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Draco doesn’t tell Ron and Hermione about the Veela thing, but he does tell them about the gender thing. He explains about the bracelet. Hermione immediately sequesters herself away to study gender and culture, and Ron needs to be sat down by Merlin for a long talk, because Draco’s honestly sick of explaining himself. Ron’s even more confused by the notion than Harry is, but Merlin is excellent at explaining, and they get to an acceptable point of understanding eventually.
Meanwhile, Draco puts a few things into place to make it clear that messing with him was a major mistake. Before the inter-house implosion last year, no one would have dared to make such a move on a Malfoy, and it is imperative that he clarify that that hasn’t changed. He’s singled out those who were directly responsible and had their relatives accordingly sacked. Simple and effective. Those who he suspects supported the move, supplied the ink or whispered encouragement, he plans to take more care with. They should know that they aren’t safe. It’s personal. Blaise is kind enough to give him a few names off the record. Everyone’s aware of Pansy’s loyalties, so she’s useless. It doesn’t take a genius though; this has Bozzelli written all over it.
Hanover is found to have been cheating in Transfiguration. It’s her best subject, and her one true joy in life. The look McGonagall gives her when she finds the cheat sheet is worth framing, and the black envelope that comes from her insurmountably disappointed parents, even more so. Good. It took Draco ages to forge her handwriting.
Kaswell is deathly afraid of toads. The revenge is not so much in the three that Draco smuggles under his sheets in the night, but more in the fact that the fit of complete terror that comes over him in response lets everyone in Slytherin know it. To have such a weakness be public knowledge is crippling. His every step from now on must be careful, because should he step a toe out of line, everyone knows just how to respond. The pet shop is only a short walk away, and Hogsmeade trips are coming up. The whispers of Kaswell’s embarrassing shrieks follow him everywhere, and Draco is satisfied.
For Bozzelli, Draco outdoes himself. The boy is smart, putting intruder charms on all his belongings and always keeping track of his food at the table. He doesn’t miss a tick, which is why it’s so satisfying to see karma get him anyway– with a little help from Draco, of course.
Not that anyone could prove it. After all, subterfuge is Bozzelli’s entire game. To admit that he’s been played in that arena would be worse than suffering the fallout. The best part is watching him go absolutely spare trying to figure out how Draco did it. Bozzelli is not the kind to be satisfied with not knowing. And yet, it’s like that rotting curse on all his worldly possessions came out of nowhere! The intruder charms were still in place, everything undisturbed, but he opened up his drawers on Halloween morning to find the contents entirely shrunken and withered, covered in climbing grey fuzz and smelling of death.
The beauty of it was in the spectacle. With a smell like that, as soon as Bozzelli opened his trunk, everyone in the dorms knew. There was no way for him to hide away his own failure and plot his revenge: he was front and centre of everyone’s attention, right where he hates to be most. In one fell swoop, he’d lost all of his clothes, schoolwork, notes, and dignity. Bozzelli’s proud of being the apex of quiet sabotage? Draco’s all too happy to correct him. The message is to Bozzelli, but to the rest of Slytherin as well: Do not mess with Draco. Malfoy always wins.
For a moment, Bozzelli appears so incensed he might do away with caution and explode at Draco here and now. His ears have bloomed a vicious red, and he’s shaking with the effort of reigning himself in. Draco blinks at him innocently as he turns, eyes flaring something awful.
‘Think you’re clever, do you?’ His voice is low and slithering, even as he seems on the verge of exploding. Quiet and dangerous. He probably thinks of himself that way.
‘On occasion,’ Draco shrugs easily. ‘Why, has it just occurred to you?’
‘Cute,’ he hisses into the air between them, too quiet for their audience to hear. His coal-black eyes seem to burn before Draco’s own, but the air remains cold. Draco meets his gaze levelly, giving him a genial smile for the audience, and hopes it cuts. Bozzelli sends one back, smoothing his hackles as swiftly as they raised, looking every bit the respectful housemate. ‘You threw away greatness, you ungrateful, disgusting little imp. You want to be one of the rabble, then expect to be treated like them.’
Draco widens his eyes, taking a little step back and raising his voice for everyone to hear.
‘Excuse me?! You think I did this? Why should I? If I had a problem with you, Creed, I’d be only too happy to duel you man-to-man. I’d be quite upfront about it. There would be no sneaky tricks, I would challenge you outright, and I would win.’
