The Interview
“Eadwig,” Merlin greets. “Been a while.”
The stone griffin doesn’t respond, but Merlin didn’t expect him to.
“Is today going to be another day you leave me stuck halfway up again?” he continues happily. “Hope not. I have an interview, you know, with your Professor Dumbledore. What’s he like, anyhow? Nevermind, don’t tell me, I’ll find out soon, if you let me up. So?”
An old familiar, damn near forgotten crunch of stone grinding against stone in a distinct way heralds the staircase’s appearance, and Merlin is granted passage to the Headmaster’s office by way of his old friend. Eadwig does not leave him stuck halfway up this time, which just increases Merlin’s anxiety that he will next time. As soon as he stops expecting it, Eadwig does it again.
Or… he used to. Merlin must remember he hasn’t been here in a while. It’s harder than he thought it would be, but this place was always more of a home than most to him.
There is a door. There wasn’t a door there before.
Merlin knocks.
“Come in.”
Merlin does.
That turns out to be a mistake. In one foul swoop the entire office undoes all of Merlin's good work in the name of being invisible. Every damn painting in the ancient room snaps its head to him at once. Every strange and exotic knick knack that the Headmaster has collected around the various shelves goes ape-shit, reacting to Merlin. One of them has such a violent conniption fit that it just explodes in a little blue poof.
Merlin seizes the opportunity- or maybe the opportunity seizes him, he always was a clumsy fool- and promptly fumbles and leaps ineffectively for the flying springs in a vain attempt to catch them all. He folds into himself, bends over double, snaps back like one of those inflatable car-salesman things, looking absolutely ridiculous, blathering the whole way. That’s the goal. It just so happens it’s also who he is.
“Sorry! Oh my gods, sorry, sh- I, I’ll replace, I will replace that! I will replace- that. I’m so sorry.”
“Think nothing of it,” comes the whimsical wheezy voice of Albus Dumbledore. Merlin can feel him looking at him and doing that twinkle thing, but he’s still pretending to be desperately trying to put the thing back together. Finally, he huffs a dramatic sigh and gives up, bowing his whole body with it, his hands coming to dangle limply at his sides, defeated. He shuffles forward to sheepishly deposit the handful of gears and springs into a pathetic little pile on the desk.
“”What does it- um, did it- do?”
“I have no idea,” Albus admits cheerfully.
It does- did- nothing. Merlin would know, he made the thing. He put it on his desk and made it move at random times so Gwen would think he was working. He blew it up to distract from the rest of the very functional bits and bobs that were coming alarmingly close to giving him away before he even said hello.
Merlin extends a dainty but heavily calloused hand belatedly.
“Uh, I’m Myriddian. Emrys.”
Albus shakes his hand with his own gnarled one. He’s got his fair share of calluses too, specifically placed.
The meeting is entirely average for a while after that. Albus continues to regard Merlin like he’s a rare specimen he never thought he’d see in the wild. Merlin tries not to feel like he’s walked into a display case. He’s not used to being stared at like this, like he’s something fascinating. He’s become quite adept at not being stared at at all, just barely existing in the periphery, and he’s grown to like it, thanks.
Then, in the middle of a sentence, Albus trails off, looking at something over Merlin’s shoulder. Merlin turns.
Something is fighting a hard-won battle against gravity, its downy feathers just this side of developed. Fawkes is still too young to be flying, and it shows in his desperate limps through the air, his silent struggle. Merlin shoots forward with gently cupped hands to catch him, face melting.
“Aww and where were you hiding, sweetheart? Did you flap yourself all the way over here to see me? Really, I would’ve found you…” Merlin coos, soothing the little baby’s strained muscles and warming him a little. He can feel the little thing’s tiny heartbeat, happy under his thumb. Fawkes snuffles into his hands lovingly and chirrs out an adoring sound. Merlin hears a loud sniffle from the direction of Godric’s portrait and tamps down on a watery smile. He knows Albus is watching, but just for a moment, he doesn’t care.
“Voldemort is back.”
Merlin looks up and across the desk. Albus is watching him with a restrained fascination absolutely drenched in consideration. This is a test.
“Is this a trick question?” Merlin asks suspiciously. Then he remembers he has to actually answer. “Yes, but like… is it?”
