Sorry for the delay. I'm a second semester high school senior and I should be enjoying myself, but I've had SO MUCH to do.

However, I have some great news that got me so excited I just need to share it: I just found out that I got into― and will be attending― arguably the best art school in the country. So, this got me into the mood to celebrate. What better way to do so than share a bit of the writing that I love so much?

Enjoy it!

Chapter Eleven: Enchanted to Meet You

Everything seemed fairly normal, to the casual observer. A boy with glasses, the servant of a guest who had been staying in the castle for a short while now, were merely walking through the stone corridors. But if anyone had looked closely, beyond those spectacle frames they would have seen the eyes that were usually so bright green clouded over with a milky haze. He moved forward silently, a look of placid calm over his features― a look of total blankness. The boy walked up the stairs; he was headed towards the king's chambers.

Several hundred feet behind him down the hall, conveniently far enough back so that no suspicion in any form could be placed upon them, Cepheus Black and his grandson could be seen walking at a leisurely pace. The old man seemed to be in the middle of telling the teenaged boy something that gave him great pleasure― it was rare to see him smiling as he was, after all. The boy was not really reacting to what his grandfather was saying. Instead, he simply held a look of blank composure about him that didn't seemed to faze Cepheus in the slightest. They continued walking, following the servant boy as he approached the king's room.

There were two guards standing outside of Uther's bedroom. The king was ill and the court physician seemed to believe the circumstances therein were a bit suspicious, and so the guards had been placed on duty there to ensure that no one entered with the intent of doing harm to their ruler. The task had truthfully been rather boring thus far, until a dark haired boy with glasses approached and stood in front of them, not saying anything.

"We can't allow entry without permission from the prince or the physician," the taller of the two soldiers stated. He'd seen this boy around before― in fact, he'd been in the room earlier that day― but orders were orders. Slowly, almost lazily, the boy turned his head slightly to the man who had spoken.

Somewhere, way at the back of his mind, Harry Potter sat curled up in a little ball, desperately trying to block out a kind of irritating buzzing noise that was interfering with his concentrating on figuring out where exactly he was and how he'd gotten there. If he listened closely to the buzzing, it almost sounded like words. It was a mix of whispers and yells, of overlapping voices that commanded him to do one thing: take them down.

Presently, Harry's arm rose, stretching out before him towards the guards. They stared at the object in his hand; what was he showing them a stick for?

"Stupefy," Harry intoned in a voice devoid of emotion. There was a flash of light, and then a loud, banging clatter as the two stunned soldiers fell to the stone floor, their mail causing a racket. Harry moved past the unconscious men into the king's chambers.

Arthur stood by his father's bedside, concerned with his wellbeing. To say that the king and the prince always got along was a gross overstatement―for they'd certainly had their share of disagreements―, but he was truly upset that his father had fallen so ill. For all his bravado (and though he might not have admitted it), Arthur was still a boy who was simply worried about his father. And he really didn't believe he'd be ready to take the throne of Camelot should something… happen. But he didn't want to think about anything like that now. At the moment, his concerns were with making sure his father recovered.

He was already on alert before the commotion outside his father's bedchambers began and, upon hearing the loud clanging, his sword was out in an instant and he whirled to face the doorway. Warily, he looked towards the door and waited for any indication of what had happened.

"What's going on out there?" he called to the guards in an authoritative voice. The two men could have been slacking off― or, for all he knew, Merlin could be outside the door, knocking things over with his clumsiness as usual. But he received no reply. Then that boy― the servant who had come with that snotty blond and his grandfather― appeared from around the corner where the door was just out of view. Arthur relaxed only slightly, looking curiously at the stick the boy was holding by his side. "What are you doing in here?" he asked dismissively, "And why did those idiots let you in?"

Vexingly― and irritatingly, as this was the second time that very minute that this had happened and it was simply not acceptable― Arthur received no response. The boy merely looked at him with a blank expression; it was as if he were waiting.

"I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to leave," Arthur growled, tightening the grip on his sword and raising it slightly to show that he was serious. He didn't have time for this sort of thing― not when his father lay behind him in such a state.

In Harry's head, the buzzing swelled to form words again, pushing him onward towards his task: remove the obstruction; do not kill him. He needs to see everything. Harry's body complied.

Instead of turning and running as Arthur had expected, the servant boy with the strange spectacles lifted his right arm, showing the stick to Arthur as if he were pointing at the confused prince. Said prince took a step forward, extending his sword in almost a mirror image of his strange, stick-wielding counterpart. Arthur was reminded of the many duels in which he'd participated― and won. And if he could win against trained knights and warriors, certainly there was no way a servant boy with a stick was going to be any different. However, before Arthur could take another step forward, he found out exactly what that stick could do.

"Expelliarmus." The strange word tumbled out of the dark-haired boy's mouth in a flat, heavy tone, and Arthur felt the hilt of the sword torn from his steady grip by an unseen force. It landed behind the servant boy with an unsettling clang; the boy made no motion to retrieve it. Arthur looked at him in surprise, still ready to fight despite the lack of weapon. But that couldn't have been magic… could it? He soon received his answer. "Petrificus totalis."

As the bizarre paralysis set in, locking his arms and legs to his body, and Arthur fell to the stone floor, he suddenly understood. This was magic― and he stood no chance against it. It was just as his father said: magic and those who used it were evil. He could see it now, the entire plot unfolding before him. Clearly, Gaius had been unable to cure his father because his illness was, in fact, a curse, set upon him by the glasses-wearing sorcerer that now stood before Arthur. Maybe the king wasn't dying fast enough, and the boy had returned to finish the job.

Arthur couldn't remember feeling more helpless. There was no use even trying to move his body; beyond his eyes and basic respiration, his was utterly frozen. Still, the servant boy-turned-sorcerer stared at him blankly. Arthur gazed back at him, refusing to show his fear, even whilst facing the tip of that accursed stick.

There was no fighting magic.

Whew! That's all i can manage for now. Please review!

Oh, and one special announcement of shameless self-advertisement: after promising to do so for a very long time, I've finally created a new DeviantArt account that will have my actual work on it (by actual I mean not fanart, fanfiction, or random scribbles… serious art and writing). If you don't mind, I'd love for you to check it out (even though there's not much there for now, it's a start)! It's at scribbles-the-scribe(dot)deviantart(dot)com (replace the (dot)s… or if you're too lazy, there's a link in my profile).

And again, review, please!