Bozzelli doesn’t shift under the weight of the stares, but Draco picks out the tic in his jaw like a neon sign.
‘How barbaric,’ he chuckles, would-be-casual. ‘That’s not how we Bozzellis do things.’
‘Well then you shouldn’t be surprised to find a rot curse on your underwear drawer,’ Draco shoots back sweetly. He takes his leave without looking back, head held high and smile firmly in place.
🖤😈
Anyone with functioning eyes can tell that Merlin has all the rhythm of a seasick water buffalo, so Draco goes to Arthur. Arthur, who strums his guitar like it’s an extension of himself, is the one to see about this particular problem.
Veela train their voices in much the same way wixen train their wands. Draco’s managed to hold onto this gift, but fat lot of good it’ll do if he doesn’t use it. His voice hasn’t fully developed yet, but that’s no reason not to practise his control.
He wonders if his dictation lessons had anything to do with that. He never took singing lessons, but he learned to play the piano growing up. It can’t be too different.
‘Do you compose your own music?’ Draco asks Arthur curiously one day. They’re hanging out in one of the many cosy nooks the castle boasts.
‘I… have, on occasion,’ Arthur admits hesitantly. Draco nods, having expected this.
‘Write the lyrics, too?’
‘Rarely. Em’s the wordsmith, he’s always written my speeches.’
‘Really?’ Hermione chirps. ‘You write songs, Em?’ Em opens his mouth to reply, but Arthur cuts him off.
‘He does, but he can’t sing for shit. Not that it stops him.’
‘Why should it?’ the boy in question asks rhetorically. Ron snorts. Draco snickers before asking another question.
‘And you? You sing?’
Arthur shrugs. ‘I can.’
‘Why do you ask, Dray?’ Em inquires, eyes narrowed like he already knows.
‘No reason.’
‘Come off it, what’s this about,’ Ron demands good-naturedly. Draco scowls at him.
‘Not that it’s any of your business, Weasley, but I just thought it might be worth comparing notes if Arthur turned out to be any good.’
Ron’s brows raise. Hermione blinks in surprise. Harry leans forward, wide-eyed. ‘You mean, you sing?’
‘I compose,’ Draco sniffs. ‘I never thought to put words to the music. The guitar would make a nice accompaniment, is all.’
Em and Arthur see right through him, Draco can tell. Harry’s eyes go distant like he’s trying to imagine it, which is strange, because he’s still looking at Draco. Ron gapes a bit, and Hermione’s mouth opens and closes once before she finds the right words.
‘I never would’ve guessed,’ she says.
‘We can play around with some melodies,’ Arthur offers.
‘And I’m always here if you want a sounding board for lyrics,’ Merlin adds. Draco hums his acknowledgement and goes back to filing his nails. The rest of the crew forcibly stifle the urge to continue this line of questioning, knowing not to push Draco. He never gives away any information he doesn’t want to give, and he will withdraw if pushed.
That weekend finds Draco leaning against the stone wall outside the Gryffindor hall, clicking his tongue impatiently. Finnigan came out from behind the Fat Lady a while ago, but he’s still highly suspicious of Draco, and refused to help, so Draco’s still waiting.
The next person to (finally) pass by is Neville. Draco leaps on the chance.
‘Psst! Longbottom!’
The boy jumps near a foot in the air, clutching his book to his chest protectively. If Draco were the sentimental kind, he might wince out of guilt when Neville’s fear does not lessen at the sight of him. If anything, he clutches his book tighter.
‘M-Malfoy?’
Draco suppresses an eye roll. ‘Obviously. Tell Penn to get down here, and bring his guitar.’
‘Penn… Arthur? You want me to–?’
‘Yes.’
Neville looks him up and down unsurely, as if waiting for the other shoe to drop. Draco waits him out. Eventually, he nods.
‘Okay. Sure. I’ll…’ Neville points and scurries in, whispering the password to the Fat Lady. She gives Draco her sixth side-eye of the hour. Draco doesn’t even bother rolling his eyes again.
Eventually, Arthur slips out from behind the portrait, guitar in tow. It’s a handsome thing. Draco wouldn’t be surprised to find that Merlin made it himself. At the very least, it’s a custom.
‘There’s a music room on the third floor. Come on.’
‘Hello to you too. I’m fine, thanks for asking.’
Draco smirks at him from up ahead, having already started walking. Arthur huffs, ruffling a strand of his fringe, but follows.
