The Quidditch World Cup (Prologue)
Merlin could not leave it any longer.
He had spent the last few years studiously ignoring the growing discontent under his skin. Such distortions in the magic of the world were not exactly unusual, and normally they sorted themselves out without any help from him. As an Immortal, it was not right for him to tamper with the flow of the world; it was not fair for one person alone to dictate how the world should be and Merlin no longer had any illusions about his own power.
Wizards would always meddle with things they did not understand, and the only way they ever learned was when they made mistakes for themselves.
Besides, for the first time in nearly a century he had indulged the roaring flame beside his heart and visited with his kin, finding a place on a dragon sanctuary in Romania. It was practically paradise for a Dragonlord, even if these dragons were not like Kilgharrah and Aithusa, and dragon-wranglers tended to be far more accepting of oddities than the wider world (considering most wizards thought them insane for choosing to spend their lives around flame, claws and teeth).
Unfortunately, this time it was not going away. The last time the Balance had been truly right was over fifty years ago, though it had only been a faint hum of discontent back then. It had corresponded roughly with Voldemort’s rise to power, a fact Merlin had confirmed when it had spiked nearly fifteen years ago, at the same time a rebounded Killing Curse had hit the Dark Lord.
It had been worrisome, but the Balance had tilted back very quickly, and though it was not all the way there it had been enough. As an instrument of Balance, the Last High Priest of the Old Religion, Merlin could feel it; there was no need for him to intervene. In the past four years, however, the wrongness he could feel in the fabric of the world had grown more and more distinct, to a point where it could no longer be disregarded.
It would be in Britain, of course, because it was always Britain. The worst Dark Lords always seemed to be drawn there at some point or another, as did the strongest sorcerers – Merlin himself amongst them. Albion echoed even so many years past her blooming.
For months now he had been keeping an eye out for any sign of trouble, and though there seemed to be a disproportionate amount of fanaticism surrounding Harry Potter (poor kid; it made Merlin glad that no one knew that the strange wizard with sticking out ears and an idiotic grin was in fact a legendary figure), there had been no real sign of what was disturbing magic so.
It had to be a magical problem, though, because even during the worst conflicts amongst non-magical people the world never felt so off.
Still, he could not say he was surprised that there was nothing to be found in the Prophet. These days Wizarding Britain seemed to take some sort of pride in being centuries behind its non-magical counterpart and its people tended to trust in the one newspaper that was sensationalist at best and baseless propaganda at worst.
When he saw the advert for the Quidditch World Cup, however, he knew that his time with his kin had come to an end. Such a massive public event would be a prime target for whatever had stirred the Balance up.
(Voldemort, he suspected. There had always been people who believed that he had never truly died; since the Balance had not settled properly in 1981, Merlin had always been inclined to believe them.)
Merlin sighed. He would have had to move on soon anyway – though he could age himself as he pleased, he made it a general rule never to stay anywhere more than a decade. He may have been used to watching friends grow old and leave for Avalon without him, but that didn’t make it any less painful, especially those that did not know that he would never join them.
So he had quickly but tidily put his affairs in order, said farewell to his colleagues (many of whom were devastated to see the cheerful man with such an affinity for dragons go), and come up against a large obstacle.
Sygni.
Only a year ago, the sanctuary’s sole female Swedish Shortsnout had bred with one of the other species of dragons (none of them actually knew which; somehow, she’d escaped her ‘pen’ and they’d had no idea until she’d returned) and, unusually, it had resulted in a clutch of six eggs.
Most of the hatchlings had taken after their mother and had emerged from their eggs as normal Swedish Shortsnouts, although sadly one had clearly received a strange mix of genes as it had died before ever breaching the surface. The last, however, had hatched well after its siblings and didn’t resemble them at all.
Like the others, it had the gorgeous silvery-blue scales typical of a Swedish Shortsnout, but its body shape was all wrong. Sleeker, with a longer nose and far more elegant even than its mother.
Having felt the dragon begin to come into the world through his father’s gift, Merlin had been there for her hatching and had immediately fallen in love. Unfortunately, though, the hatchling had been what dragon-wranglers generally described as a runt, so much smaller than its brethren that the mother rejected it. Doomed to die.
It did not happen often, perhaps once in every hundred clutches. Dragons, even modern dragons, had such strong magic that they rarely manifested weaknesses. Flawed eggs normally simply did not hatch, but when they did the humans had given up trying to save the runts. Even if they did not sicken and die as hatchlings, they never grew properly and tended to be shunned for their adult lives.
Sygni, as he’d ended up calling her, had been Merlin’s first experience with one. And it had reminded him so much of Aithusa that he had not been able to leave her.
