The first day’s always the hardest
Things move as per usual from there. The first years are taken across the lake by boat, but the effect is no doubt lost on them due to the thick cottony fog that completely soaks the world, effectively drowning the lights of the castle. Arthur himself can hardly make out the thestral pulling their carriage.
It’s an unusual day when Arthur doesn’t note the sunset, but today it happened while he wasn’t looking. It makes him feel off-kilter. Even in the heat of battle, or when stuck inside, his internal clock usually keeps him balanced and on top of the world around him. To have missed it getting dark bothers him, particularly given the circumstances. He knows the Cold Ones didn’t kill the sun, but it kind of feels that way.
The Cold Ones. Arthur has a hate for them that he doesn’t have for many other things in this world. Merlin and the lives Arthur’s lived by his side have taught him that nothing is malicious by nature, nor deserving of maliciousness by nature, barring certain humans. The Cold Ones are no exception– they don’t hate, they’re just feeding, the same as any other creature. But Arthur has to admit, as aware as he is of that fact, he hates them. He hates how much of his hard work treading water in this immortal life they undo just by being in proximity to him, how easily they unravel his strength. He hates them for their nature, how they, just some fleeting strain of natural creature, can diminish him . And so easily, too. Even a little exposure to their mental attacks dredges up the darkest of his thoughts, the ones he wishes he could deny having… the ones there are no real arguments against. He understands, logically, that the effects of Cold Ones compound exponentially based on the subject, and his experience is what makes them so potent to him in particular. If anything, that drives in further the notion that perhaps those thoughts have substance, that his happiness is a thing stolen from someone else’s life that he’s lied his way into. That pretending to be human doesn’t make him so. That there is no purpose to him beyond the ones he makes up as needed to stay pointlessly sane. That he is going to have to realise this some day or another, and when he does, the only thing that will change is the incomprehensible weight of enduring.
See what he means? All this dredged up from some hungry shadows that barely qualify as threats measured against some of the things he’s conquered. He’s been woven into the fabric of magic since before Cold Ones were even a distant hypothetical. They shouldn’t have any power over him at all! They’re stupid and he hates them.
The worst thing about them is the aftermath. Merlin barely strays from his side, keeping up some level of contact at all times. Arthur has no idea what he’s thinking. Arthur’s thoughts suck enough, but it kills him to know that Merlin has his own clawing at him in the only arena Arthur can’t fight beside him in: his mind. Arthur’s doubts cut him deep, but he comes back around, like he does every time, and reminds himself that Merlin is his purpose, and then, like he does every time, he turns to worrying about him. Arthur firmly believes that Merlin should exist, and so by extension he should exist to be by Merlin’s side. That’s the end of it, really. There’s nothing he can do to speed Merlin on to that conclusion, though, except hold his hand and worry. Probably for far too long– chances are Arthur will still be worried that Merlin’s crying while Arthur sleeps beside him long after Merlin’s actually forgotten the whole ordeal. But how would he know? It’s not like the stubborn bastard tells him anything!
Merlin’s grip on his hand tightens when McGonagall appears to whisk Harry and Hermione away. Draco’s the one to ask for her reasons, though. She tells them Lupin sent an owl ahead to warn them that Harry had a semi-intense reaction to the Cold Ones– dementors , they seem to be called now– and she’s to take him to see Madame Pomfrey. She wants a word with Hermione in her office as well.
Arthur squeezes Merlin’s hand as they go. Draco’s dragging his feet, pointedly not looking at the Slytherin table he’s running out of excuses not to be at. Arthur claps him on the shoulder as gently as he can and gives him a reassuring smile.
‘Looks like we’re sitting by house tonight. Should be back to normal by breakfast tomorrow.’ Draco nods glumly. Arthur leans in and lowers his voice. ‘Hey, it might be worth having a couple friends in Slytherin. Besides, you only have to sleep there. Merlin or I can sneak in and see you whenever.’
‘What? How?’
Arthur just winks and gives Draco a light shove in the direction of Slytherin, dragging his husband off to Gryffindor.
The Sorting passes in as much of a haze as the trip up did. Notably, the Weasley twins pick a polka tune rather than their usual funeral dirge for the school song. Maybe they picked up on the mood. Merlin eats, Arthur makes sure, and he smiles and claps and laughs, but he is tight like a bowstring, avoiding looking up at the staff table. Quietly simmering.
