Professor Emrys and the Order of the Phoenix

Merlin finds himself swinging open Arthur’s door. He finds himself here most nights, but not all. He could be anywhere, he knows, but he’s happy to find himself here, night after night, with nothing changed. This is his favourite place in the history of the world, with the curtain that always snagged and made him curse as he wrestled it open, the fur rug that was supposed to lie by the fire but never did because Arthur liked to hide it and then get mad at Merlin for losing it, and that stupid fucking table that never stayed straight.

That’s where the best things always happened. It was and remains a pocket world all of their own, where they can know each other openly. Where things are just as they should be. Some nights he finds Arthur, the sun streaming in as though it were midday, bathing the whole room in a fuzzy yellow glow, and he knows to cross the room with a “let’s have you lazy daisy” and throw open the curtains anyway. Other nights he finds those curtains closed, the room bathed in a deep ethereal blue, and he knows to just crawl under the covers with his king and breathe with him. 

The first time Merlin found him and Arthur in another setting, it was an endless field. A cloudless blue sky as wide as the ocean and tall green grass that played in the wind, wildflowers dotted around the landscape.

“A meadow,” Arthur snorted. “You are such a girl’s petticoat, Merlin.”

“Sorry. Next time I’ll be sure to dream you up a nice dingy cave.”

But Merlin doesn’t actually get to choose where they find themselves, so that never happens. Actually, there was that one time in the 1300s, but the rug and the desk and the bed were all still there. It was weird.

Sometimes he opens Arthur’s door and it doesn’t lead to his chambers, but tonight Merlin’s already swinging it closed behind him and it very much does.

Arthur's sitting at his desk. He looks over the frames of his thin golden reading glasses and throws his massive hands up.

“Finally! I thought you’d never go to sleep,” he exclaims in the old tongue.

He’s tan, made up of thousands and thousands of freckles, spots, indents, so he’s less like the starry sky and more like a galaxy. Comets in the form of scars cut through the swathes of them, stark white against his brown. He’s even bigger now than he was in life, still broad and thick with forests of blonde hair across his arms and chest. His golden locks are shot through with unfairly becoming grey, his hair as multi-toned as his skin, pulled back into a ponytail with a ribbon. 

Merlin doesn’t feel himself change, but he probably does. His body likes to match Arthur, so if he reached up to check he’d probably find a beard as thick as his king’s across his face, long wavy hair falling into his eyes with their own grey tones. Scars and sun-weathered skin. That’s a rare one for Merlin, though- no matter how hard he tries, his fair skin just burns. He’s always paler than Arthur.

“Harry wanted to play Twister. He’s had a shit time all summer, we had a lot to make up for,” he shrugs, making his way over and stubbing his toe on that one board that never sits right that he stubs his toe on every fucking night, holy shit. Arthur rounds his desk, throwing his glasses onto the table and putting his hands on his hips. God, but those billowy shirts make him look huge. That’s probably why he likes them, the prat.

“I know, Merlin. I’m literally always with you.”

Merlin rolls his eyes and walks them both to the bed, slipping his arm around Arthur’s waist as they go serenely. He barely notices. Arthur is more of an extension of himself now, moving in tandem, mirroring, each of them bending in each other’s currents. Merlin’s pretty sure their heartbeats match. So he’s not sure which of them moves where or starts what, but he finds himself settled into Arthur’s side, sitting up in bed like the old couple they are, sharing space. He lets his head fall between Arthur’s neck and shoulder, a little closer than people who dream in black and white can be. When Arthur breathes, both of their chests move. Merlin absently traces swirling designs over the palm that Arthur isn’t holding him together with.

“What do you think, then? I know you don’t like Dumbledore-”

“I don’t trust academics,” Arthur agrees in that low rumble that Merlin feels more than hears.

“It’s not about trust, you know that, I don’t trust anyone. What do you think of Harry?”

Arthur sighs thoughtfully and starts carding his fingers through Merlin’s hair (he was right, it’s long). “Sweet kid. Good kid.”

“I knew you’d like him,” Merlin hums. “I think I’ll keep him.”

“You were saying that before you met him.”

“Yeah, but that was for Destiny reasons. I was always gonna keep him, I’ve just decided I’m gonna enjoy it now.”

“Even though you lost at Twister?”

“Even though I lost at Twister.”

“How do you even do that with limbs as long as yours, anyway? You were in your most stick-buggy form.”

“Harry is really fucking good at Twister.”

“He wasn’t. You totally let him win.”

“Stop back-seat Twisting. I Twisted my stick-buggy arse off.”

“Wow. You just suck then.”

“The mat was too small-”

“Oh, sure, blame the mat.”

“Do you have anything useful or relevant to contribute, or is this just an ‘abuse Merlin’ night?”

“Yes, actually, you told Dumbledore your name was Myrridian.” Arthur snarks back.

“And what’s wrong with that? Not stick-buggy enough for you?”

“You told Harry your name was Myron,” comes the flat reply.