She had called out to him, recognising her Lord, and when her mother had rejected her Merlin had taken her in. Had smuggled her out of the sanctuary and into his care.
There were many debates about what had happened to her. Some speculated that the other dragons had eaten her (which horrified Merlin; dragons were creatures of magic and wonder. They were not beasts, not monsters), others that she’d crawled off to die on her own. No one thought about it too long, however, and they searched only half-heartedly. If any other babe had gone missing there would have been uproar, but didn’t everyone know that runts always died?
Under a Dragonlord’s protection, however, Sygni had thrived. She did not grow very fast, still only barely bigger than one of Arthur’s hounds, but she had kept the neat, sleek proportions she’d been born with and had no health problems other than her size. Being with her every day had forged a bond between them closer than he’d had with any but the two ancient dragons, Kilgharrah and Aithusa, and that bond sustained and cradled her.
Merlin refused to repeat his mistakes and abandon her because things were difficult, as he had the White Dragon in their mutual youth, and in the end he’d taken Syg with him despite it being very illegal. He was an old hand at keeping secrets, after all, and if actual dragonhands hadn’t noticed he was rearing a baby dragon at home then he doubted that anyone in England would either.
He never had learned to pay all that much attention to the laws of the land. Having your birth and existence be illegal for nigh on thirty years made it rather difficult to respect any further laws, and despite Gwen legalising magic in the end he had never gotten into the habit.
For Sygni’s sake he had moved into one of his more obscure properties in Scotland, one with acres of land for her to roam on. It bordered Hogwarts to the west, on the same patch of Unplottable land, but it was under a more ancient version of the Fidelius so that no one had ever noticed it.
In the month he’d been in England, she had thrived. On reflection, he supposed it made sense; summer in England was more similar to her natural climate than the blistering Romanian heat, and he’d already charmed a small patch of land including a cave for her so that it would remain warm even when the short Scottish summer ended.
Merlin hadn’t had such a close dragon companion since Aithusa’s death, and he was surprised at how much he found that he had missed it. Even if Sygni didn’t share the same intelligence the Last Ancient Dragon had, she was an undemanding companion and they shared a deep bond.
Unfortunately, fussing over a dragon did have its down sides. Caught up in the euphoria of having more time to spend with her and the easing of what few health concerns she had had in Romania (a rattle in her throat, days when her wings ached or she didn’t want to fly), he had not done nearly as much research into the state of Wizarding England as he probably should have.
There were whispers about strange events at Hogwarts (but weren’t there always?), incompetence and corruption at the Ministry (disappointing but again, not unusual), but nothing to indicate why the Balance was so off. He was going into the Quidditch Cup mostly blind, not that that was anything unusual even after all this time.
Unlike most magical humans, Merlin had never really seen the point of Quidditch. It seemed so unnecessary, trying to beat each other up with enchanted balls when half the time only the Seeker and their snitch even made any difference.
And no, it had nothing to do with the fact that Merlin himself was nearly as uncoordinated on a broom as he was on the ground. Absolutely nothing. Nuh uh.
Luck seemed to be on his side, as the day of the match brought a brisk gale with it. No one remembered how to ward against Old Magic anymore, so it was child’s play to cast an invisibility spell and Transport to the campsite, the accompanying air storm dismissed as a particularly strong gust of wind. Anything that meant he didn’t have to endure the gut-wrenching lurch of Apparation into an undoubtedly heaving checkpoint automatically put him in a good mood.
Invisible, he took in the strange sight of blatantly wizarding tents spreading out in all directions. They probably thought that they were being inconspicuous, but really, what non-magical (or vaguely sane) person would chain peacocks outside of their tent? It was equal parts amusing and saddening.
Merlin had not brought a tent for himself. He had never had one back in Camelot (they were mainly reserved for nobles but the knights had mostly foregone them anyway) and as Emrys the natural world always sought to shelter him. Considering that the weather was set to stay clear he would probably end up setting up a couple of wards – and how he wished that he had been able to use those back in Camelot – and sleeping in a bedroll.
With how much of his ridiculously long life (the prat was taking his sweet time, damnit) he had spent travelling, Merlin was more used to basic accommodations than the luxury British wizards all but refused to do without. He would be more comfortable under the night sky than locked away behind fabric.
With that thought in mind, he cast his eye over the woods bordering the field and nodded to himself. Yes, that would do nicely. Away from all of the other wizards, the masses of humanity making him a little uncomfortable after spending so much time almost solely around dragons, and concealed enough that no one would notice his abnormalities.
Accommodations sorted, he wandered his way over to the stadium. It was already beginning to fill up with people, and he absently removed the invisibility with a flicker of golden eyes; he was still clumsy on occasion and now that he was inside the protections no one would look at him twice. As he wandered seemingly at random, he sent little tendrils of power out, looking for traps and malicious magic.