Before Arthur knows it, they’re being shepherded off to bed. As usual, Merlin unloads his pockets with food saved for Harry while Arthur picks the bed. The kids always fall asleep quickly on the first night, so it’s not long before they’re free to do what they need to do.
‘Do you want me to come?’ Arthur asks. Merlin shakes his head.
‘I’m good. I won’t… I’m good,’ he promises, and Arthur believes him. Arthur’s proud that the endless centuries have done nothing to dim Merlin’s fire, but they’ve certainly granted both of them perspective and a great measure of patience. Merlin doesn’t need Arthur to temper him. He can do anything, including address bullshit like the accepted approach to security at Hogwarts with restraint, if not decorum. They don’t tolerate horrible things, but they do handle them, both separately and together. If Merlin wants to deal with the Cold Ones himself, then he will.
Arthur doesn’t go to sleep yet. He doesn’t particularly want to wait in bed like a good husband for Merlin to come back, either. He did promise Draco he’d visit. There’s no rush, so he draws out the walk to the dungeons and watches the stars through the arches.
He ends up at the North tower outlook, somehow. He doesn’t think people come out here anymore. That would make sense, since they got rid of the access and built it into a window, but there’s no glass, so you can just hop out. He finds himself thinking that kids these days don’t bother standing still long enough to just look out in places like this anyway, and he snorts. Talk about sounding your age.
Arthur settles into the crook of the window and looks out. It’s dark and uncharacteristically foggy, but the stars are still visible from here. The windows were made for that, with the sky being the best indication of the time back during construction. Big and open, so you can tell where the sun is. Arthur takes a deep breath of cold, fresh air and looks up to see how many constellations have disappeared since he last checked.
‘Pappy.’
Arthur turns. For a moment he sees only the blue streaks and shadows of night on the walls. One of the moonbeams shifts, though, and lines of distinction ripple forth from the centre of the corridor. They coalesce at junctions, heavy creases folding over one another in a mimicry of subservience to the laws of physics they’ve half-forgotten. Thick ringlets swept proudly back to frame a beautiful face, long sleeves in the old style, modestly unadorned and stunning all the same; Helena is as regal as her mother ever was.
‘How’s my little Lena?’ Arthur coos. His eyes sweep over her, trying to reconcile Rowie’s little baby with the proud young woman he’s looking at. Always proud. It would be easy to call her arrogant, but Arthur’s not so sure. Helena just knew what she was, and she saw no point pretending she was any less. She had an uncommon self-awareness, probably to make up for her complete lack of any other kind of awareness. No one ever spoke Helena’s language except Helena, and that was the tragedy of it. She was as brilliant as her mother, if not more so, and she could barely carry a conversation. She just wasn’t on the same page as the rest of the world. It was cruel to stick her in with the other kids and hope she ‘got better’ but that was what you did back then. It hurts now to think of her not even escaping the curse of life in death, when it was so much crueller to her by nature than everyone else. It’s so easy to imagine her falling to it, too; refusing to pass on because she had things to do, and she didn’t understand why she shouldn’t get to do them. If anything, she would’ve found her death an annoyance. She wouldn’t understand the gravity of it, probably didn’t even notice who’d done her in and almost certainly didn’t care why, since it had no relevance to her own objectives.
Helena glides forward, settling herself just inside the wall beside him. She stares openly at his face. He pays no mind. He stares right back.
‘Why are you looking at me?’
‘Because I like looking at you. I missed you. And Poppy will want to hear how you are.’
‘I am dead.’
‘So you are.’
‘But you were looking at the stars.’
‘Mm,’ Arthur hums, glancing back out. ‘You remember me teaching them to you?’
‘They are different now.’
‘Really?’ Arthur pretends to check, brow furrowing in disbelief. ‘Look at that, they are! I guess you’d know ‘em better than me now.’
‘You want me to teach you,’ she states. ‘But you do know them.’
‘Teach me just in case.’
So Helena does, pointing each notable star out and naming them. She explains the use of them, their connections and origins, when they are brightest and why, all in that low, unceasing babble she always explained anything in. It’s mechanical, and break-neck, and it makes Arthur’s head spin, but if there’s one way to offend Helena, it’s to give up listening to her, so he tries to keep up. She always knows when you’re not listening.
‘You should tell Poppy,’ she says when she’s done.
‘I think he’d be happier to hear it from you.’
‘No. I am no good at telling.’
‘Oh, have a little faith, Lena. You know you can always tell him. Us. Anything.’
