To Carry On
Chapter 10:
Emrys waits until all the kids have filed out of the class before closing the door behind them and rounding the desks, coming to rest against one in the front, ankles crossed. Severus stiffens further, if possible, at the golden glow that momentarily slips out through his eyes from the wordless imperturbable he casts.
Severus is highly trained in realms that permit him a glimpse at just how much power he is in the presence of. It’s so easy to forget, looking at this thirteen-year-old boy, but just that little gesture, so thoughtless, was like a pulse of pure energy– magic deeper than Severus has ever witnessed. So strong it can’t be contained in the intangible, leaking out through the eyes. Physical manifestations– mere hints at the bottomless well at its source. Each time he attempts to comprehend the undoubted enormity of the man before him, his knees threaten to buckle.
Merlin stares at Severus through eyes older than he likely cares to know, eyes that have seen the rise and fall of kingdoms, women, men, children, and Magic itself. He stares at Severus. Severus, who suddenly feels very young indeed.
‘Tell me why you thought that was the right course of action,’ he asks quietly. There is no apparent inflection to it.
Severus gathers himself. He is not a boy. He will not be scolded like one. Merlin may outpace him in every arena, but Severus has been Potion Master at Hogwarts for fifteen years, and he deserves respect. Mythical figure or not, Merlin should remember that.
‘If you are referring to the content of the course, I feel there is an obligation to the children to be taught how to properly deal with threats they are in immediate danger of.’
‘That is not why, Severus. You would’ve taken up a concern like that, were it genuine, with the headmaster.’
Merlin’s tone is so even it scares Severus. He sits there, unreadable, palms squashed between his thighs. He gives the impression of unlimited patience where just a moment ago he was only another ADHD-riddled teen who couldn’t wait to get out of class. Now it’s clear he can wait as long as he needs to for Severus to unravel, and he will.
‘Say what you mean… Merlin.’ Severus is careful with the name. It’s such a heavy thing, but it seems only Severus is bending under its weight.
‘What you just did,’ the man says deliberately, ‘put a colleague’s life on the line over a schoolboy feud. No, you did,’ he steamrolls over Severus, who’s opened his mouth to argue. ‘Even if it doesn't amount to Lupin’s death– and it could, if you take a moment to realise the long-term consequences of what you did– you have compromised his livelihood. His reputation. Frankly, what happens to him as a result of your actions here today is completely out of your hands. So I’ll ask you again, Severus: why did you do it?’
Severus consciously fights a sneer. This is infuriating enough coming from Dumbledore. The way he’s being addressed by someone who takes the form of a mere boy ( Daddy’s not angry, just disappointed)-- it’s humiliating! And given the subject, Severus might concede that there’s something about the Gryffindor tie that stokes the molten outrage in him into familiar revolting hatred. He will not take this. He has outgrown subjugation at the hands of conceited lions!
‘Do you know who you’re defending?’ Severus snarls. ‘Lupin is a selfish, arrogant bully who has learned nothing from his struggles! He inflicts his pain upon others as readily as he dismisses them and their autonomy! He thinks of no one but himself. It’s a fitting thing for him to be a werewolf– he’s always been a dog, and he’s long overdue to be treated like one!’
‘It’s not about Lupin, Severus,’ Merlin says imploringly, unmoved. He pushes off from his perch and takes a couple steps forward. ‘Maybe he is reprehensible– maybe he’s the devil himself. But he won’t suffer as a devil, or as an evil man, he’ll suffer as a werewolf! That’s not right!’
‘He deserves it!’
‘Ignoring the fact that you would condemn a man based on who he was as a child, you are entirely missing the point! Exploiting his condition, that is the truly reprehensible thing to do! It is beneath you, and in all moral realms, it serves him, not you! Now, tell me straight up, do you really believe that being a werewolf makes him any less of a man than you are?’
‘Obviously not,’ Severus snaps before he can stop himself. He recovers quickly with, ‘It’s his character that’s monstrous, but his condition hardly lends him the humanity he has always lacked. Lupin is as good as rabid, his lucidity far too conditional to be trusted with children–’
‘Are you saying you cannot be relied upon to meet those conditions, Potions Master?’