He quickly regretted it. The sheer volume of magic in the vicinity threatened to give him a headache, considering how many wizards had gathered in this place (not even mentioning that the stadium itself appeared to have built entirely by magic and not all that long ago either), but he found nothing particularly out of the ordinary. His magic seemed uneasy, though; the part of him intrinsically connected to the Balance through the power of Mirroring Life and Death was tense and wary.
Sighing, Merlin withdrew his magic back into himself and resigned himself to watching the game. It wouldn’t be that bad, but all the same a part of him longed to be back curled up with Sygni. Things had been simpler back on the reserve, or even at the Manor.
But Merlin was not a dragon. He was a dragon lord, and he’d learned enough about the gift through the years to know that he could not forget his humanity just as he could not ignore the part of his soul that roared with dragonfire (rather difficult to do considering both his patronus and animagus forms took that shape; it appeared that magic didn’t get the concept of subtlety). He had responsibilities to the dragons, and responsibilities to humans, and as Emrys he had responsibilities to the Balance too.
He sighed again. That didn’t mean that it didn’t get irritating, constantly having to clean up other people’s messes. Perhaps his first lifetime as a servant should have taught him that, but then he’d also been a warlock and a protector, and he’d never been what anyone might call conventional.
In the end, the World Cup wasn’t nearly as bad as he’d imagined. He didn’t catch all that much of the game, too busy watching the stands for trouble (he had found it highly amusing when the fight between the leprechauns and the veela broke out, and he knew that it was likely only his own presence that prevented actual damage – both species recognised Emrys and did not want to make him intervene), but he hadn’t been in contact with Wizarding Britain for so long that basic people watching was more than enough to entertain him.
In the end, it came down to a fight between the Bulgarians racing for the snitch and the Irish racing for points. Krum caught the snitch, the Irish won, and almost before the match was officially declared over Merlin had vanished from the stands.
Long experience with ambushes (Arthur again, he’d attracted more trouble than anyone Merlin had ever known, before or since. Including Merlin himself, which was quite remarkable) told the ancient warlock that if anything was going to happen at this event it would be amidst the chaos of the victory parties, where aurors were scrambling to keep up with at least a pretence of the Statute and too focused on breaking up rowdy supporters to notice anything more sinister.
He retreated to the woods, a golden-eyed presence that stretched his magic over the campsite like a blanket so that he might feel any disturbances. It was a kind of trance that left his body vulnerable, but it also let him monitor several square miles of territory.
Besides. It wasn’t like he could die. (Goddess, that sounded arrogant. He had definitely spent too long with the dragons.)
Around midnight, it paid off. A darkness pressed against the watchful layer of magic, a spell so malicious that it made Merlin want to recoil. Though inaudible to his physical ears, he heard screaming that was more shrill, more desperate, than celebration warranted.
In moments he was on his feet, heading closer to where he could feel the dark off notes. The Balance hadn’t stirred very much, but enough that he knew whatever was happening was in some way connected to whatever was wrong with the world’s natural magic.
He didn’t leave the trees. There were no sorcerers anymore, only wizards and what they called witches. Just like back in Camelot he could do more good from the shadows; in such chaos no one would trust a stranger.
Even before they came into view he felt his magic reaching out to innocent victims, wrapping protectively around those that had no magic of their own to guard them. He let it do as it wished, trusting in it as he had done as a child and slowly relearned to do once he had finally realised what the druids had never told him. Merlin – Emrys – was magic and that over-reliance on established spells did nothing but hinder him.
It wasn’t long, however, before he could see them with his own eyes and act more directly. Even from the cover of the trees it was not hard to spot the squad of dark figures marching slowly across the field.
Hooded and masked figures, threateningly familiar. Merlin nearly growled with the dragon-voice he’d become accustomed to using in Romania as his suspicions were confirmed.
Death Eaters.
(Ridiculous name.)
Voldemort had not returned, not yet – he was sure that he would have felt that, as the dark wizard had never known or cared enough to maintain the Balance – but this definitely raised the chances of him not having crossed over.
Gold flared as he used his Mind’s Eye to get a closer look. The Death Eaters had captured a family and were levitating them in the air to torment them, lashing out at any wizard who tried to defend them. All the while, a steady trickle of twisted wizards continued to slink out of the darkness to join them.
Fortunately, Merlin at least knew that the muggle family wasn’t in any pain. He could feel his magic curled tightly around them, easing their minds into slumber and redirecting or dissipating malicious spells.
For the Death Eaters themselves, he manipulated objects into their paths to trip them or to block stray curses, and a wave of his hand hindered anyone foolish enough to try to confront them alone. Distraction piled upon distraction to slow their progress until eventually the dark wizards were alone on a deserted field.