‘You said that. Even if no one listens.’
‘Yeah…’ Arthur opens his mouth to say something, then closes it. His eyes run over her again, memories flicking by like old film, and he can’t stop himself when his mouth opens again. ‘Do you ever… did you ever go see your mother?’
‘She is in the office. I could.’
‘Yeah. Have you?’
‘No.’
‘Do you… think you might?’
‘Why? It makes her sad.’
Yeah, that… yeah. Helena’s not sad for herself, of course, but the rest of them are. It was always hard for Rowena to see her daughter and how different she was, how much Rowena seemed to have failed her, and that was when she was alive. Here she is now, a fraction of the woman that once was… of course it would be hard to accept.
‘I think you should see her anyway,’ Arthur says. ‘It might be sad, but it’s still good for you.’
Helena scowls on cue. She hates not understanding, and she never understood social dynamics. Reminders of her perceived ‘failure’ in attaining some understanding that everyone else seemed to have clearly still irk her.
‘But why?’
‘Because you love her,’ Arthur says. ‘Because she loves you. She misses you a lot, and even if it’s sad for a bit, it’ll actually make her happy. The whole family will be happy to see you. Now I’ve seen you, my whole day is better.’
Helena considers this for a stretch of silence. Arthur goes back to watching the stars and wonders what Rowena would think of them.
‘I love her too,’ Helena states. Arthur looks back at her. ‘That is why I took the diadem. She was going to give it to me anyway. When I put it on, I looked like her. I took it so I could look in the mirror and see her. I guess it does not look like her anymore though, since I took it, so she can no longer wear it. That’s fine.’
Arthur sucks in a breath through his nose. Damnit. What Rowena wouldn’t give to hear that herself. Helena loved her mother, but they were so different , and Rowena never understood her. She loved her fiercely, but she always doubted that love was returned, because Helena simply didn’t see the need to show it. Or maybe she just didn’t know how.
‘Maybe you can ask her,’ Arthur suggests. ‘Take it to her, even. I’ll help you.’
Helena shakes her head, though. ‘No, no. It’s not nice now.’
‘Not nice? Did you lose it?’
‘No. It is there. But disgusting. Sick. Someone infected it. I wanted to ameliorate this, but I am dead. I cannot wear it anyway. It was old, it was going to get sick at some point.’
‘Wait, wait, Lena, infected? Someone— what d’you mean, infected?’
‘You speak differently now. You are different.’
‘I am, yeah. Who infected it?’
Helena shrugs.
‘Where is it? Can you show me? Maybe I can fix it.’
‘Why? I am dead. Mother is too. Poppy has his own, does he not? And you don’t like jewels.’
‘I’m just curious about the infection.’
That’s enough for her. Helena glides off without another word, and Arthur is hot on her heels. She’s gracious enough to lead him, but she’s too impatient not to take shortcuts through walls, and he has to race around to catch up to her. It’s more than he expected. She doesn’t even seem too annoyed at the holdup.
‘Do you remember who it was, Lena?’ Arthur asks as he skids back up to her down yet another corridor. He gives one of the paintings saluting him a distracted nod.
‘What,’ she snaps, and only then does he remember that she hated to be asked direct questions. The Helena he knew wouldn’t have humoured him this long, and she certainly wouldn’t have taken well to his clumsy approach. In so many years away, he’s forgotten how to talk to one of the first grandchildren he ever had. He takes a moment now to reformulate his question into a statement.
‘I would like to know who infected the diadem,’
‘I don’t know who’s responsible,’ she scoffs dismissively. He sort of expected that. Helena never had any time for people. She considered them distractions. ‘It’s over here. In the room.’
There’s a tapestry of tap-dancing trolls that Arthur doesn’t recognize, and across from it, a conspicuously blank wall. Well, maybe only conspicuous if you built the castle. Arthur would consider it conspicuous.
Helena has no need to pace anymore. She simply flicks her hand and the wall melts instantly. A door that half resembles a portcullis erects itself from the stone in complete silence. Black iron bars across the old wood… of course. This is where they put The Room.
In they go. He’s never been in this particular version of The Room before, he doesn’t think. It’s kind of like their Gringotts vault, if everything in it suddenly died. That’s a morbid thought. Looking at the mile-high piles of doorknobs and do-hickeys, though, it’s accurate. What a mess!
