Guess what...im alive! I have not, in fact, ceased to exist. I haven't updated this story for more than half a year, so for that i apologise to you, the reader, and to merlin, who is impatiently waiting to continue his journey in my story.

anyway, hope u enjoy this bit, and sorry to all the reviews i havent replied to, but ive read and appreciate them!


He's not your average teacher

Nearly Headless Nick zooms through the maze of corridors, only one goal in mind.

He speeds past swarms of students, flies up and down and through the staircases, through

every classroom in the beehive of Hogwarts.

And when he glimpses the oversized ears, he knows immediately that he has found his prey.

Gotcha.

"So..." Nick drawls out in his fake-polite-greeting-voice, sneaking behind his prey. "Malcolm,"

Merlin doesn't turn around, but at the sudden exasperated dip of his head, Nick knows he has heard him. "Such a common, overused name, it's almost as if-"

Merlin whips his head around. "Ah - why, if it's not my favourite Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington," he says charmingly, giving a mock bow. "And just because I so kindly revealed my identity to you, does not give you a free pass to reveal my identity to everyone - it would be greatly appreciated if you in fact…did not." Merlin finishes pleasantly.

"Why, of course I wouldn't O'Great one, my heart isn't entirely empty you know!"

Merlin raises an eyebrow.

Then strides off.

"I don't have time for your posh prater, Sir Nicholas, I have a history class to feed and water!" Merlin calls over his shoulder.

"Oh no no no you don't - stop there you ghastly fool!" Nick shouts back, quickly zooming in front of Merlin and preventing him from moving any further. "I've barely started with my many bones to pick with you, old man,"

Merlin spins around and walks in the opposite direction.

"The last time I saw you," Nick continues adamantly, scooting round the warlock to block his path once again, "you got me in enough trouble to be chucked into Azkaban for a day or two if someone had found out- no, no don't walk the other way now-"

Nick swerves to halt Merlin, "-and you never even told me what you gave them until they had drunk every last drop, then you just abandoned me on that wonky tower of Pizza and- hey!"

Merlin turns down the corridor, once again switching to the opposite way, sighing expressionlessly.

"Now listen here, you powerful maggot," Nick snarled, cold breath hitting the amused warlock as he advanced upon him. "Your sass has cost me far more than I bargained for over the years and I am far too old to put up with any more smart-alecking antics from you. Now, I don't know why you've decided to come to teach - I don't know if there is an actual prophecy-fate-mission-thing going on, or if you've just impulsively decided to stir up some chaos at Hogwarts for us undeserving folk. I don't know - and frankly, I don't want to know. But what I do need to know is that you will never, ever give my ghost friends spirit wine at my party ever again, "

Merlin sighs heavily.

"Merlin," Sir Nick continues warningly, through a mild tone of desperation, "you must promise me!"

Merlin smiles evilly, giving up the pretence of being cornered by the ghost.

"Toodles, pal," the warlock says brightly, and walks straight through the ghost.

"You forget you're not as solid as you used to be Nick!"


''So. Um. Children,'' The new history teacher says, standing uncomfortably in front of his first class, looking every inch the definition of awkward.

''I want Professor Binns back.'' Harry hears someone whisper.

He finds himself agreeing. Malcolm overall looks like some giant has lifted him from his habitat and plonked him in the classroom. He has remarkably tatted boots, his cloak is fit for someone twice his size, and for some odd reason he has chosen to wear a tie – which hangs limply around his neck. Evidently, he has struggled to tie it, judging by the multiple creases and the oversized, uneven knot.

''Are we sure he's qualified teach?'' Hermione whispers to Ron, who is sat in the seat next to her.

''Doubt it.'' Ron mumbles back, ''looks he's barely moved out his mam's house!''

''-today,'' Malcolm continues, ''I will be teaching you history. Well- yes - obviously, this is a history class so of cour- you know what, never mind,''

''Ron!'' Hermione mutters quietly, leaning towards the red-head subtly and gesturing her head slightly to his paper, "Look!''

And lo and behold, scrawled across his page with black ink, in somewhat angular letters was,

I' m 2 7, a c t uall y.

''Bloody-!''

''He must've heard you- ''

"But how the f- "

"Guys!'' Harry hisses, "shut up!''

"But mate look!'' Ron says, shoving the paper in Harry's face.

Harry huffs, pushing flapping sheet away and swiping it out Ron's hand to get a clearer look at what all the fuss was about. He freezes, quickly adjusting his glasses as if it would magically give him better vision. "Emrys wrote that?''

"Yes! 'Cos I made that comment 'bout him looking too young!''

"But how did he- ''

"I don't know Harry,'' Hermione interjects in a hushed voice, "but that's some serious wandless magic there- he's been speaking the whole time, and I haven't observed any shifts in his composure, never mind having the hearing of an eagle!''