Merlin sagged back against the trees, panting slightly. He hadn’t expended that much magic in a while, not to mention that stretching oneself over such a distance was thought to be impossible.
Despite himself, he rolled his eyes at the thought. His whole life was pretty impossible.
Centring himself, he fell back on the teachings of the Druids and reached out to the world around him. Even in the darkness he could see the colours brightening, every tree, every leaf perking up, drinking in his magic even as they gave him energy in return. Flowers bloomed underfoot, and he heard the echo of a beloved memory… you’re such a girl, Merlin…
The whisper of wind in the leaves – Emrys – broke the memory as magic gave its avatar a little nudge. There was something important happening not too far away, and there were other people in the wood now.
Silently, Merlin padded through the trees, for once not betrayed by his own clumsiness as he drew nearer to whatever was giving him the feeling of a significant event. He ended up on the outskirts of a little clearing, with three figures huddled together in the centre, clustered around a single meagre point of wand light.
Even as removed as he was from the British Wizarding World, Merlin recognised one of them. Harry Potter.
Magic stirred within him, recognising something similar to itself in the child. Merlin frowned at the familiar feeling, the almost imperceptible draw he’d felt with quite a few figures from his past: Arthur, Gwen, the Knights of the Round Table, the Founders, Mordred, Morgana.
The mark of Destiny.
There’s a prophecy about him, he realised almost immediately, intrigue fading into sadness. Poor kid.
The three people in the clearing were talking quietly, concern filling their voices. The girl said, “Those poor Muggles. What if they can’t get them down?”
Her compassion was heartening, considering the prejudice he knew ran deep within the wizarding world, and Merlin felt the urge to reassure her. Eyes flickering gold once again, he sought out the tendrils of it dedicated to the non-magical family and it was with some relief that he realised that the Death Eaters must have either lost interest or thought that they’d killed them; he could feel the earth beneath them as they slept on, unaware of the tendrils of greenery that had grown up to shield them from view.
“Don’t worry about them,” he called, stepping into the circle of wand-light with his hands clearly in front of him. Back when sorcerers could wield magic without tools such a stance would have been considered defensive or even threatening, but with the British magical world’s overreliance on glorified sticks it had morphed into an expression of peace.
Immediately two wands were brandished in his direction, but he didn’t even flinch. Instead he raised a disapproving eyebrow (thanks, Gaius) and said mildly, “They’ve already been lowered and they’re quite safe.”
“How do you know?” the girl asked warily, though there was relief on her face.
“Saw it,” he said, indicating the treeline behind him, then turned to Harry Potter, the only one not menacing him with his own wonder-stick. “Why don’t you have a wand?”
As he still hadn’t reached for his and had taken care not to seem hostile at all (not to mention that he didn’t exactly look like a death eater, considering he’d not bothered changing out of his usual distinctly non-magical clothes), the other two lowered their wands, though they were still tense. “I, um, lost it, I think,” Harry confessed, looking distinctly embarrassed.
On his part, Merlin felt partly amused and partly exasperated. Why do I always get myself into these situations? “Okay, we can deal with that later. Since you’re all underage, do you mind if I accompany you until you find your way back to some adults?”
Whatever it was the Death Eaters had come here to do, he knew that the Ministry would have Aurors here soon and that they would have very little chance to do any more damage. Harry was more important now; Merlin always did his best to protect children of prophecy whenever he found them. He knew all too well that they normally lived hard lives, and very few people could truly understand them. Harry seemed to have been blessed with the two friends at his side, but it didn’t mean that Merlin didn’t still feel protective of him. And for whatever reason his magic had nudged him here.
At the thought of no longer being on their own in the dark forest, the three children relaxed somewhat. “Not at all,” the girl said gratefully. “That would be great, actually. I’m Hermione Granger, and this is Harry, and Ron Weasley.”
Harry was watching him carefully, but Merlin didn’t react to the name (or lack of surname) at all. Instead he offered all three of them a small smile. “You can call me Emrys.” He hadn’t intended on interacting with anyone, and when he tried to think up names without proper preparation he tended to end up with something as ridiculous as ‘Dragoon the Great.’ At the same time, he couldn’t use Merlin, so he fell back on the other technical truth. “It’s nice to meet you, though I wish it were under different circumstances.”
Hermione, clearly the spokesperson of the trio, returned the small smile and asked, “Do you know what’s going on?”
“Death Eaters,” he answered grimly, seeing no reason to hide this from them. “Don’t know what they’re doing here, but if I had to guess I’d say that they’re trying to get people’s attention.” Or they’re just sick bastards who like stirring up fear.