Helena zips through the lanes of rubbish, right up to a decrepit old mannequin half-drowned in beads and sporting about five different corsets. Nestled in among the deceptively glittering jewels draped around its head is the graceful curve of silver they’re looking for. Arthur follows it up and over the crest of the thing, glancing over the delicate twist of the metal and the sapphire so graciously framed within it. God, but that’s Rowena. Merlin sure knew what he was doing when he made this.
Helena keeps her distance, wrinkling her nose at the once precious item like it’s contagious. Arthur handles it with utmost care, making sure it doesn’t touch his bare skin as he gathers it up in a handkerchief Merlin made him back when that was a thing people did.
‘It is not worth keeping for sentiment,’ Helena informs him.
‘Don’t worry, Lena. I’ll fix it up, good as new.’
‘You won’t. It is beyond that. Gangrenous. You cut off the gangrenous limb.’
‘I’ll take a crack at it all the same. I’d better go and take it to your Poppy first.’
Helena scrunches her nose. ‘Do not come crying to me when he makes you sleep on the couch.’
And with that, she glides right through the right wall. Arthur smiles, but it dies quickly as he refocuses on Rowena’s prized possession, reportedly now tainted. It looks no different than he remembers it, still shining and worthy of his brilliant little raven child.
He starts off toward Dumbledore’s office. He just hopes he doesn’t catch his husband in the middle of delivering the Headmaster’s long awaited reckoning. Merlin is scary when he’s mad.
👻💍
Once he’s left his husband in the Gryffindor dorms, Merlin wastes no time, taking the shortest route to his destination. He spares no secret passages. Eadwig must sense his mood, because the old gargoyle is already leaping aside when he rounds the corner, trying to huddle behind the stone wall maybe a little more than strictly necessary. Merlin takes the stairs three at a time, and they move up like an escalator to speed his way. He hears the portraits hissing feverishly amongst themselves, and they immediately fall silent when he emerges from the stairwell. A few of them race through frames to warn those inside the office proper. Merlin doesn’t even look up to watch the rest go stock still as if he won’t see them that way. He doesn’t pause to knock, not even when he hears one of the founders (Godric) sing-song ‘ooooh, someone’s in troooouuu~bllllle.’ Not even Fawkes gets a hello from him today. In three strides Merlin is standing in front of the cartoonish headmaster of the school Merlin built for his kids brick by brick, and he hopes his face is as thunderous as the reaction it garners suggests.
Obviously the old man’s gathered the gravity of the situation. He’d have to be stupid not to pick up on the ozone in the air right now, the crackle of it that’s making his hair rise on his skin. Even the many whizzing thingamabobs normally steaming and bobbing in his office sense the danger and slow in an effort to draw less attention. They needn’t worry. Merlin has eyes only for Albus.
‘I gather–’ Albus stutters, eyes flicking to Merlin’s too-large shadow, unsure if he just saw it move of its own accord or not. He should be more worried about the real thing, Merlin thinks, but he’ll let him finish. ‘I gather you’re here to discuss the dementors.’
‘Cold Ones are predators,’ Merlin begins ever so quietly. It comes out of him deep and unmistakable, maybe echoing a little. A tiny bit of Merlin pokes out of a tear in his human suit and Merlin sees that register in Albus with the right amount of terror. Festus did say the man was smart. ‘The Ministry may have deluded itself into the idea that they possess enough sapience to have dealings with, but you have neither the excuse of idiocy nor the luxury of my tolerance on your side, so frankly the fact that I’m even giving you a chance to explain this bullshit is not one to take for granted. I am going to give you one chance. Think carefully. Why are there Cold Ones at my school?’
Albus’ chin quivers slightly. He clamps his lips together, eyes stuck solidly on Merlin with a measure of understanding that makes the fact that he’s not in pieces rather impressive. He gulps, brings his hands together in front of him in a subconscious shielding motion, knuckles white. To his credit, his voice is steady when he finally does speak, if a little hoarse.
‘I did everything in my power to oppose the motion, but ultimately failed to dissuade the minister from moving forward. I have, however, outlined strict boundaries and regula–’
‘Don’t give me that as if you don’t know how little a contract means to a Cold One!’ Several whimpers sound from the paintings at Merlin’s condemning hiss at the argument. ‘I asked you why they are here!’
‘Be-because Sirius Black is suspected to be targeting Hogwarts.’
‘What?’ Merlin squints, surprised out of his anger for a split second. Sirius Black… yes, he read the papers. And more than that, he did his research for Harry. The boy’s godfather. The murderer of his parents. ‘Keep talking.’
