed. She really was so lucky to have Tom to talk to.
Only A Boy
Draco couldn't sleep.
He frowned and rolled over, squeezing his eyes shut. It hadn't taken long for the entire school to hear of the double attack on Justin Finch-Fletchley and Nearly Headless Nick, accompanied of course by a swath of rumors. Some even claimed that Merlin had been seen petrifying the pair himself—caught red-handed by Hagrid. While some more ridiculous rumors were under the impression Merlin had dueled Professor McGonagall in the corridor. Whatever the story, they all ended with Merlin in the Headmaster's office.
Draco opened his eyes and stared at Merlin's four-poster some feet away, the curtains drawn tightly around his bed. Merlin hadn't said much about his trip to the Headmaster's office, other than he definitely wasn't expelled and that Dumbledore had only wanted to know, verbatim, what the snake had said. Even so, Draco could tell that something else weighed on Merlin's mind.
His friend hadn't looked good these past few weeks. Everyone had noticed. Most had chalked it up to stress from being labeled the Heir of Slytherin, and at first Draco had agreed, until he remembered that Merlin had looked off color long before everyone discovered he was a Parselmouth. Now, he looked worn, perpetually exhausted, withered even. He might not complain of headaches anymore but Draco wasn't a fool—he'd seen Merlin knocking back those pain reliever potions nearly every morning. And last night—
He flipped onto his back, staring up at the dark wood of his four-poster. He had hoped Merlin would come to senses and go to Snape or Madam Pomfrey himself. He'd considered dragging him several times, but he'd figured that with the Christmas Holidays approaching, Florean Fortescue would do the job for him when Merlin came back looking like a strong gust of wind might knock him over. But—Draco turned to look at Merlin's bed again, and started.
Merlin stood, swaying slightly, in front of his bed. His dark hair was plastered across his forehead, which glistened with sweat in the dim light. Draco could hear his uneven breathing, a wet, rattling sound that permeated the darkness.
"Merlin?" Draco whispered, sitting up in bed.
Merlin didn't answer. He just stood there, unsteady on his feet. Draco squinted in the dark and realized with a jolt that Merlin's eyes were closed.
He was still asleep.
"Hey, Merlin," he said a little louder. Merlin didn't respond. Then, after several long minutes during which Draco fretted about what to do, Merlin began to move. He was walking toward the door, and Draco bolted out of bed.
"Merlin!" he half-shouted. He was tempted to grab the boy's shoulders and shake him but decided against it. He still remembered what'd happened when Blaise had snuck up on him last year, and he didn't fancy getting thrown across the room.
And speak of the devil— "What's going on?" asked Blaise, sitting up and yawning. Draco could hear the other boys beginning to stir.
"Merlin's sleep walking."
"Don't touch him!" Theodore piped up at once, jumping out of bed.
"I wasn't going to!"
But this complicated things, since Merlin clearly intended to leave the room. He, Blaise, and Theodore danced around Merlin, shouting his name to no avail. Blaise almost tripped in his haste to move out of Merlin's path as he opened the door and strode through it. Draco grimaced, grabbed his cloak, and followed Merlin down the stairs. He'd come to a pause in front of the fireplace.
"Keep an eye on him," Draco muttered to Blaise and Theodore, who had followed him down. "I'm going to grab Snape," and he dashed out of the common room. Draco tried to contain his panic. He was sure Merlin had never sleepwalked before and now two days in a row? Draco was sure it meant nothing good and he was tired of waiting for Merlin to sort it out himself.
He reached Snape's office out of breath and for the first time in his life, went for the door handle instead of knocking. Locked. What time was it? Late, no doubt. But was the Potions Master asleep or still patrolling the castle? Draco banged on the door.
"Professor Snape!" he banged again. He really didn't want to venture into the rest of the school to find him but after several minutes of knocking and calling the Professor's name, he knew he'd have to do just that. Draco gritted his teeth.
It'd be just his luck to run into Professor McGonagall the night after a double attack.
Cursing under his breath, Draco ran up the corridor, peaking inside the empty potions classroom before heading out of the dungeons. He stopped, just before leaving and peered around the corner. He spotted the elder Weasley brother strolling down the entrance hall and frowned—he doubted the Gryffindor Prefect would believe him. Trying not to make a sound, Draco slipped past him and up the marble staircase. He had just reached the landing when a reproachful voice from down the corridor made him jump a foot in the air.
"What are you doing out of bed?" It was Professor Sprout. Well, that was better than the Head of Gryffindor House, but then again it'd been one of her students who'd been petrified that day. Swallowing hard, Draco ran over to her.
"I need to find Professor Snape. There's ah…a situation down in the common room and he's not in his office. Not about the chamber," he added quickly, "someone is having a, well, a sleeping issue." He didn't want to violate Merlin's privacy more than he needed.
Professor Sprout gave him a searching look, and just when Draco was starting to think she was going to drag him to the Headmaster's office, she nodded. "I just passed him. He's over by the Library, come along," and she motioned for him to follow her down the corridor.
"Thank you, Professor," Draco said, breathing in relief.
They found him just around the corridor from the Library, and his eyebrow rose at the sight of Draco.
"Mr. Malfoy says there is a matter in the Slytherin common room that requires your attention," Professor Sprout said by way of explanation. "Something about a sleeping issue?"
"I see." Snape paused, giving Draco an almost confused look.
"I realize there is some desire for privacy about this," Professor Sprout went on and Draco shot her a small smile of gratitude, "So, this is where I will leave him."
"Indeed, I will take him back to his common room," Snape said with a nod, and he lead Draco back down the way he had come while Professor Sprout went on.
"It's Merlin," Draco said as they reached the staircase. "He's sleepwalking."