The three teenagers had paled, but it looked like he’d only confirmed what they’d already suspected. Before they could continue the conversation, though, they were interrupted by a noise as if someone were staggering towards them.
The uneven steps suggested that the person might be hurt, but Merlin didn’t think so. He was still connected with the magic of the world and the sense he got of the person was coming their way was strangely warped, wounded and broken and yet somehow tainted. Deliberately, he stepped in front of the teenagers, reminding himself to draw the wand he kept at his hip to keep up appearances.
Behind him, the three of them kept remarkably quiet, Hermione and Ron readying their own wands whilst Harry kept an eye on their backs, probably cursing his own carelessness.
But the footsteps seemed to have come to a sudden halt. After several long moments of tense silence, it was Harry that called out, “Hello? Who’s there?”
When the reply came, it wasn’t an answer but a spell, loud and confident despite the harshness of the deep voice. “Morsmordre!” came the cursed incantation, and a vast green light shot into the sky, writhing until it formed a colossal skull with a snake winding in and out of its mouth.
“Why is it always snakes?” Merlin muttered to himself, the back of his neck tingling in remembrance of his first dark witch with a taste for the creatures.
The quiet curse was drowned out by Ron’s gasp of, “What the-?”
Illuminated in the eery green light, Merlin’s expression had turned grim and resigned in equal measure as he recognised the symbol. “It’s the Dark Mark,” he explained without turning around, wand held firm but loose in readiness. “Their calling card. We should go.”
Before they could do as he suggested, however, there was a deafening chorus of popping noises as twenty wizards materialised around them. They were surrounded, and each of the new wizards – Aurors, Merlin recognised as he caught a glimpse of their uniforms – had their wands out. “Duck!” he ordered sharply in the voice he’d learned from Arthur, whilst simultaneously slicing his own wand in a vicious line.
The teenagers did as he had commanded just as a golden shield surrounded them all, the wand in his hand heating uncomfortably as it was forced to channel far more magic than it had ever been made for. Half a second later, twenty stunners impacted the shield with the force of a raging dragon (well, a new dragon, anyway. It did not quite match up to his memory of Kilgharrah).
The shield didn’t even flicker, spells bouncing off it in all directions, and Merlin winced slightly. He hadn’t intended to showcase such magical strength, but even so he supposed it was better than actually being hit by the stunners and quite probably having his own instinctual magic render the spells almost inert. Or letting the kids get hurt. That many stunners could stop someone’s heart.
Most of the aurors had managed to dodge the resulting spell-storm and, wide-eyed, were preparing to cast again (though he didn’t know what good they expected that to do them) when a voice bellowed, “Stop! STOP! That’s my son!”
Slowly, the three teenagers under his protection lifted their heads to see that the Aurors had reluctantly held back on their spellfire (though they hadn’t lowered their wands) to see a terrified-looking redhead striding towards them. Judging by the comment, this would be Ron’s father, Mr Weasley.
“Ron – Harry – Hermione – are you all right?” he asked, sending a curious but not accusing glance at Merlin. Clearly he had more sense than the aurors; it was not as if Harry Potter would have conjured the Dark Mark, nor would he be sharing company with anyone who did.
At the reassurance that the redhead knew and cared about the teenagers he was sheltering, Merlin slowly let his golden shield fade away, though he still held onto his magic in case the aurors got twitchy.
A cold, curt voice interrupted their reunion. “Out of the way, Arthur.”
None of them noticed Merlin’s minuscule flinch. Sometimes he hated that Arthur had become such a common name.
The three teenagers got to their feet as the newcomer advanced towards them, sharp eyes snapping to Merlin as the only adult of the group. “Was it you?” he demanded. “Did you conjure the Dark Mark?”
“None of us did that!” Harry protested heatedly, but Merlin gave him a reassuring look and held up a hand for attention, not missing the way the aurors flinched but didn’t fire.
“No,” he said, perfectly calmly. “I have never conjured the Dark Mark, and neither have any of these three. The man who did, however, did so from just over there. His voice was deep, firm and confident, which means that whoever it was had cast it before, probably many times. I would say that you are looking for a man who participated in the last war and learned it then. However, assuming that he is a professional, he would have disapparated as soon as he had completed the spell, considering that you just demonstrated that the anti-apparation wards do not stretch this far.”
“Just over there, were they?” the unpleasant man asked, disbelief etched all over his face. “How very convenient.”
“I am no Death Eater.” With slow, calm movements he rolled up his left sleeve and bared skin that, though flecked with faint scars, was free of the distinctive ugly tattoo. “And unless you are suggesting that Harry Potter would willingly stand beside someone who conjured such a sigil, I would suggest that you accept that.”