‘Multiple guards have come forth saying Black was obsessed with this school in the time before his escape, mumbling in his sleep about someone being at Hogwarts. It is hypothesised that he intends to go after Harry. No one who has felt the dementors’ Kiss would dare come near them again, the minister was sure. He would not budge.’
‘This went through the Wizengamot?’ Merlin scoffs in disgust. ‘Those old fools…’
He trails off, considering the implications. Politics are Arthur’s thing, but Merlin has his own seat in the ministry for cases like these. Since it’s already gone through, clearly expedited by that idiot Fudge, appealing it would be annoying. Either Merlin or Arthur would have to push it through themselves. They can’t do that, they have their hands full with the kids. They’re full-time students. Besides that, it would take too much time. Fudge would push it back as much as he could, but even without him, the legal system is a hell of a cesspit to wade through, and not one to be conquered overnight. By the time they make any real progress, Black will either be caught or dead. The best thing to do might be to just catch the guy himself, eliminate the problem. Again, though, full-time student. Maybe he can take a week off, say he’s sick?
‘Love?’
Merlin blinks. Straightens. Is that Arthur?
‘Oh thank God,’ Helga breathes.
Arthur trots up the steps, but Merlin’s focus immediately zeroes in on the… thing, in his hands. It’s plain enough to Merlin’s physical senses, but Goddess, the spiritual stench of it is disgusting. Worse than blood and gore, worse than an infected wound, worse than the ugliest side of organic decomposition. It’s not natural, the horror of this thing. It’s wrong, egregiously, primally wrong, and it makes Merlin’s soul prickle and cry. Merlin’s about to yell at Arthur to drop the thing so he can end it, stop the infection from spreading, but as the light catches the metal, he recognises it. For a moment his brain stalls, unable to connect the thing he sees with the monster he feels.
A hush falls over the room as Merlin steps forward and very carefully takes it up. He ignores the tinny screaming of the thing in his ears as it recognises its end in the touch of his hand. Instead, he looks over the gift he made his daughter so long ago. The sharp curve of the metal fits snug against the pads of his fingers, sloping gracefully up and around to frame the jewel where Rowena used to part her hair. Just the way he remembers making it. Shining like he’s just picked it up from her bedside table.
Helga gasps as Merlin turns it in his hands. He thinks it’s Rowena that inhales sharply enough for him to hear it clear across the room. Equally, he hears her whisper.
‘Is that…?’
‘Helena told me where it was,’ Arthur says softly. Merlin’s eyes flick up to Rowena. Her hand has come up to cover her mouth, knuckles white. Her eyes, set on the diadem, immediately fly to Arthur.
‘Ravenclaw’s diadem,’ Albus breathes in realisation. He is largely ignored.
‘It’s infected, she said,’ Arthur continues, coming up to stand just behind Merlin, looking over his shoulder. ‘Riddle?’
Of course, Merlin realises. This vile thing of heresy is a fractured soul.
He never got a chance to know the first. He boarded with Ginny for long enough, though, that he’s confident he was in its presence at least once. He’s still unsure why he didn’t recognise something like that at once. The only viable theory he has, he hates so much he almost wants to throw it out on principle. But no matter how he looks at it, he keeps coming back to one fact. The thing is… he was never in the diary’s presence without Harry nearby.
‘You believe this to be a horcrux?’ Albus asks. More than one portrait gasps. Godric pulls Helga tight to him, an expression of horror on his face. Sal glares at the diadem with a mixture of disgust and curiosity. Rowena blinks wetly.
‘You mean he…’ her voice tapers off. Merlin has never heard her sound so small. She looks to him with wide eyes, pleading with him to confirm or deny it. He grimaces.
‘I’m sorry, my raven.’
She keeps his gaze for a moment, eyelashes flickering. She stares right through him. He watches as her eyes freeze over, her brows contracting, as the anger sinks in.
‘He… he did this… to Helena’s crown. To my legacy. Is that why she hasn’t come to see me? Don’t answer that,’ she hisses before Arthur can answer. The room is quiet while she recalibrates. Merlin wishes dearly to hold her through it. Instead, he’s going to have to destroy the one thing he has left of her in front of her eyes.
She knows it. She takes another moment, breathing in deeply and bowing her head. When she reopens her eyes, they are flint-sharp.
‘Do it.’