The music room isn’t strictly on the third floor. The entrance is, though, nestled between tapestries, often overlooked. There are much grander and well-furnished places to practise for the musically inclined. Draco prizes this room for its sequestration. The walls have a permanent imperturbable spell built into them. He’s never been bothered here. Once he had a piano donated and the house elves clean it up a bit, it was perfect for his needs.
Draco catches Arthur smiling as they enter, brushing a hand along the doorframe. The stained glass windows greet them politely and the great arched paintings look on in interest.
‘We were beginning to wonder if you’d ever bring company, Draco,’ a kind looking woman holding a lyre calls from her frame. Her clothes are thin and fine, more like the draped fabric of the Greeks than anything. They fall off of her like liquid, barely hiding her natural body. A painting like her might be considered scandalous in a school environment nowadays; Arthur hasn’t seen any similarly clad in the castle at large. This room must not have seen use for a while. Arthur sometimes yearns for those less decorous days; the stuffy ways of modesty and religious shame never suited him. Even in his young age, he found such propriety restricting almost to the point of being crippling, especially for women. If he could bathe as needed with his knights, why should the ladies not be allowed to show so much as an ankle without being shamed for it? When and why did the world become afraid of skin? A man was just as much himself in clothes as out of them, as was a woman.
‘Are you to be an audience, or accompaniment?’ another painting inquires, this one a standing in a wooded alcove, distractedly braiding her hair. In fact, Arthur realises looking around, all the paintings are women.
‘I was told to bring my strings,’ Arthur says, raising his guitar. ‘So I suspect the latter, though I’m hardly in charge.’
Draco raises an eyebrow at the subtle tease, uncowed. He takes up position at the piano bench, but keeps his body faced towards Arthur. Arthur takes this as his cue to settle on a chair.
‘I’ve always had a healthy appreciation for good music,’ Draco begins. ‘I have dabbled in composition before. Mer– Em has suggested that mastering vocal control will be more or less necessary as my Veela voice develops. I figure, why be relegated only to singing what other people have already composed? And the words should be my own. I’ve never composed a full song though. How do you start?’
Arthur shrugs. ‘I don’t usually sit down and decide to write a song. More often than not, I’m just screwing around on the strings and something comes out, and that leads into something else, and it happens enough that I put some words to it.’
‘Really? You’ve never done it any other way?’
‘’Course I have. It’s just not usually what happens,’ Arthur explains. ‘There’ve been occasions where I’ve felt particularly sentimental, and I had something to say.’ Draco nods encouragingly for him to go on. Arthur casts around for more, but it really is as simple as that. He blows air through his lips loosely. ‘I don’t know. Do you have something you want to say?’
Draco frowns, chewing on his lip pensively. His eyes slide away as he thinks. Arthur absently plucks out the melody of a song he remembers writing himself.
‘When was the last time you had something to say?’ Draco asks.
Arthur looks up to find Draco’s startling grey eyes have snapped to attention. Arthur casts back. When did he write this one again? Was it after a death, or just on a bad day? He thinks he had multiple people in mind when he wrote it. One death so easily brings back all the others, though, and that feels right. Someone dear to him died, and he felt the loss of every death over all his years all over again. Every child, friend, lover– and he’s had a few other than Merlin, as Merlin has had a few other than him. They’ve had some together, too. They’re the only constant thing each other has, there to pick each other up when loss comes knocking yet again. They spend some lifetimes apart, but they always gravitate back to each other eventually. Arthur can’t recall which life the melody he’s strumming now came from, but he recalls the agony behind it. He thinks a little harder, and it comes back to him in flashes of red hair and rum. Rose Cardinham.
‘Fifteen hundreds?’ he guesses. ‘Might’ve been the sixteen hundreds.’
A few gasps ring out along the walls.
‘Are you him, then? Are you Merlin?’ the lyre woman breathes with wide eyes. ‘We heard he was here this year!’
Arthur laughs. ‘Not quite. I’m his side piece.’
‘You might’ve heard of King Arthur?’ Draco drawls smugly. The ladies all reel back in shock as Arthur shoots them a mildly amused look. He’s distracted as the song comes back to him, though.
‘It had words, didn’t it?’
Distracted as he was by outing Arthur to the paintings, Draco’s still caught Arthur’s wandering fingers and focus. That boy is almost too sharp. And it’s not a throw off statement. Draco’s asking him to play it properly.