The boy behind him gave a little start as he realised that Merlin knew full well who he was (he shouldn’t be so surprised; like Merlin himself, everyone seemed to know the kid’s name), but he was more interested in the aurors who were now peering in the direction he had pointed.
“Disapparated, you say?” said one of the few witches who was not dressed in Auror robes but appeared to be in her dressing gown. “I would think so too. We’re too late.”
“Not necessarily,” countered a man with a scraggly brown beard. “The stunners went right through those trees, it’s possible we hit someone.” He gave Merlin an admiring glance. “Hell of a strong shield you have there, son.”
Shrugging somewhat awkwardly, Merlin only watched as the auror searched the forest. He raised his eyebrows slightly as a stunned house elf was found in the surrounding woodland and the aurors dropped her at the feet of the man who’d practically accused Merlin of being a Death Eater. His name was revealed to be Crouch, and the elf was apparently bonded to him.
“Bit embarrassing,” the auror murmured. “Barty Crouch’s house-elf… I mean to say…”
Fortunately, Arthur Weasley spoke up for the elf before Merlin had to. “Come off it, Amos. You don’t seriously think it was the elf? The Dark Mark’s a wizard sign. It requires a wand.”
“Yeah, and she had a wand.”
“What?” said Arthur, and Merlin couldn’t help but echo the question. House elves didn’t use wands, didn’t need them.
“Here, look. Had it in her hand. So that’s clause three of the Code of Wand Use broken for a start. No non-human creature is permitted to carry or use a wand.”
Merlin couldn’t help a small smirk at the quotation, even if the prejudiced laws made him want to tear his hair out most days. If Kilgharrah and the Druids (and experience) were to be believed, he wasn’t exactly human (humans were mortal) and was more of a creature of magic. That meant that he was breaking that same law right in front of them.
His frown returned, however, as he looked at the poor elf. He already knew that she would be used as a scapegoat, and he couldn’t help but remember all of the elves he had befriended over the millennium. As Emrys, he had a responsibility to her that he would not ignore.
“Don’t be absurd,” he snapped, allowing his magic to reach out and cradle the elf a little. No one noticed the sparks of gold in his eyes. “Don’t you know that house elves can’t use wands? Not just don’t, literally can’t; their magic isn’t compatible.” It hurt them to do so – drew away the wizarding magic that the elves needed to properly thrive. “And the person who cast the Dark Mark was male. If they dropped the wand before disapparating, it’s more likely that she found it and wanted to return it.”
House elves were naturally very helpful creatures; it wasn’t all that surprising that she might want to return lost property. Unfortunately, in this situation her instincts seemed to have led her astray.
The wizards around him looked taken aback, as if surprised that he would speak up for a house elf. Fighting the urge to growl at them (another reminder that he had maybe spent too much time at the dragon reserve), he reminded himself that a lot of what he thought was common knowledge could be lost to history. Considering the archaic-sounding ‘Wand Use’ law, perhaps they genuinely didn’t know that elves were incompatible with wands.
Before they could argue with him, there was another pop and a new figure – Ludo Bagman, whoever that was – emerged onto the scene. Merlin mostly tuned out the conversation as they went back over what had already happened, focusing on the house elf instead.
Getting hit by Wizarding magic wasn’t good for them, and he had no way of knowing how many stunners had struck her. When she came around, she’d probably be confused, wary and frightened; he didn’t want her body and magic to be battered on top of that.
Eventually, Amos announced that they needed to question the elf, and turned to rouse her. Fortunately, more magic wasn’t needed – thanks to Merlin’s care, she was stirring already, and he just gave her a rough prod with his foot.
Merlin didn’t hide his scowl but didn’t intervene either. As far as the humans believed, he had no authority in this situation and intended in drawing as little attention as possible. The things I always get myself into…
It was difficult not to intervene, however, when the elf took in the sight of the auror stood over her and the Dark Mark hanging over their heads with large, glassy eyes, and subsequently burst into terrified sobs.
The auror gave her no time to collect herself. “Elf!” he demanded. “Do you know who I am? I’m a member of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures!”
In which case, Merlin wondered, why had he turned up here before the elf had even been found? He abandoned the thought, however, when the poor female began to rock backwards and forwards on the ground, her breath coming in sharp bursts. It was painful to see her complete terror, and he felt a surge of disgust for the wizards who so callously continued to frighten her.
“As you see, elf, the Dark Mark was conjured here a short while ago and you were discovered moments later, right beneath it! An explanation, if you please!”
“I – I – I is not doing it, sir!” the elf cried. “I is not knowing how, sir!”
“That is enough,” Merlin intervened, sharply. Her eyes, large and pleading, snapped to him, and in the sudden quiet her gasp was clearly audible. He ignored the way people were staring at him and kneeled down on the ground, reaching out a hand to her. “It’s alright, lytling. Come here.”