Best not draw it out. Merlin simply claps his hands around the metal, collapsing it into a liquid, remoulding each cell and pulling out the grisly remains of soul hiding between them. It’s ugly work. Merlin wades through it, breathing through his nose, focussing on the warmth of Arthur’s hand on the small of his back. Quietly, he calls on Death.
‘Gyden āfēhþ þú. ’
A pulse of pure magic pounds through him. It’s sudden and powerful, and just as suddenly gone. It feels like taking a deep breath. Merlin’s hands unfold, and the finest rain of glimmering dust falls from them. It does not hit the floor.
They all breathe through a heavy moment of silence. Eventually though, Albus straightens from where he’s stumbled back and half-shielded his eyes, staring in awe. Salazar squeezes Rowena’s shoulder, stopping Helga from rushing to her. He always was the best at reading the room and setting boundaries.
Merlin tries to take heart that the poor thing is dead now, but he still feels sick and unclean. Maybe he is getting soft in the years of respite between wars, but he suspects he would be holding back bile even if he was fresh from the battlefield. Merlin has seen horrors you cannot speak about, and put a lot of victims out of their misery. But this… this was unholy.
Arthur is the one to break the hush, humming in that low tone he’s forged over many a dawn following many a battle. ‘Why would Riddle make Rowie’s diadem a soul-keep?’
Merlin starts to answer, but Albus verbally stumbles over him. ‘It’s gone? It’s… truly…’ the old man huffs out a disbelieving breath. Then, suddenly, he sobers. ‘Does he know? The dark lord, did he feel it?’
‘No,’ Merlin coughs. He shouldn’t have, at least. As soon as Riddle split his soul, it wasn’t his anymore. He mutilated and disowned it. No, it wasn’t Riddle. But then, who was it? A mistake, certainly. A victim. A random handful of mental faculties that weren’t designed to work independently of the whole, ripped cruelly out and abandoned to a cold and empty home. Like a dog on the side of the road. That thing would never have been a person, but it had some degree of cognition, of potential. Ending that… felt like killing an infant.
‘Tom… Tom was always obsessed with legacy. Magical legacy, in particular,’ Albus says. ‘It does not surprise me that he would consider Ravenclaw’s diadem worthy of being his horcrux. He would’ve seen it as conquering her legacy… surpassing her.’
‘Did he hold her in some higher esteem than the others?’ Arthur questions, falling instinctively into gathering intel. Merlin seeks comfort in Fawkes, fading into the background. He should listen, he knows, but Arthur will catch him up. That’s the thing about working a case together– Merlin can afford to catch his breath.
He gets restless, though. Like he should be doing something. Battle jitters never really go away, and Merlin hasn’t felt them this keenly in many years. It’s the soul mutilation. You just don’t mess with souls, it’s… there aren’t words for how wrong it is. Humans are truly the most horrific creatures to ever evolve.
Merlin doesn’t want to sit here and think about that. He catches Arthur’s gaze. Arthur asks him a question with his eyes. Merlin answers it. Arthur asks again, and Merlin frowns at him a little in well-worn reproach. He makes his way over to the founders’ portraits before he goes.
‘You gonna be okay, dove?’
Rowena gives him a brave face. She moves the hair from her face and lifts her chin, looking him in the eye, and nods. ‘Yeah, mum. Thank you. I’m happier to know it’s gone than desecrated. But… I thought… Helena…’
Merlin sighs through his nose. ‘Yeah, you’ll have to talk to your father about that one.’ Again she nods, and he gives his four children a tense smile. He presses his fingers to his lips, then to Rowena’s canvas cheek. He misses being able to touch them. He misses Godric’s obsession with physical touch, how he had no concept of his own strength, leaping and falling and lounging over them (sometimes having taken a running start). He misses Helga’s legendary hugs, how she’d always find a way to curl into him no matter what position he was in or how awkward. He misses Sal’s acknowledging touches, just little unprovoked brushes and taps when he passed by that let Merlin know he was loved. And Rowena… she didn’t stand for much physical touch, so on the rare occasion she instigated it herself, it was all the more special. Merlin remembers fresh mornings curled up with her in the pale light of dawn, watching the crows fly. Just them.
Merlin feels a little lost walking down the corridor to Gryffindor tower. He feels very old. It’s easy to forget your kids are dead some days, but he remembers it keenly tonight. He tries to distract himself from how that little soul piece felt in his hands, but all he manages to do is remember all the little things he misses about his children. He can go and visit the founders, at least, but they were far from the only kids he ever raised. Merlin has lost so many, and he misses them.