‘Don’t turn this around on me. Don’t let the man fool you, under moonlight or not, he is no less a beast.’
‘He is a man, and now he could be run out of the castle. Out of Hogsmeade. If this comes out proper, he might never be welcome anywhere ever again. You have condemned him to the possibility of an unsafe, unstable life, and you have used his condition to do it. Tell me why that’s justified.’
‘You would agree if you knew the man!’
‘Then help me know him! Show me why he’s undeserving of human decency!’
‘You wouldn’t understand!’
‘Then help me understand!’
‘He’s–’
‘SHOW ME, SEVERUS!’
His answer is swallowed up by a hazy laugh, out of focus, like something just out of frame in an old picture. Severus’ vision swims with it, bright gold shining cruelly down through the trees. Mocking him.
Harry’s there. No… not Harry. There’s no scar on his face, no pensive lilt to his lips. His eyes are dark and full of laughter that unfailingly inspires in Severus the urge to run. There’s that stupid hairband to hold his wild fringe back, because as he was so fond of saying, ‘why deprive the world of all this beauty’? Truly, there was no end to James Potter’s arrogance.
‘There he is!’ the boy crows, and Severus stiffens further if possible, his body screaming to escape. His eyes flick up, unable to avoid the confrontation now, and meet Potter’s. He thinks again how utterly unfair life is. That’s what Potter is; the living proof of God’s cruelty. He’s the daily reminder that Severus will never have a good life, because he has a cold heart and cold skin and green robes and no friends and a horrid home. He has nothing but Lily Evans, so Potter has made it his mission to take her away from him, too. Potter would leave him with nothing just because he could. Severus can’t let him.
But Potter isn’t alone. He never is. Always with that miserable rake Black and his pet prefect Lupin. Severus always loses. He is dumped in the lake, hexed, jinxed, set on fire, shown up, framed, and made a complete mockery of. Were it not for Lily, Severus would’ve killed himself before he made third year, and wouldn’t that be a shame? He hasn’t yet published his potions, and he believes those recipes could do a lot for the standards of the Wizarding World. He hasn’t even made it out of the misery that is high school yet.
‘Allergic to the sun, are we?’ Lupin drawls in a disinterested voice, half a step behind Potter. Black shoots him a smirk.
‘Have you seen his skin, Moony? He’d shrivel up!’
‘That’s alright lads, we can help him out, can’t we?’ Potter says cheerfully in his muddled accent. The second he goes for his wand, Severus pulls his own. Not that it ever does him any good against three assailants. Black’s got his wand out, too. Lupin doesn’t even usually have to get involved. As if that makes it better. He’s a prefect, and he just watches. ‘Now what was the spell to turn a grimy tosser into a real boy? Was it this one?’
Severus blocks the first curse, but Black gets him with the second, and he feels his feet leave the ground. Panic swoops through his stomach as he loses control of his own body. The world flips on its axis, and suddenly he’s fighting to keep his robes out of his face, dignity forgotten.
‘That’s not it, Pads. Must be this one!’
Severus feels a warmth crawl over his scalp, and the hair messily flying into his face turns a sickly green. He can’t hear himself think over the guffaws.
‘Try the spinning hex,’ Lupin quietly murmurs to his friends, still pretending to read his book. Severus feels the familiar sick, boiling hatred leech through him like poison as he begins to spin in the air.
The dizziness fades. The sunshine remains, pounding brutally down over a crowded courtyard. The smell is obscene, but no one seems bothered by it, busy herding animals through the cobblestone streets, beating out sheets or hanging herbs upside down. Merchants call out their wares to passersby in a language he doesn’t recognise but understands. Severus hears the THUD of a cleaver and turns around to watch a man casually shove a pile of fresh entrails from his chopping block right onto the street.
Severus keeps walking, his pace suggesting he’s as unbothered by this as everyone else. He knows he has somewhere to be, but he can’t help looking around. It’s all so new and strange to him.