“L-lord Emrys,” she whispered, low enough that it could be mistaken for a breath of wind.
He smiled at her gently. Normally he protested the title, considering he would always be Arthur’s servant at heart, but it would only serve to distress her more right now. “That’s it,” he murmured, and he knew that she could feel his magic trying to soothe her. “Come on, now.”
Shakily, she got to her feet and tottered over to them as the wizards watched, mouth agape. Neither Merlin nor the elf’s eyes strayed from each other until she reached his hand and he gently drew her in, holding her close. Her sobs were loud and desperate, but he just rubbed her back and stroked her magic with his own.
Behind her, Amos was performing priori incantatem to prove that the Dark Mark had come from the wand they’d found, but Merlin ignored him in favour of the elf.
“There we are, it’s alright now. Hush.” Slowly, her cries decreased, until she was more whimpering than sobbing. The other wizards looked upon her with visible distaste, so he blocked their gazes with his body. There was no need to cause her further terror; this was not an elf capable of conjuring something as vile as the Dark Mark even if her kind were capable of wand magic. “What’s your name, lytling?”
“W-Winky. I is being Winky, my lord. A-and you is being…”
He let the gold in his eyes flare slightly, enough for her to see but not the wizards. There would already be awkward questions enough. “I am. It’s alright now, Winky. You’re okay. Let go.” He infused the last two words with his own magic.
She shivered once, then finally her body fell still, no longer fighting against whatever command her master had given her. As a magical creature, she answered to Emrys first. She bowed, her tears finally dried, but he only smiled kindly at her. “There’s no need for that. I know you are frightened, but I also know that you did not cast it. Can you tell me what happened?”
Tentatively, she nodded, though she sent a beseeching glance at Crouch first. “I is finding it over there, my lord,” she whispered, pointing a shaking finger back where she’d been brought from. “The wand. But only finding it! I is not attempting to use wizards magic! I is never daring. I is not knowing how!”
“It’s okay, Winky,” Harry intervened, his voice thankfully gentle as he looked between the wand and the elf. “That’s my wand. But I dropped it before we even entered the woods; if you found it over there, then that means someone else had it.”
“You see, Amos?” Mr Weasley too spoke up on Winky’s behalf. “As Mr Emrys said,” and he was sent many curious looks at that, considering the way Winky had called him ‘Lord’ Emrys, “whoever cast it must have Disapparated. A clever thing to do, not using their own wand, which could have betrayed them. And it’s only misfortune that allowed Winky here to come along moments later and pick it up.”
“But then she’d have been feet away from the real culprit!” Amos said impatiently. “Elf? Did you see anyone?”
Winky began to tremble again, and Merlin placed a gentle hand on her shoulder, glaring at the bearded man. “Her name is Winky.”
“I-I is okay, great and kind and wonderful Lord Emrys,” the elf whispered, though her eyes were wide with grateful awe at his defence. Her eyes flickered between he, Amos and Crouch before she gulped and lowered her gaze. “I is seeing no one, sir. No one.”
Her master spoke up then, even though it was clear that it wasn’t for Winky’s benefit. “Amos, I am full aware that, in the normal course of events, you would want to take Winky into your department for questioning. I ask you, however, to allow me to deal with her.”
Merlin narrowed his eyes at the hostility in his tone. He’d always been defensive of House Elves, deeply loyal and achingly humble creatures, and couldn’t stand Crouch. Even Amos looked like he wanted to protest – though probably more at the breach of protocol than out of any concern for the elf – but whoever Crouch was he was important enough that even the outspoken Amos did not speak up.
Especially not when Crouch added coldly, “You can rest assured, she will be punished.”
Under Merlin’s palm he could feel Winky shaking, tears held at bay only by whatever last shreds of will she possessed. “M-m-master, p-p-please…” she pleaded, unable to meet Merlin’s eyes as shame flooded her every pore.
There was no pity in her master’s gaze. He didn’t even have the decency to address her as he snapped, “Winky has behaved tonight in a manner I would not have believed possible. I told her to remain in the tent. I told her to stay there while I went to sort out the trouble. And I find that she disobeyed me. This means clothes.”
“No!” shrieked Winky, hurling herself away from Merlin to prostrate herself at Crouch’s feet. No, master! Not clothes, not clothes!”
It was horrible to see what those words had reduced her to, especially remembering the many elves he had befriended over the years. Worse still that he could understand her reasoning. Merlin winced as he imagined what his own reaction might have been like had Arthur ever tried to send him away so callously.