“You are aware of the danger he poses to the school?”
Merlin meets Albus’ eyes properly, and makes himself keep his gaze steady.
“If there is any way I can help, I want to. This is the closest I could find to the front lines.”
Albus considers him for a long time after that, so Merlin goes back to comforting poor little Fawkes. He never liked being deprived of his flight.
For the first time, it occurs to Merlin that Albus might be attempting Legilimency on him. He pokes around for it- yes, there it is. Merlin can’t fault him, these things are necessary in times of war. That leaves him with three options: offer him something, a vision, address it, or don’t. Merlin doesn’t particularly want to dig himself holes any deeper than he has to with particularly intricate lies, and Albus Dumbledore isn’t fool enough to eat them up as willingly as most might. This might actually work in his favour. Proving his ability as an Occlumens is also a way of assuring Albus that whatever secrets are imparted to him will stay secret. With this in mind, Merlin chooses option number two.
“Sorry, I should’ve asked, would you like in?”
It’s a polite enough question, an invitation even, but anyone who has the self-control to make that decision for the Legilimens is capable enough of sharing false memories. Were it anyone else but Merlin asking, it might even be a threat. There is no point in prodding further, and Albus knows it. He surrenders with a smile.
“No, no. My apologies for the intrusion.”
“It’s understandable,” Merlin assures him agreeably.
“Your Occlumency is quite impressive. May I ask where you learnt?”
“You may, but I don’t think I’ll tell you. Can’t give out all my secrets,” he teases. Merlin wanders around the space. He never sat back down after catching Fawkes, who he tucks in close to his heart for warmth- Fawkes likes good heartbeats, especially familiar ones. He gets a little hum of appreciation out of the baby as reward.
“Albus, I’m about to be terribly, terribly rude. Could I please have a moment with your paintings?”
Whatever Albus was expecting, it wasn’t that. Merlin sees the thoughts flashing through his head: analysis, repercussions, conditions, considerations. Then the younger of the two of them nods genially.
“Certainly,” he chirps, sweeping his way out of his own office without reservations.
As soon as he’s gone, Merlin asks his magic to make sure nothing inside this room can be heard by anyone, and turns to the chuckling portraits.
“Marvin!”
“Lovely to see you, Phineas.”
“Михаи́л?”
“Да, это я, старый друг.”
“Here, Macellan!”
“A pleasure as always, Lady Hutch.”
Merlin greets all of his old friends, but he does so distractedly, gravitating towards the four he’s had a hard time keeping his eyes from since he walked in. When he finally stops before the four founders of Hogwarts and lets himself look at them, he feels full. His chest swells and his heart glows.
Rowena, his little raven girl, is pictured in one of her long velvet blue robes, crushed at the sleeves where she always bunched it up to her elbows to work. Her endless sea of rolling black hair curls down her back like a river, brushed to shine in the way it only ever did when Merlin got her to sit still long enough for him to take care of it. Slipped in between the folds of it is her lovely silver diadem, set against her pale skin like it was meant for nothing else.
Godric, as he always did, belittles the others with his enormous stature, made even greater by the thick red cloak heaped around his massive shoulders. True to form, his flame red hair and beard are glossy and perfect, but he always made sure of that. He was very proud of his hair. Gwaine would’ve been proud of it too. His sword hangs at his side, all glorious rubies and shining gold. His eyes twinkle, and he smiles with his whole body in a way only he ever did, like when he was about to jump right into Merlin’s lap despite being much too big for it now.
And there’s Salazar, long hair white and sleek, modelled (though he will deny it) after Merlin’s own as an older man. Sal wears it better, in Merlin’s opinion. His long thin fingers adorned with rings are steepled, hiding their twitching, but he can’t hide the quirk of his lips or the forward lean of his slender body from Merlin, no matter how long and billowy he makes his robes. He never could.
And Helga. Dear Helga, looking cozy as a fireplace in her furs, her chubby face beaming up at him from under her carefully done hairstyle. She was always the shortest, but she was too scared of falling to accept piggybacks from anyone but Merlin (who she knew would never, ever let her fall). Her dress is splendid, and Merlin just knows she would’ve had a ball picking out what she’d be wearing in her portrait. She certainly did when Merlin painted her the way he knew her all those years ago, that little girl who would beg him for hours and hours on end to get a pet, any pet, as long as it was lovely.