Eventually he pops out of an arch to find an oddly clear space. Odd, because so far there hasn’t been a square inch of ground left uninhabited. Everyone’s squished in with the pigs and shit, and here’s this wide open area in the middle of town. No one dares approach it, though. The only occupants are an unbothered group of knights(?), half-dressed in shiny armour and nobles’ breeches, kicking around a servant. The poor boy’s weighed down by a heavy-looking target. The nobles have decided not to bother waiting for him to set it down and have started their target practice. As Severus watches, one of their knives embeds itself in the ground an inch from the servant’s foot.
A voice that isn’t Severus’ launches from his throat, calling an end to the cruelty. The main knight, the one with hair like the sun and the set of someone unused to hearing the word ‘no’, whips his head to stare at him, and Severus can pinpoint the second he’d decided on a new target. It’s in his eyes.
Scenes flick by. Severus dashes through a marketplace while the blonde man chases him with a mace, landing a solid hit on his shoulder that burns like fire. Severus takes hit after hit from a sword, metal clanging on metal and his bones shifting in his bruised skin. Rotten fruit bursts against his face and dribbles into his eyes and mouth, made all the worse by the horrid sun slowly baking it onto his burning skin. Severus has no time to heal, busy earning his calluses shovelling shit or polishing armour or sharpening swords. There is no end to the work, and there is no end to Severus’ resentment of the sun and the blonde twat that embodies it.
The first overcast memory feels different. He sits across from the noble bully under the sky, two goblets between them. The air is cold and solemn.
Severus has never seen this look on the man’s face before. He looks a different person with all his pride and arrogance shed. There is a heaviness that Severus is sure must be unbearable upon his broad shoulders, hunched as he considers his options. He’s already made a decision.
‘I will be the one to drink,’ he pronounces gravely. It’s quiet in a way Severus wasn’t aware he could be, and it echoes.
That unfamiliar voice bursts from Severus again without his permission. ‘Did you not hear him? You’ll die!’
‘Yes, Merlin, I’m aware.’
‘Then you won’t drink, I will.’
‘Don’t be stupid.’
‘Me don’t be stupid?!’
‘As the prince, it is my duty and my right to die for my people. I created this mess. I will absolve us of it.’
And Severus knows he means that. There is nothing on heaven or earth that will stop him, but Severus is damn well going to try.
Severus is shaking. He can’t put his bracer on. He’s sure he should know how, but he can’t.
‘Here, let me.’
Two strong hands, covered in their own calluses, take his arm. They move with a surety that almost settles him. He has to stand close, and their breath mingles. Severus looks up at the golden boy, calm and set as he prepares a mere commoner for battle.
‘My throat’s dry’ Severus admits quietly.
‘Me too,’ the sun replies. He finishes with Severus’ bracer and holds out a hand. Severus takes it. It’s warm and solid, enough to almost stop his shakes.
‘It’s been an honour,’ the prince says, looking Severus in the eye as an equal, trying to memorise his face.
‘Whatever happens out there today, please don’t think any differently of me.’
‘I won’t. It’s alright to be scared, Merlin.’
And the way he says it, Severus thinks it actually might be.
The final scene is so innocuous it barely feels real. It’s so offhand, just a domestic memory of Severus– Merlin– fetching water from the town pump. He takes the long way around to avoid the crowds. A few people wave at him as he goes, and he greets them cheerily. He’s just about made it when he hears the deep familiar rumble of the prince’s voice. He must be around the corner. Severus pokes his head out to check and sees a sliver of his lord’s red shirt down the street facing into an alleyway. What’s he doing there? Severus can just faintly make out the conversation if he strains.
‘--on, have you nothing better to do on a Sunday than torture an innocent man?’ The words are casual, but his tone is not. Severus can practically feel whoever he’s talking to freeze in their tracks.
‘Who’s ‘e?’
‘Nevah seen ‘im.’
‘You idiots, that’s tha prince!’
‘Prince Arthah?!’
‘You’re shittin’ me!’
‘Y-your lordship, beggin’- beggin’ your pardon. We din’t mean nuffin’ by it, just a bit of ‘armless fun–’
‘It doesn’t seem harmless to me. I’ll see you all in the stocks. And don’t think I don’t know what goes on in my kingdom, if I hear you lot ever batter up another innocent man, I will make the punishment far worse, you understand me? Spread the word. No man who has not wronged another should feel unsafe in Camelot, or the perpetrators will answer to me.’