He doesn’t realise his own plan to see Draco until he’s halfway to the dungeon. He has three perfectly good kids back at Gryffindor, but Draco’s all alone. Merlin’s been on high alert for all of them after the Cold Ones debacle, but they all seem fine for the most part. He didn’t miss Draco’s hesitation at the feast, though. It’s worth checking in.
Merlin considers a raven, but in the end, he slips into the Slytherin dorms as a cat. Cushy as the Gryffindor pad is, the Slytherin room has it beat in terms of style. It’s different than Merlin remembers it, but it always is. The furniture is always up to date in the modern styles, anything with so much as a scratch on the polish replaced. Low studded couches made with the best quality leather, treated to reflect the pale light in clean, sharp strokes. Elegantly framed awards, well-organised notice boards, glass and steel and silver. All of it bathed in the aqua-green light from the lake just beyond the decorated windows. Merlin could sit here all night and watch the caustics dance over the sleek surfaces. He elects instead to do what he came here to and picks his way around the space toward the offshooting rooms.
It takes him a bit of searching, but he finds the second year boys’ dorms. He’d forgotten which room it was. The beds are spaced out, with high overarching two-tiered canopies. The moonlight glows through the gauzy material, sending soft green shadows across the floor. Merlin thinks it’s a shame there’s no breeze to blow through it. The whole place is a bit too still for him. And a bit too clean. Not all of it, mind– these are teenage boys– but it’s no Gryffindor. Most days Merlin can’t even see the floor around Ron’s bed.
Merlin recognises Draco’s trunk and hastens over. Both curtains are drawn, so Merlin can’t even see his silhouette to be sure he’s in bed. A stack of books sits atop his bedside table beside a beautiful vase of moon lilies. A monogrammed handkerchief, or maybe a pocket-square, is pinned beneath it. Merlin stands up on his hindlegs for a better look, but he can’t make out the book titles in the dark. The only other thing there is a tin of hair product.
That’s it? By the goddess, Draco has to be the most well-ordered teen in all of England.
The sheets rustle. Merlin listens, but once the movement settles, he hears nothing. He’s confident Draco would’ve cast a muffling charm if he was really not to be disturbed, so Merlin doesn’t feel too hesitant poking his head in. It’s rather inconvenient, being a cat, but Merlin manages to nose the drapes aside enough to stick his face in, doubtlessly looking very stupid as he does so. He lets out a little huff and resettles his paws on the sheets. Great! He’s in. He’ll just do a quick check Draco’s alright and–
Oh. Look who’s awake.
Draco doesn’t seem afraid, at least. Merlin forgot to ask if he was a dog person or allergic to cats or something. In fact, he probably should’ve warned Draco he’d be coming beforehand…
Draco quietly closes his book, not taking his eyes off Merlin. It’s kind of funny how seriously he’s squinting at what he probably thinks is a regular cat, like he’s trying to out-stare him. Even in the dark, Merlin can see the cogs turning behind those intelligent eyes, trying to place him. Surely he’d know if someone in the dorm owned a cat. In a few more tense seconds, something catches Draco’s eye. His gaze flicks to Merlin’s right ear.
‘Do you have– is that an earring?’ he whispers. One more second, and it clicks. ‘Merlin?’
Merlin takes that as his cue to hop up on the bed. He’s forgotten about the unnecessarily heavy curtains, though, and he lets out a startled mewl as the weight throws him off and he nearly falls off the bed. On instinct, he extends his claws and scrabbles. Merlin’s back legs kick uselessly at the air. Draco jerks forward, clapping his hands over Merlin’s paws to catch him with a hissed curse.
‘What the hell are you doing, you tosspot! Middle of the bloody night, tearing up my sheets– get up here!’
With their combined efforts, they manage to drag Merlin fully onto the bed, where he promptly gets tangled in the sheets. He stamps in frustration and gets himself more tangled. He overbalances and nearly falls out of the bed again before Draco manages to get him to stay still and just let the one of them that has opposable thumbs handle it, swearing all the way. One of his roommates snuffles in their sleep, and Draco casts a judicious muffliato. Merlin headbutts his hand in thanks.
‘Don’t give me that! What are you doing here?’
Merlin meows defensively. He didn’t mean to wake Draco or anything, he just wanted to see he was settled in on his first night. And maybe, just maybe, he wanted a hug. Is that so wrong?