“Pa!” Godric booms, looking seconds away from making an attempt to barrel right out of his canvas and into Merlin’s arms.
“Little lion,” he returns with a warmth that bubbles up at him frighteningly fast. “My children.”
He hears some gasps from the other paintings around the room, but he only has eyes for his kids. Gods, what he wouldn’t give to hold them now. He’s bursting with it.
Fawkes squeaks in protest, and Merlin rushes out a breathy apology as he realises he was squeezing him a little hard.
“Don’t break my bird, Pa!”
“Then you should look after him better!” Merlin chides automatically. His mouth snaps shut as soon as it’s said, and then a hysterical little laugh bubbles out of him. Godric hasn’t been Fawkes’ keeper for centuries, but they had this little back and forth so many times before then it’s still stuck into him.
“It’s so good to see you, Dad,” Helga sighs, voice full of emotion. It always amazed him how much love she could put into her voice without even meaning to.
“How are you, my little badger?”
“Still stuck with this lot,” she sighs with faux-exasperation.
“They were even worse when they were younger, count yourself lucky,” Merlin returns, ignoring Godric’s indignant ‘hey!’ and Salazar’s snort. Merlin turns to him next. “And how is my little silvertongue?”
“Surrounded by idiots.”
“No change there, then.”
“No.” Salazar lets himself smile- properly, as much as he really wants to. He only ever really did that with his family, mostly with Merlin. “It is good to see you again, old man. There’s a reason why?”
“Ah-ah, I’ll get to that, but first,” Merlin finally turns to see his final child, his little raven girl. “Wena.”
Rowena’s lips curl like the dip of a cup, the gentle water over the rocks. “Pop. You look different.”
His body responds before he even thinks about it, growing his clean-shaven face into a thick beard, his hair following suit until it flops over into his eyes, swooping past his ears, turning from its current deep brown to the black his children knew it to be. He steps out of the fresh-faced new professor for a moment to remember the father he was to these four phenomenal people. He looks up at them then from under his dark fringe and over his glasses.
“There he is!” Helga gasps with a fount of fondness that may never end.
And suddenly it’s burbling out of Merlin before he can stop it, and hasn’t it been a while since that happened?
“I’ve missed you,” he gasps like a drowning man.
“Ohhhhh!” Helga stomps her foot in frustration, desperate to run and hug him. She makes do with the best she has, rushing into Salazar’s portrait and wrapping her short chubby arms around him. His spidery limbs wrap around her automatically, although he doesn’t turn away from Merlin.
Merlin blinks the mist out of his eyes, soaking up their company. He mustn’t take too long, but he’d like to stay with them here for another century, at least. Time is cruel.
“I’ll make sure to see you again, since it looks like I’ll be working here. That’s why I came, job interview…” he babbles, like they didn’t just see it themselves. “It’s this Dark Lord Business. The Riddle Boy. You’ve heard of him, yeah?”
Godric snorts. It’s a yes kind of snort, so Merlin takes it as such.
“You mean to fight him?” Rowena inquires.
“Didn’t think I’d have to. Honestly, one greedy bastard wouldn’t be so hard, you’d think, but here we are, and they seem to have made a right mess of it. Thought I’d clean it up before it actually threatened the Balance. Riddle’s messing with magic he doesn’t understand, he’s going to do something permanent if he doesn’t watch out. The repercussions… well, it’s better for everyone if I just step in and quietly usher things the other way, hm? So that’s what I’m up to. Dumbledore’s got a resistance going, hasn’t he? You think he’ll let me in?”
“I’ll make sure of it,” Salazar assures him.
“WE will make sure of it, is what Sally meant to say, there,” Godric corrects. Merlin grins.
“‘Course you will. You keep the others in line for me, Ricky.”
Immediately there is uproar, which is exactly what Merlin wanted. Hearing Sal’s head whip around at the speed of light over Wena’s spluttering and Helga’s bark is the final straw. He finds himself stepping back to clutch his stomach, careful not to crush Fawkes even as he more or less loses his shit.