Severus leaves then. He’s heard enough. He can’t keep the goofy smile from his face all day. His heart bursts with pride, with righteous faith.
As he’s walking back with his water, the sun comes out. It does not feel cruel today. It feels, if anything, kind.
The moment it disappears, Severus feels cold. It is suddenly dark and draughty, enough to make him press closer up against the boy beside him. He is the only source of warmth in the entire classroom.
The same callused hand that secured his bracer now rubs his arm to keep him warm. Arthur shoots him a thoughtless sideways look, making sure he’s alright more on instinct than anything. They’re both more focussed on Longbottom, two seats ahead of them in class, who has his head down so far his nose is almost pressing the paper. He shoots nervous looks up every now and then as if afraid someone’s noticed his existence. When someone does, loudly, he flinches something awful.
‘As you’ll see, Longbottom, the instructions are quite clear. If you manage to make a mess of even this simple brew, I’m afraid all your housemates can do is pray that you bring your own failures down upon yourself and not them. Seeing as your incompetence has often proven contagious, I wouldn’t bet on it.’
Severus is shocked at the coldness in his own unmistakeable voice, the callousness in the eyes of he, the Hogwarts Potions Master, as he looms over the class. It is his own sallow self spewing the venom, glaring down his nose at Neville. The boy is shaking. Harry tries to reach over to comfort him, and at once Severus’ black eyes snap to him. The dawning look in them floods his veins like ice. It’s the same look he saw in James Potter’s, the same one he saw in the arrogant knight in the courtyard. Utter glee at finding a shiny new victim.
Back in the Defence classroom, Merlin lets go of his forearm. The eyes staring back at him now are blue and timeless. Severus catches himself weakly against the teacher’s desk, panting.
‘James requested a legal form to make you Harry’s godfather two days before he and Lily died,’ Merlin says gently. ‘He’d already signed it.’
Severus stops breathing.
What?
‘People do change, if you let them,’ Merlin continues. That’s all he says. He leaves the classroom, leaves Severus to pick up the pieces of the life he thought he’d lived, and a few from ones he didn’t.
♞♘
The Quidditch match is cancelled. Arthur fully redeems his earlier childishness by taking it on the chin, reminding a horrified Ron and Harry that it’s better it be cancelled than someone be hurt trying to fly in the storm. And it is a storm. Merlin watches it rage outside from the safety of Gryffindor tower, worrying his lip and spinning the ring on his finger.
‘What’re you worried about now, the Whompin’ Willow?’ Ron huffs, still in his mood. ‘It’s your turn!’
Merlin moves his bishop two spaces distractedly and goes right back to brooding. He feels Arthur fold around him like a blanket from behind , his familiar hands taking Merlin’s forearms and gently coaxing him into a more relaxed position.
‘What is it, love? Talk to me,’ the king whispers against his cheek.
‘I just hope Lupin’s alright,’ Merlin mumbles.
‘He’s a big boy, he can handle himself. Harry’s worrying about him enough anyway.’
‘Mm, I’m worried about him too.’
Arthur clicks his tongue, leaning his cheek against Merlin’s head. A moment passes this way. Ron lets out an annoyed grunt and, by the sounds of it, gives up on the game. The pieces all make little tinkling sounds as he clears the board. Merlin shoots an apology in his general direction.
Arthur straightens with a clap to Merlin’s shoulders, who turns in his arms to look at him. ‘Tell you what; I’ll go check on Lupin,’ he promises in quiet french. ‘Why don’t you look in on Hazza?’
‘You don’t mind?’
‘No, no. Go on.’
‘Okay.’ Merlin kisses his husband’s hand and gives him a grateful smile. He watches him head past where Ron and Hermione are now talking, brushing a hand against Ron’s back and saying something as he goes. Ron waves him off without looking up from the new game he’s setting up. Everyone’s fine.
So why does Merlin have such a bad feeling?