Draco watches him searchingly for another moment, then sighs. ‘I probably should have guessed. Arthur said you’d come see me, but I didn’t think he meant tonight… I suppose you wanna know how it’s… going?’ He grimaces at his wording, but Merlin’s ears perk up. He tucks his paws beneath himself and blinks encouragingly. Draco rolls his eyes in that habitual way of his and can’t seem to help himself from running two of his fingers over Merlin’s head. ‘Well… Blaise came to see me to say he still has some respect for me. I don’t expect anything from him, but I think we’re still friends– off the record, of course. He’s smart, good value… he didn’t have to stick around. And Pans, Pansy Parkinson, we’ve been friends since we were little. She’s not going anywhere, even if I kinda wish she would.’
Merlin’s tail curls happily with Draco’s chuckle. He’s glad to have the confirmation. Draco wouldn’t sugarcoat it, so Merlin’s comfortable taking his word for it. He gives Draco’s hand a happy headbutt. It’s not a hug, but Merlin will take what he can get. Thing is, Draco’s even sharper than the other kids. Merlin must take a second too long pulling away, because Draco notices.
‘Everything okay on your end?’
Merlin tucks his tail around himself and tries not to fidget. He needs to stop adopting smart kids. He should just adopt dumb ones. Actually, dumb ones might not make it far with Arthur.
Draco seems to debate with himself for a moment. Then he hesitantly replaces his hand on Merlin’s head and gives him a pat. Merlin really can’t help the purr that bursts out of him at that. Draco snickers, and Merlin is reminded fiercely of Salazar. It doesn’t hurt in such a bad way this time, though. Not all of Merlin’s children are dead, after all.
‘You can stay, if you want,’ Draco offers generously. ‘I’m just reading. And you’re not sleeping here, so either you sit there and be quiet, or you can go and cuddle Arthur.’
He can stay? Really? Well, if Draco doesn’t mind, it can’t hurt. The sheets are soft, Draco’s hand is warm, and the slide of his silk pyjamas glides pleasantly along Merlin’s fur. Ooh, and since Draco’s got a little light in here, Merlin can see what he’s reading! He ducks forward under Draco’s arm, nosing between the pages. Draco splutters.
‘Oi, I can’t read with you in the way. Where do you get off?’
Merlin meows, squishing himself up against Draco’s forearm to try to give him space to see. There’s a lot of awkward shuffling and grunting and even more swearing as Draco tries to figure out what Merlin’s actually trying to do.
Eventually Merlin finds himself politely settled into the crook of a pale arm, tail flicking lazily and sometimes hitting Draco’s chin. He looks between the boy and the book pointedly. Draco’s eyebrows rise.
‘Seriously? You want me to read to you?’
Merlin dips his head in a pleased nod. Draco scoffs. Then his gaze softens a little.
‘My mother… she used to read to me, and I to her. We would take turns reading aloud. It was supposed to help with dictation, but… I think we both just liked hearing from each other.’
Merlin stares at him, unblinking. Draco’s spoken of his mother maybe once, and it was enough to show how much he loves her. His voice goes gentle when mentioning her, the same way it hardens when mentioning his father.
Draco sighs. Coughs. Then he turns his attention to the book and begins to read from where he left off.
It turns out to be a poetry book, and a decent one at that. But it could just as well be an exhaustive list of toad species, and Merlin would still be hanging on every word. Draco is a phenomenal narrator. He always speaks clearly, he was obviously trained to, but when he’s really putting an effort in he holds an audience better than most politicians Merlin’s known. Merlin enjoys it almost as much as the little pets Draco gives his head sometimes– almost.
When Draco starts skipping words and yawning, Merlin gently paws the book closed and takes his leave with a goodbye headbutt. Draco seems like he might protest, but he just glares instead, grunting something about how he isn’t tired while he settles solidly into bed. Merlin pulls the covers up over him by his teeth and Draco pets him for it without thinking.
‘Yeah, yeah, get out of here.’
Merlin does just that with a little goodbye flick to Draco’s nose. He manages, just barely, to avoid tripping over the stupid drapes. In fact, he makes it all the way back to Gryffindor unaccosted. He checks in on his other kids– dead to the world. Ron snores worse than Arthur. Harry forgot to take one of his socks off.
Arthur grunts when Merlin slides into bed beside him, wrapping an arm around his waist. Surprising even himself, Merlin barely makes it beneath the covers before he’s out like a light.