‘I actually made it up on the piano,’ Arthur admits.
Draco’s eyebrows go up. Wordlessly, he slides down the bench, leaving an innocuous space beside him. Arthur hesitates, but sets his guitar down and approaches the piano.
He hasn’t played in a long time. He’s always been more into the strings, since that’s what he grew up with. The piano was everywhere when it was invented, though, in all the taverns and saloons he and Merlin found themselves at. It was pretty easy to pick up on, too, as instruments go. Arthur taps at a key experimentally. The sound rings out unexpectedly rich. This is a much different machine than the ones he used to play. Hopefully the principle’s the same.
He thinks for a moment. He has the melody in mind, but it takes him a couple of tries to get the right key, as out of practice as he is. After that, though, it’s all muscle memory. The notes flow out of him through his fingers, the song sounding fuller than it ever did. He takes the opening instrumental to familiarize himself with the oddly reactive nature of the keys, the smoothness and the weight that’s probably the standard nowadays. He clears his throat as it comes around, and he starts to sing.
‘Saying things I don’t believe,
And your love casts it shadow on the things I do,
And I can hear so clearly all the words I wish I’d said,
You’re stuck in my head…’
Arthur’s suddenly bowled over by a wave of nostalgia. He feels there should be someone else beside him, their shoulder brushing his in a familiar way that speaks of love. His hands should be bigger, his clothes scratchier, the windows grimier. He should have a sword at his hip, or a gun at his side, or a child in his arms. He should have somewhere to be.
‘But I only think of yooo~oou…
Will we be together sooo~ooo~oooon?
…
I’m thrown to the wayside,
You’re planted in my mind…
But I don’t wanna be okay without you.’
Arthur finishes it out and blinks himself back to the present with some difficulty. He turns to the side and, for a moment, sees Rose sitting beside him. But he blinks and Draco swims back into focus, regarding him in utter fascination. He looks like he’s trying to solve some great puzzle, but can’t find the time between bouts of consummate awe.
‘Did you expect a symphony?’ Arthur asks. His voice comes out discordantly matter-of-fact. It seems to hit Draco like a slap to the face.
‘I suppose not,’ the boy says quietly. ‘It was rather short.’
Arthur snorts. ‘I can remember one other one I wrote in English, and that’s longer.’
‘That was beautiful,’ the first painting, the one braiding her hair, breathes. The other paintings all nod. Arthur inclines his head in thanks.
‘It was at that,’ Draco admits. ‘I don’t know what I expected… you can really sing.’
‘Almost makes up for Merlin’s voice,’ Arthur says. Then he gives it a second’s thought and grimaces. ‘Almost.’
‘What was it about?’ Draco blurts, apparently unable to hold it in any longer. There’s a crease in his brow and a searching quality to his eyes. ‘It can’t be about Merlin, but it sounds romantic.’
‘It’s not necessarily romantic,’ Arthur sighs, thinking about how to answer. ‘It is in part, I guess. When I wrote it, I was missing the people I’d lost, some of whom were lovers.’
Draco’s eyes nearly bug out of his head. ‘L-? But… you… I mean, I thought… Merlin…’
Arthur chuckles. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen the boy this caught off guard before. He lets him stay lost for a few moments before he takes pity.
‘Relax, you’re right, I love Merlin. Romantically. But seventeen hundred years is a long time. If we spent all that time exclusively with each other, we’d go insane. There are times when we separate to live different lives, and times when we fall in love with other people. And there are times when we find someone special and we both fall for them. The only difference is, they die. Merlin and I will always have each other.’
Draco blinks, processing this. ‘And… you both… this is a mutual arrangement? You’re both happy to just…’
‘Yes.’
Draco sits and thinks for a while. Arthur waits him out, brushing his knuckles over the piano keys. Eventually, Draco straightens and casually says, ‘My parents aren’t in love. I’d expect a relationship like that to warrant such an agreement, rather than one like yours. But I guess I can see how it could be a measure of extreme trust… but to share your devotion… maybe it’s different for people as long-lived as you.’
‘Not necessarily. It’s been known to happen. Every relationship is different. As long as both parties are honest and happy, the sky’s the limit,’ Arthur shrugs.
‘Very true,’ hums the lyre lady. Draco looks between them pensively.
They move back to music then, Draco on the piano and Arthur on the guitar. Draco’s much more restrictive with his understanding of the art, obviously a product of a strictly technical education. Arthur just sort of does whatever he wants. It’s an interesting intersection.