…The Cold Ones, probably. Right? Things are complicated right now, but not bad– the kids are safe, Harry’s got an uncle, Draco’s discovering herself. All the kids are coming into their own before Merlin’s very eyes, each in their own special, unpredictable ways. Riddle is down one more soul-keep, courtesy of the Ravens. It’s given them a lead on other potential soul-keeps, too– a likely theme. Even Snape’s shown up for once and finally realised that he’s the problem. The only thing Merlin can attribute his gloom to is the Cold Ones.
He should’ve expected it. He’s a being made of the magic that Cold Ones feed off of, of course he has a different relationship to them than the average wixen. He is their forbidden fruit and their kryptonite. That’s at least partially mutual, he thinks dryly. Not much can get to him like Cold Ones.
Merlin stops halfway up the stairs to the Gryffindor boys dorm. He still doesn’t know if Helena went to see her mother yet. At first he wanted to give them space, but he should really check up on that. He’s been making up excuses, he realises, not to see them. Why?
Why have you been seeing Isaac in your dreams lately? His mind retorts. Why have you been missing Chihiro so much? Why do you keep mistaking the dead for the living? Because you are old. Because you are sad.
The initial encounter with Cold Ones isn’t the worst part, in Merlin’s experience. The jitters fade, and the battle-shock subsides. The anxiety lingers, but it, too, is bound to ebb eventually. But the dead stay. Long after the Cold Ones are gone, the dead stay.
But as Merlin reminds himself, the living are, for now, alive. And one of them is all alone at the top of the stairs. So he pushes himself up another step, and then another.
It becomes significantly easier when he hears the crying.
Harry appears to have only gotten his pyjama shirt on before he got caught up with sobbing, leaving him curled up on his bed in his boxers, socks still on. There’s no Muffliato, andthe curtains aren’t drawn. He’s bunched the blankets up around himself as much as possible in an attempt to drown in them, or maybe burrow into them like a nest and never come out. He clutches at the sheets weakly as they soak through.
Harry is not a pretty crier. His mouth is wide open and dribbling a bit as he makes choking noises like wet coughs. Snot smears his upper lip. His hair is wet and sticking against his blotchy face. He cries with his whole body, little chest heaving and trying to curl into itself and disappear. Merlin’s heart breaks.
He’s across the room in a flash, falling onto the bed and pulling Harry against him. He wipes the hair out of the boy’s face, cooing and shushing him like a babe. Harry’s scrabbling hands turn their attention from the sheets to Merlin’s shirt, and he curls into Merlin’s chest as best he can. It’s hard to see him through the wild cloud of hair, and battling it out of the way turns into stroking it comfortingly.
Behind the lack of a muffling charm and the undrawn curtains, the most worrying thing is the lack of apologies. Although they’re trying their best to reverse the effects of eleven years in an abusive household, Harry is still typically sorry for the space he takes up. He still sees his needs as bothersome to others. For him to be falling apart all over Merlin like this, without a single unnecessary apology from his lips? It’s scary.
What brought this on? Merlin wasn’t bumming the kids out with his own mood, was he? No, that can't be it. Has Harry been in contact with the Cold Ones again? Or is this leftover trauma from the train ride at the beginning of the year? Goddess, Merlin should’ve thrown Dumbledore off the premises and told the Cold Ones to fetch the second that whole shitshow went down. It should never have gotten to this point. Merlin will hit the Ministry like a bolt of fucking lightning for this, and the old coot’s next.
Merlin finally manages to put together what words Harry’s been gasping out between sobs. They’re half-mumbled, half-moaned, and terribly wet, and he clutches Merlin tighter with every repeat.
‘Don’t leave. D-d-don’t l-leave. Don’t leave me! You can’t l-l-leave me, please don’t leave, you can’t….’
‘No! Oh, Harry, no, no, never,’ Merlin coos. He wipes Harry’s face again and tries to adjust so Harry can see him. ‘Why would you think that?’
Harry shakes in his arms, barely able to meet his eye through the tears. ‘Everyone leaves. E-every-w-one…’
Merlin holds Harry through the worst of it. It’s no use reasoning with him until he’s got it all out. All Merlin can do is tighten his grip and wait.