"Sleepwalking?" Snape repeated, and his pace increased.
"Yes, sir. I left him in the common room. He's not…well, Professor."
Snape didn't answer and after a few minutes of silence, they reached the stretch of stonewall hiding the common room. "Asphodel," Snape said, but before the wall had even finished moving, Blaise and Theodore burst forward.
"He left!"
"What! You were supposed to watch him!" Draco snapped.
"He walked out! What, did you want us to hold him back?"
Snape swore under his breath, and the second years all turned to him, surprised. "When did he leave?"
"Just a few minutes ago, sir."
"Draco, stay here," Snape said, turning on his heel. "I'll find him."
Only A Boy
Severus Snape swept back through the dungeons, taking the stairs two at a time. Sleepwalking? Would this boy ever run out of surprises? Or, at the very least, offer one that wouldn't send him tearing through the corridors? Snape reached the entrance hall and saw Percy Weasley, the Gryffindor Prefect, heading toward the marble staircase at a power walk. He seemed to notice Snape out of the corner of his eye, skidded to a halt, and shifted direction.
"Sir—he's in there," he said, pointing toward the Great Hall. "He doesn't seem to be awake."
"No," Snape confirmed, brushing past him. He heard the Prefect follow. He considered sending the boy away before relenting—he might need him to retrieve Dumbledore or Poppy. After all, Merlin wasn't one to habitually sleepwalk. Students who were prone to such nighttime wanderings had their beds especially charmed, and it was unlikely Merlin had managed to get away with it for this long.
The tables of the Great Hall had been removed, save for the one where he and the other teachers dined. The floating candles had all been extinguished, the only light coming from the enchanted ceiling in the form of scattered stars and clouds. Snape silently illuminated the tip of his wand and saw a figure standing, suspended in front of the seat where Dumbledore usually sat.
"Merlin?" Snape said as he approached.
The boy gave no indication that he'd heard him. Snape could see sweat across Merlin's forehead, a slight tremor in his shoulders. Was it a night terror, perhaps? Not impossible. The combination of stress and the leftover trauma from the whole Quirrell situation could have triggered one.
"Merlin," he repeated, firmly.
"Mr. Evans," Weasley tried next to him. "You are dreaming. It's just a dream. Wake up!"
No response.
Well, time for plan B then. Snape waved his wand over Merlin and said, "Rennervate." Merlin's eyes fluttered and his knees buckled. Snape managed to grab him just as he began to fall and was startled to find the boy blazing hot to the touch. He hadn't even suspected—the boy's complexion was so pale.
"Merlin!" he said, urgently, easing him to the ground. "Can you hear me?"
Merlin seemed unable to open his eyes. He licked his lips and began to mutter, but when Snape leaned forward to catch the words he found that they were not in any language he understood. Parseltongue? No—this sounded… different somehow. Older. Dead.
"Weasley!" Snape ordered, hoisting Merlin into his arms. Blast it—the boy was light. He'd noticed he wasn't eating well, but to this extent? "Fetch Dumbledore immediately. I'm taking Merlin to the Hospital Wing."
"Yes, sir!"
Snape walked swiftly out of the hall and up the stairs to the Hospital Wing, Merlin whispering incessantly the whole way. Idiot boy—Snape glanced down at him with a worried scowl. Unsure of whether or not this was a foreign language or just gibberish, he tried to memorize a few words but Merlin spoke so softly and so quickly it was hard to know what marked the beginning and end.
He reached the Hospital Wing. "Matron!" he shouted as he pushed open the door.
"Who's been petrified?" came Madam Pomfrey's voice and a moment later she came out of her office, pulling a robe over her nightdress.
"You have a temporary reprieve from petrified patients," Snape said with a grimace. He couldn't deny the flutter of panic in his chest as he and Madam Pomfrey eased Merlin into a bed. He'd noticed of course that the boy had looked worse for wear in recent weeks, but he hadn't thought it'd turn out to be something so serious! What hadn't he noticed? What had he ignored?
He took a step back while Madam Pomfrey took a look at Merlin, her lips drawn into a tight line. She pulled open his eyelids to look at his eyes, which were rolling into his head, she pressed a palm to his forehead, took his pulse. Then, she took out her wand and cast a variety of diagnostic charms—some of which Snape recognized. She gave a small gasp.
"What?" Snape said sharply, as Merlin began to convulse. "What disease does he have, Matron?"
"This is a curse!" she said, waving her wand again. "I've never seen anything like it before."
Snape felt his gut contract. He whipped out his own wand and waved it over Merlin. He knew a thing or two about curses; it came with being a spy. It also came with his interest in Defense Against the Dark Arts. But as Snape began casting his own set of diagnostic spells over Merlin, he felt his vast knowledge fail him.
The curse, whatever it was, seemed to be attacking Merlin's brain, causing it to swell. The inflamed tissue was then affecting healthy brain function. The headaches! This was surely the cause. Snape felt something bubble in him, something remarkably like shame. He should have been more alert. He should have caught this sooner.
The doors opened again and Dumbledore strode inside, looking somber. "What's happened?" he asked, crossing over to them.
"I have no idea," Madam Pomfrey said, shaking her head. "But this isn't something I'll be able to treat with a simple finite. The boys got a curse that's going to require a skilled curse breaker!"
"It reeks of dark magic," Snape agreed, swallowing down his panic. Who had done this to Merlin? When had they done it?
Dumbledore looked from one to the other before nodding and Snape noticed a spark in his otherwise dim blue eyes, a fury fighting to be contained—a student, cursed, possibly within his school? Dumbledore crossed over to the large fireplace against the back wall of the infirmary, the flames jumping as he approached.
"Get him ready to travel to St. Mungo's at once!"