‘You’ll want to talk to Merlin about writing the words,’ Arthur admits.
‘What? You do it just as well.’
‘I most certainly do not. I write something decent once a century. Merlin does it once a day. Has done since Camelot. I swear fifty percent of the books on any given shelf are his. But I don’t know if you need him, anyway. You’re plenty gifted with words.’
Draco hums distractedly. Arthur finds himself hoping Draco does find something to say. He has a feeling it’ll mean a lot more than just practise to him.
🎶🎹🌱
There truly must be something about Halloween. This year, it’s Sirius Black.
All the houses are sent to the great hall. Draco picks through the crowd to find his friends talking in hushed whispers between themselves. Ron catches sight of him first and pulls him over by the sleeve. One day, Draco will get used to physical contact.
‘Is it true?’ Draco asks at once. ‘It’s Black?’
Ron looks at him like he’s grown a second head. ‘How? How could you know that? We only just found out!’
Hermione shoots a quick look at Draco’s bracelet. ‘Honestly, Ron, he and Em are borderline omniscient, you’d think you’d be used to it by now.’
‘Where’s Em?’
‘Slipped off to talk to some people,’ Harry says. ‘Has anyone seen Lupin?’
A round of murmured ‘no’s. Harry clicks his tongue, head whipping around to look. The only teachers in the room are Dumbledore, Flitwick, and McGonagall. As Draco watches, Dumbledore places his wand to his neck– amplification spell.
"The teachers and I need to conduct a thorough search of the castle," he announces as the other teachers close the doors. "I'm afraid that, for your own safety, you will have to spend the night here. I want the prefects to stand guard over the entrances to the hall and I am leaving the Head Boy and Girl in charge. Professor Flitwick will stay as well. Any disturbance should be reported to me immediately," he adds to Percy, who puffs out his chest importantly. "Send word with one of the ghosts." He begins to make his way out of the hall, only to pause mid-step and turn back around. "Oh, yes, you'll be needing..."
One casual wave of his wand and the long tables fly to the edges of the hall and stack themselves against the walls; another wave, and a sea of cushy looking purple sleeping bags knit themselves into being on the floor.
"Sleep well," the old man says, finally stepping out and closing the massive doors behind him.
As Percy begins calling for everyone to get into their sleeping bags, the hall returns to its frenzied buzzing.
‘Do you think he’s still in the castle?’ Ron asks.
‘Dumbledore obviously thinks he might be,’ Hermione replies, shooting a glance at Harry. ‘Are you doing alright, Harry?’
‘Yeah, ‘m fine,’ he mumbles distractedly, eyes still flicking around.
‘It's very lucky he picked tonight, you know,’ Hermione says as they all get into their sleeping bags and prop themselves on their elbows to talk. ‘The one night we weren't in the tower....’
‘I reckon he's lost track of time, being on the run. Didn't realise it was Halloween. Otherwise he'd have come bursting in here.’
‘Lucky?’ Harry echoes a tad sharply. Hermione exchanges a helpless look with Ron.
‘We don’t know what he wants, Harry. Whether he… betrayed your parents or not, he’s been in Azkaban for twelve years . That’s not something you can just walk off.’
‘She’s right, shortstack,’ Arthur squeezes his shoulder. ‘He needs help. I’ll be shocked if the man still has an inch of sanity left. Azkaban is a monstrous thing to subject a person to.’
‘I still can’t believe it got through the court,’ says a new voice. For someone so clumsy, Merlin sure knows how to slip by unnoticed.
‘What did you find out?’ Arthur asks.
‘He’s not in the castle anymore. He must’ve used one of the as of yet undiscovered secret entrances to the school, it’s the only way he could’ve done it. He was angry, but there was no damage aside from Eliz– the Fat Lady’s portrait. She’s alright, should be reinstated as soon as she’s repaired, with extra time for mental recovery. She deserves a break, honestly, she’s been at this for over a century– but you didn’t get that from me.’
‘You’re brilliant, you are,’ Ron huffs, shaking his head in disbelief.
‘There was a Gryffindor portrait keeper before the Fat Lady?’ Hermione echoes. ‘That’s not in Hogwarts: A History …’
‘I think you’ll find there’s quite a lot that isn’t,’ Arthur sighs, really getting sick of hearing about that stupid book.