Eventually, the ugly sobbing stutters. Harry’s not done, but his coherence is returning. Much longer and he’ll retreat into shame. Merlin exaggerates big, deep breaths, hoping to transfer them from his chest to Harry’s. Then he guides Harry’s head up to look at him properly.
‘Whatever you’re imagining, Harry, there is no chance we are leaving you– not me, not Arthur, and not the others. I swear by it–’
‘You can’t say that! You don’t know that, you d-don’t k-k-know!’
Merlin takes Harry’s face, which has turned away again, in both his hands. He drags the boy up to look at him dead-on, right in the eyes, and he sets the record fucking straight.
‘I do,’ he claims, strong and clear. ‘I do, Harry. No matter where you go or what you do, we are with you.’
Harry falls apart again. Merlin sighs. ‘Is this about Lupin?’
‘’S my own stupid fault–’
‘Harry Potter, it is not.’
A miserable sniffle, but Harry doesn’t argue. ‘Everybody leaves. Even– even if they don’t want to. There’s something wrong with me that always makes them leave.’
‘You know Remus has only taken a few days off work, hun, he hasn’t disappeared!’
‘You don’t know. A-anything could’ve happened.’
‘What, d’you think he tripped and got his wand stuck up his nose? All the way to his brain?’
‘W-What?’
‘Maybe Snape ate all of his socks, every last one, and he has to take time off to knit new ones!’
‘A-Ate his–?!’ A startled laugh.
‘Maybe he’s made a life-sized chocolate fountain and drowned in it. It’s only a matter of time before the rest of the teachers find it and follow suit– I bet McGonagall's a chocolate fiend, Harry.’
More laughter, slightly hysterical, but he’ll take it. ‘What are you talking ab-bout?!’
‘I heard she keeps pocky sticks in her hat. Snape thinks she’s a smoker, but she’s really just nipping out to scoff down her daily dose of chocolate– she can’t help herself, Harry, she’s addicted. She probably got Lupin hooked, the crafty old cow! Ugh, the scandal!’
The sobbing has fully abated now, replaced by some of the least graceful hiccups Merlin’s ever heard. To his delight, Harry doesn’t apologise for them, either.
‘Imagine the great h-hall, the head table… j-j-just empty,’ he gasps.
Merlin puts on his very best Albus face, pitches his voice high and warbly, and strokes an invisible beard. ‘It is with a heavy heart that I must inform you all today that our entire staff has been wiped out by Professor Lupin’s passion for confectionery. But they all died doing what they loved, and I must say, Filch’s belly-flop was that of legend.’
Harry giggles, voice gone similarly high with emotion. He feels so small in Merlin’s arms. He’s not shaking as badly anymore, but he still clings tightly to Merlin’s shirt, pressing against it as much as possible, hiding like the kid he is.
‘I know it’s stupid. You– If Uncle Moony was in trouble, you’d know. You know everything. I just… was getting changed for bed, and it hit me that he was gone, and… he… he might not…’
‘You don’t have to explain yourself, Harry,’ Merlin hums, rubbing his hand up and down the boy’s shoulder.
‘I really don’t know why, though.’
‘...I think it’s the Co– the dementors.’
That brings Harry up short. ‘...Really?’
‘Souls aren’t used to intrusions,’ Merlin sighs. ‘Particularly young ones. The first violation of a soul is always the worst, the hardest to recover from. There’s a reaction in the moment, but that’s far from the extent of the effects a dementor can have on a person. Those effects, they can creep up on you weeks, months, years later. Out of the blue. You think it’s just a bad day, but it’s the scar still trying to heal.’
Merlin pulls one hand back out of Harry’s sight and shifts a little, as if going for his wand. He thinks he left it in the common room. The kid’s not paying attention, so he breathes out a wordless patronus charm. He makes this one a butterfly. Butterflies are his favourite– the blue brings back memories. The little insect flaps over the both of them, warmth rolling off its wings with each beat. Harry gasps in delight. The patronus alights on his nose. It seems to flutter twice as happily at Harry’s laugh, proud of itself. It does one more lap and then fades into a shimmer that settles over their shoulders.