Harry, Ron, and Hermione share their signature look – a mixture between horror, curiosity, and eagerness. If you, the reader, had witnessed this look, you'd be running out the classroom and on the next train in a jiffy. Once something catches the trio's attention, a malfunctioned mission, then a fight, then a death, then Harry confined to hospital wing with a despairing Mrs Weasley is almost certain to occur.

Despite this, the three meddl- ("slightly!" sorry Hermione,) slightly meddlesome students, turn their heads, chins up a fraction, theories spiralling in their heads, to face the enigma of Professor Emrys, who was still saying, "-so I shall be teaching you history, because that is what you want me to do – of course I want to do it too – why else would I have become a history teacher- " Emrys blinks, "oh Avalon,'' he mutters, barely distinguishable, "I sound like Gwen,''

He sighs, loudly and exasperatingly, before declaring,

"Screw this!''

The deranged man madly tugs at his tie, catapults it out the window, and whips out a scraggly, moth-eaten red rag supposedly from thin air. The class watches in stunned silence and mild fear as he ties it around his neck and tosses his cloak off.

"What is that shoddy old thing around your neck?!" Someone shouts out, the only one brave enough to face the madman.

"Shoddy?" The madman gasps, whipping his head to stare obnoxiously at the culprit, "OLD?!'' He places a hand dramatically on his red rag, "This, my friend, is a prehistoric treasure.''

''MY HAIR!"

The undeserving culprit had apparently found themselves with their hair turned into sponge.

The madman chuckles, then his eyes widen as if he has realised something – but so ever so slightly that if Hermione wasn't looking closely, she wouldn't have noticed. A moment later his left arm moves forward slightly, holding a very naturalistic-looking wand, as if making it obvious to the class it was there.

Strange.

"Yes, well you shouldn't have bullied my neckerchief, eh?'' He says merrily, oblivious to Hermione's sharp eagle-eyes as he overdoes the waving of his wand to remove the sponge-hair. ''It's very sensitive to criticism you know.''

The class stares at him, torn between laughing and running for their lives; a feat it seemed only this man could pull.

He suddenly leaps on top of his desk and sits down on it, legs crossed in a vague meditative position. He clasps his hands together and briefly sweeps his eyes around the classroom, but despite the swiftness, his gaze somehow lands on each individual for the same equal amount of time as the last. Harry mentally gave Professor Emrys a 'good point' when his eyes did not linger on his scar.

"Well, I tried to be all formal and professional, but I guess my brain cells once again refuse to conform to those boxes,'' He smiles. "So, you're stuck with the unfiltered me for the year it seems, not sure whether I feel sorry for you or not. Anyhow, I have chosen to teach you about…the Jurassic period.''

"What – dinosaurs?!"

"That's so muggle-ish!''

"You can't call that history- "

"We wanna learn about wiza- "

"Ok fine!'' He exclaims, putting a halt to the wave of simultaneous displeased outcries. "I just thought that maybe you would want a change from learning about ministers and massacres and whatnot. And I don't fancy teaching bog standard history, I know it already. Been there, seen that, done that.''

"Well, just because you've studied it so much, doesn't mean we know it!'' The class calls out again.

"It's about the student not the teacher, remember!" Students start to raise from their seats, as if protesting for their basic human rights.

"ALRIGHT!'' Emrys exclaims, rolling his eyes in an overly pronounced manner, holding his hands up in mock surrender, ''No dinosaurs, I get it.''

"Um- professor?" A student calls out quietly.

"WHAT NOW?!''

"It's just…I thought that new transfer student was coming to this class today? Do you think everything is ok?''

He smiled sweetly at the student, "Well, maybe she is starting to regret her decision to enrol here,'' He says, almost too innocently.


"Okay boys," Hermione says later that day, after she dragged her friends into the library to their 'favourite' spot. "What have we deduced about Malcolm Emrys and the new sixth year?"

"Ah, well so far- actually Hermione, no. I don't want to do this!" Harry exclaims suddenly, almost whining. "I just want a year without any trouble! Trouble always finds me eventually, why would I want to speed up that process by seeking it out? No, no and no. I've had entirely enough of childhood trauma. "

"Okay Harry, that's fine, I understand." Says Hermione lightly, "Ron and I can do it without you. Right Ron?"

"Right." Grunts the red-head who was currently half asleep on the library table.

"Right. Good." Harry says, frowning slightly. He expects more of a refusal from Hermione, but he brushes it aside. He reverses his chair; stands up - with every intention to hibernate to the common rooms, breathing in nothing but his uneventful, normal, rather boring life. Ah, bliss.

"Say Ron," He hears Hermione say abnormally loudly as he strides away from the table, "did you hear those rumours about Aithusa Whitesun storming through the corridors muttering curses at Professor Emrys?"

Harry spins around sharply, "What?!" He quickly reclaims his seat, almost subconsciously, "What now?!"

Hermione smirks knowingly.

Darn it! Harry thinks. She knew I would do this!

"Well done mate," Ron snorts, tiredly slapping a disgruntled Harry on the back. "Knew you couldn't resist a good mystery.''


thanks for reading!