🐺🐾
While the whole Black affair is rather dramatic, nothing much comes of it. Classes resume, as do the absurd rumours. Sir Cadogan, to everyone’s dismay, is the only portrait brave enough to take over for Liz while she takes a long overdue vacation. Aside from blithering on at length about all of Arthur and Merlin’s hard-kept secrets (for everyone to hear), the squat little knight also has less interest in passwords than duels of chivalry. He challenges everyone who tries to get in to fight him ‘man-to-man’, regardless of their gender. It’s put all the Gryffindors in an understandably foul mood.
Then there’s Harry. He has a lot of people at his back with the best intentions and the worst execution. The poor boy can’t walk five feet out of class without being dogged by those who were in the know and fancied themselves silent protectors. They don’t know that he has Merlin and Arthur, but the latter is still a little offended. Honestly, does Percy Weasley really think that there is a world in which Harry was in danger, and he’d be the defining factor in changing that? They all seem to think they’re the only ones with a thought in the world to the boy’s wellbeing.
Arthur gently brushes his knuckles against Merlin’s shoulder to get his attention when they find a moment. Immediately Merlin’s eyes narrow at him.
‘What is it?’ he drawls in deep suspicion. Damn. That trick used to work so well on him. Arthur doesn’t even try to act innocent, it’ll just lose him his case faster.
‘Don’t you think you could do something, about-?’ he nods pointedly in the direction of a window that the wind is howling through so violently that most students rush by with their hands over their ears. ‘Miserable’ would be a kind word for how the weather’s been lately, and Gryffindor has their first Quidditch match coming up soon. Maybe if Arthur spins it as a helping-Harry thing, he can convince his husband to fix the pitch conditions up.
Merlin’s eyes harden though. ‘Is this about the bloody match again? I am not rearranging the natural order of things for a team sport!’
‘You’ve done it for less.’
That’s the wrong thing to say, and Arthur knows that as he says it. He stifles a wince as Merlin half-properly glares at him. He’s been married to the man too long not to fear real glares.
‘Exactly, so by now I know better. You know how easy it is to slip into playing God, doling out favours out of preference, you know where that goes! Honestly, Arthur, for a high school game?! Get your head out of your arse and act like the last thousand years has meant something to you.’
‘Okay,’ Arthur sighs sheepishly, ducking his head. He knows better than to try to make it up just yet, Merlin needs a minute to cool off. And, okay, it was a rather stupid thing to ask. ‘Sorry.’
Merlin turns his back on him with a fractionally fond, mostly exasperated huff, and Arthur knows he’d recognised the sincerity in Arthur’s apology. As long as Arthur behaves, it’ll be forgotten in a couple minutes.
They make it to Defense class that way, and it becomes immediately apparent that they have more confronting issues.
The full moon. How did we forget the full moon, Arthur thinks as he takes in the sight of Snape at the head of Lupin’s class, systematically spelling all the windows to banish any light from the space. With the final dramatic KA- THUNK of the last latch sliding into place, Snape whirls to face them.
Harry, Ron and Hermione all have questions about Lupin, and to Arthur’s shock, they are worried enough to actually ask them. Predictably, Snape shuts that shit down right quick, taking about fifty points from Gryffindor in the process. All he says is that Lupin’s sick. He tells them to turn to page 394.
It’s such a petty, vindictive thing to do, Arthur finds his jaw working as it does in court when corruption says its piece. Snape has been trusted with a person’s secret, and he would destroy them out of mild malice, on principle, just because he could. This could squander the one decent break Lupin’s caught in his unjustly hounded life. Hogwarts is not just a minor gig. If anyone catches on and the secret gets out, Lupin will never teach again. He’ll be lucky not to be chased out of any major town in Wizarding Britain with pitchforks, or lynched in his sleep passing through.
Arthur swallows the lesson as he’s swallowed any amount of callous cruelty. But he watches as Merlin hands in his worksheet and Snape’s eyes widen in alarm, and something is exchanged. Merlin must be speaking to him mentally. For an accomplished Occlumens, that will be a rude awakening. He tries not to feel too vindictive when Snape moves to snarl something, but bites it down. Smart.
At the end of the lesson, everybody packs up. Merlin does too, but he stays seated. Harry asks him what’s up, but Merlin just tells him to go on ahead. Arthur smirks. He can think of no better justice for Snape than unleashing his husband on the man.
He leaves the classroom feeling the matter is as good as settled. He can’t wait to hear all about it.