Harry is completely distracted asking all about the spell. He falls asleep to Merlin’s gentle explanation, still hiccuping lightly.
Merlin does not dream of the dead tonight. He dreams of Lyon. At least, he thinks it’s Lyon. Might be Paris. The streets are empty, the gaslights spilling over the cobblestones like so much liquid gold, but they dance down the street as if it’s sunshine beneath them. As if they can fly. Arthur twirls him around, singing some old love song, and Merlin swears the city sings along.
He’s not sure how he gets from there to Godric’s Hollow. It looks nothing like the pictures from Merlin’s research, but then those were taken after the attack. Looking at it now, it’s just a house. Distinctly magical, but only by nature. The door is wonky, the windows latticed with odd spots of colour. Uneven flower bushes line the front. The bell at the door is shaped like a witch’s hat. It makes a horrible clanging sound when Merlin rings it that probably makes the whole street cringe.
‘Agh, that bloody bell!’ comes a muffled groan from inside.
Someone else answers, ‘I’ll get it!’ and then the door is swinging open.
Jaiman Gotra is short. Merlin thought Harry had his poor diet growing up to thank for his height, but obviously it’s genetic– Jaiman is only a little taller than Merlin at thirteen. He’s every bit his son, although filled out with age. He has Harry’s ridiculous eyelashes, but they frame big brown doe eyes rather than green ones. His nose is more angular than Harry’s, but that hair is unmistakable, even if Jaiman’s is shaved at the sides. Even the glasses are just the same. He’s a good looking bloke, that’s for sure.
His eyes light up like Yule as he takes Merlin in. His lips part a little, and a frozen moment passes. And then in the next second, Merlin has his arms full of wizard, and, familiarly, a face full of wild black hair. Jaiman gives a mean hug, wide hands splayed out across Merlin’s back and shoulders to grip him with fierce, unapologetic appreciation.
‘Jaiman,’ Merlin says aloud, only belatedly realising he should probably call him Mr. Gotra.
The man pulls back, but only as much as he has to. The warmth from the hug doesn’t fade either. He keeps one hand on Merlin’s shoulder and gives a big, crooked smile. ‘It’s James to friends, mate. And you… you’re family.’
James turns in place without taking his hand from its place on Merlin’s shoulder. The new position subtly pulls Merlin into the home proper. Merlin stands now across from Lily Potter. About a head taller than her husband and just as beautiful, she is almost his visual opposite: pale skin and features, flaming red hair that falls gracefully over her shoulders, and of course– Harry’s eyes. Where James is bold, Lily is subtle. But there’s an undeniable brightness in both of their eyes, an easy humour to the pull of their lips, that makes them visually compatible.
‘Jamie! That is Merlin, remember?! You can’t just tackle the Merlin…’ she looks between the two of them helplessly for a moment. Then she seemingly gives up. ‘Oh, bugger it.’ Merlin is wrapped up in another hug. She, too, grips him like she can physically imprint her appreciation onto him if she holds tight enough.
‘Thank you,’ she whispers into his ear.
‘Truly, mate,’ and James is gripping Merlin’s hand in both of his with an odd kind of informal reverence. His accent shouldn’t be surprising, but given Harry’s, it is. ‘That kid deserves the world, and he was gonna have it, we were gonna give it to him, and watchin’ it all go to shit was–’ he cuts himself off sharply, lost for words. Lily’s right hand comes up to squeeze the back of his neck, and her left covers her mouth as she fights back tears.
‘It’s been so hard, for him,’ she says thickly. ‘And we couldn’t do anything. He’s so– he’s– he’s such a good boy. He’s just so good at heart, and he’s been through so much. But you know that. He just– it should never have happened. None of it.’
‘But seein’ ‘im with you… You,you– Merlin. It’s like you’re givin’ it back to ‘im. Everythin’ we meant ‘im to ‘ave,’ James laughs, as warm as his hug. ‘A little late, but I won’t hold that against you!’
‘James,’ Lily admonishes breathlessly, but she’s smiling.
‘And that goes fer your arm candy too, you snog that man senseless fer me when you wake up, understand?’
‘James!’