“But she was frightened!” Hermione burst out angrily, and he felt his liking for the three children deepen. “Your elf’s scared of heights, and those wizards in masks were levitating people! You can’t blame her for wanting to get out of their way!”
Crouch took a step backwards, breaking all contact with the elf’s pitiful form. He surveyed her as if she was something rotten and filthy rather than a loyal servant who’d devoted her life to him. “I have no use for a house elf who disobeys me. I have no use for a servant who forgets what is due to her master and to her master’s reputation.”
Now it was Merlin’s turn to step up again, fixing Crouch with the glare he reserved exclusively for people who reminded him of Agravaine. The kind of man who insisted that a servant’s place was beneath him. Who would use anyone and anything if it meant power. Who would betray their own family without thinking twice.
“You do not deserve her,” he pronounced with a voice like ice, and it echoed with all the weight of his magic. The wizards around him abruptly shivered, unable to read his aura but nonetheless sensing the pure fury radiated from him.
It was gone as soon as it came as he stepped to Winky’s side, lifting her off her knees with kindly hands. “Winky,” he said in a soft voice completely unlike the one he’d just berated Crouch with as he kneeled beside her. “Look at me.”
“L-Lord E-Emrys,” she stuttered, refusing to meet his gaze. “I-I is not worthy. I is a bad elf. Good Lord Emrys should not be looking at the likes of Winky like that.”
“Hush, lytling,” he said, and the compassion in his voice made her cry all the harder. “Don’t you remember? Can’t you feel it? Have you truly been so neglected as to not know your history?”
“I is sorry, milord,” she said quietly, defeatedly. “I is not knowing what Lord Emrys is asking.”
“It is not your fault,” he murmured. “But you should know that it is not you that the shame is upon. If you do not know, then I will tell you. The history of your people is a noble one, and should not have been forgotten.”
He cleared his throat, dredging his mind back many years. He remembered the first elves, what they had been and what they had become.
“Once Elves had free run of the woods, and though their magic was not powerful they were beholden to no mortal, being the kindest of many faeries under the domain of Queen Mab; tied to her and no other. But as the Old Religion faded, their Queen weakened, and so did they. In this changing time, many elves ventured out of their ancient forests to learn more of the world they would eventually be plunged into. Some of them befriended humans, and they found that when they were around sorcerers their magic began to grow again, life breathing back into them.”
As he told her the tale, she began to straighten unconsciously, some part of her remembering that freedom had not always meant pain and disgrace. The world faded away as they both utterly ignored the wizards who were staring incredulously at Merlin, and there was nothing but Emrys and the Elf and the Story.
“These elves were your ancestors, and they themselves chose to bind to a wizard, to join a worthy family. More and more elves began to do the same thing, so that as Queen Mab grew frailer they did not have to die out. But, you see, it was always they who chose the families, not the other way around. A mutual agreement – magic for service, for even the original elves loved to serve, to give back to those they had befriended.
“In days gone by, it was seen as a great stain on a man’s honour for an elf to have to leave a family.” Winky let out a quiet wail, but he simply touched her shoulder, straightening her back. “But it was no shame on the elf, Winky, only on the family. For such a pure, loyal creature to turn its back… it was one of the highest dishonours of the age.”
“But- but- I is not wanting to leave. I is trying to be a good elf,” she whispers, as if telling him a secret. “I is serving Master Barty since he is being born, and I is serving all of his family. I is not wanting another family; I is not being able to bear being alone! I is only ever wanting to be a good elf!”
He pressed a kiss to her wrinkled brow. “I know, lytling. And I know it hurts. But you are a good elf, Winky, and a good elf deserves a good family. The best. And a family that hurts you is not a family at all.”
Look at Morgana and Agravaine; they had both proven not to be part of Arthur’s family in the end regardless of their blood. Instead his King had had the knights, Gwen, even Merlin himself. Winky blinked, a strange look on her face – as if she could see into the heart of him – and gave him a tentative nod. “I- I think I am understanding, Master Emrys.
“I could always use a friend who understands, Winky,” Merlin said solemnly. “If you have nowhere else to go, remember that Magic will always welcome you.”
A radiant smile almost transformed her. She bowed again, low and deep and full of fervent devotion. “Winky thanks you. I is seeing why it is that She be choosing you.”
Pain flashed briefly across Merlin’s face. Often had he wished that the Goddess had chosen someone else; immortality was no easy burden to bear.
He had forgotten how strange elves could be sometimes, but he was glad that he has helped her. Even if Crouch freed her, she would be alright now. “I will see you again, Lytling.”
“And I you, Master Lord Emrys.”
Looking around at the incredulous expressions of those around him, Merlin came to the abrupt decision that he wasn’t in the mood for questions right now. With a last nod and smile at the little elf, he twisted on his heel and Disapparated.