‘I’d snog you senseless meself, but the wife might not like it. Besides, I wanna ‘ear all about ‘Arry–’
‘We have so much we want to say–’
‘-Yeah, that too, y’know ‘ow wank it is sittin’ ‘ere watchin’ it all go down and not bein’ able to say a bloody word? I was not built to keep mum, my input’s a blessin’ the world’s bein’ deprived of–’
‘I can’t promise anything,’ Merlin interrupts, ‘I’m under some restrictions myself, you understand.’
‘We do,’ Lily assures him. ‘We’re just glad to be able to see you at all. We’re so happy to see how Harry is with you and Arthur. You look after him better than we ever could, even with all this shit going on– James is right, it’s bollocks not being able to do anything to help.’
‘Those bloody Dursleys, I tell you–’
‘Ugh, and Dumbledore!’
‘Don’t get me started on that twat Snivellus–’
‘Right?! Even the ministry!’
‘And Pads,’ James deflates. ‘Moony.’
‘Moony!’ Lily, by contrast, lights up as she remembers something, grabbing Merlin’s arm with a gasp. ‘Peter! Merlin, it wasn’t Sirius!’
James’ eyes widen and he shoots back to attention. ‘Right! Pads– Sirius Black, ‘e went down fer our murder. It weren’t ‘im, Merlin!’
‘So it was Pettigrew, then?’ Merlin hums. Lily gives him a nod.
‘Siri would never. Honestly, when anyone even believed ‘e would fer a second, I wanted to slap ‘em! Biggest load o’ shite I ever ‘eard, but even Minnie took it on the chin, you believe that?! And they threw Moony away like month-old salad, the stupid twats!’
‘Oh, God, Sirius,’ Lily breathes. ‘Remus would’ve… that would’ve broken his heart every single day, just like it did ours. But he never would’ve believed it. I don’t know if that’s better, or worse, that he knew all this time…’
‘You’ve gotta help ‘em out,’ James tells Merlin firmly. ‘If you care about ‘Arry, you gotta get Sirius outta there, and you gotta get ‘im to Moony.’
Lily hisses her husband’s name, seriously this time. She shoots Merlin a desperate, apologetic gaze. ‘We don’t mean to make demands. You’ve done so much for us already. We know you understand. They’re good people, Merlin. They’re family. We can’t let you go without asking.’
‘Don’t be silly. Any family of Harry’s is family of mine. They’re safe with me,’ Merlin assures them both. They’ll already know that, if they’ve been watching Harry, but he understands the need to be sure. ‘I can’t say I met you directly, but is there anything you want your son to know?’
Both of them start babbling at once, and when they realise he can’t hear them over each other, they both start talking louder. It devolves into a minor scuffle: James tries to gain more attention by using Lily’s shoulders as leverage to jump up and down. Lily tries to push him behind her with a hand on his face, smushing his glasses.
‘TELL HIM WE LOVE ‘IM–’
‘WE’RE ALWAYS WITH HIM–’
‘ASK ‘IM IF ‘E THINKS MALFOY’S FIT YET!’
‘TELL HIM WE’RE SO PROUD OF HIM–’
‘TEACH ‘IM BENGALI!’
‘TUNY’S A BITCH, MAKE SURE HE KNOWS NOT TO TAKE A LICK OF HER–’
‘MCGONAGALL’S NICKNAME IS MINNIE! PADFOOT FANCIES MOONY! FILCH STASHES SMOKES IN THE–’
‘-GO TO REMUS FOR ANYTHING–’
‘’-E’S A WICKED SEEKER–’
‘-TELL SEVERUS–’
‘-SO PROUD–’
Suddenly, Lily remembers something and she shoves her husband aside to say it just as Merlin’s form starts to fade.
‘PETE’S A R–’
Merlin wakes up, and he wonders if it wasn’t from the decibel limit on dreams being broken.
‘-AT, HE’S AN ANIMAGUS, HE’S… he’s gone. He’s gone.’
James deflates, and Lily deposits him back on the floor. She hadn’t realised she’d picked him up in their scuffle. She gives into the urge to put her head in her hands.
‘Damn,’ James summarises. ‘We had one job.’