“...Ah.” Merlin thinks really hard, because he doesn’t want to ask and give Arthur the satisfaction, but he has to concede eventually when his brain starts to hurt. “...Which one am I?”

Arthur snorts and squeezes him fondly. “Myron, I think. Get it straight before the cavalry arrive. They’re fighting a war, remember.”

“How do spies keep all their names straight?” Merlin wonders.

“Merlin, you’ve been a spy.”

“Did I keep my names straight?”

“...Point. Well, practice makes permanent.”

“I have been practicing for roughly two millennia. Whoever said that must be really, really old.”

“Or just better at practicing,” Arthur offers. 

“Or that. Prat. Hey, that rhymed.”

“You know who he reminds me of?”

“Harry? Who?”

“Sal.”

“Salazar?” Merlin snorts. “You’re only saying that ‘cause we just saw his portrait.”

“No, seriously. Salazar would probably have rocked at Twister.”

Merlin giggles at the visual. He probably would have, too. Salazar was a spry fucker. He was always climbing parapets and doing pirouettes on stilts and crazy shit that gave Merlin a heart attack. It was like he had licorice for a spine.

They stay with each other, floating in and out of discussions. Arthur leaves him with a kiss to his forehead, his nose tucked against the curve of Merlin’s face as they just sort of are each other, and Merlin wakes up.

-~o~-

Harry’s already cooking. Merlin waves a hand and takes over.

“Wait, did you want to do that? It’s nice to keep your hands busy sometimes. Is that what you were doing? Good morning, by the way,” he greets sunnily.

Harry blinks and reorients himself, then belatedly shakes his head with an awkward jerk. “Good morning.”

“Are you one of those people who likes cooking? I hate cooking, Harry. I hate, hate, hate it. No patience for it, always forgetting things, leaving ovens on, burning down buildings, but the theory’s quite amazing. It’s a form of art and expression and culture and all that nonsense, people are really quite creative with it. Did you sleep well? You’re up very early.”

“Yeah, actually, I did. I haven’t slept that well in… I don’t know. I don’t usually sleep much,” Harry mumbles. Then he frowns, seemingly wondering why he said all that.

“Don’t worry, Harry, say whatever you like, it's good for you.”

Harry blinks again and gives another off-beat, jerky nod. “Good. Um… how ‘bout you?”

“What?”

“Did you sleep well?”

“Oh, yes, he was quite agreeable tonight. He likes you too.”

“Erm… sorry, who?”

“The man of my dreams,” Merlin hums thoughtfully, taking a sip of the tea he’s just whipped up and looking back up at Harry with a smile. “Coffee?”

“Uhm, no, thank you, I have–” Harry gestures to a glass of orange juice on the counter that Merlin turns to look at and nearly knocks over. 

“Quite right. Coffee’s a terrible habit, affects development. So, what do you want to do today?”

“I dunno, there’s, uh, a convenience store down the road, but not much else–”

“Oh no, inside,” Merlin clarifies, sucking tea off his lip. “Probably shouldn’t go out. I mean you could, if you really wanted to, obviously nothing’s keeping you here, but maybe don’t. Is my suggestion. We can think of it like… being in quarantine. Like we have a deadly illness and we can’t go out or we’ll infect the population. It’ll be fun! What do you like to do? Draw? Sing? Write? Read? Build motorcycles? Tapdance? I’m pretty good at that.”

“Can we do something magical?” Harry blurts. He all but slaps a hand over his mouth, clearly having not meant to say that. Merlin beams. 

“‘Course we can!”

They start with wizard chess, but clearly Harry has no deep love for the game. Nor does Merlin, particularly, though it’d be right up Arthur’s alley and the thought of him seeing Merlin play and losing his mind at his moves cheers him up.

Then Merlin pulls up some of the thousands of wizard’s games he’s played over the years, some of them long dead and gone, and teaches Harry. Not only does Harry let him prattle on about the rules, he asks questions, and Merlin finds himself talking about the games, where and when they were made and popularized, and Harry actually listens. Harry is an insatiably curious boy, and he understands more than he perhaps should. He’s terribly bright. Their conversations flow all over the place, but flow they do.

“Did you know Marilyn Monroe was a witch? Brilliant woman, too. She had the airs of a queen, Norma-Jean. Hey, that rhymed.”

“Marilyn Monroe? Really?”

“Really really. She had a special talent for charms, they flowed out of her like natural things. That’s why her lipstick never smudged. She helped invent that charm. So practical.”

“I never thought of her as practical.”

“Oh, the rich and famous are never who we think of them as. That’s their magic.”

Harry puts his side of the board away and scoots forward, the game forgotten as he squints. “What do you mean?”

“Hm? By what, what do I mean by what?”

“Their magic. Did you just mean that like a saying?”

Merlin tilts his head from side to side, wondering what in fact he did mean. 

“What do you think of magic as, Harry?”

“Magic?”

“Yeah. Define it.”

“Um…” Harry frowns down at his socks, patterned with little golden snitches. “It’s a…”

Merlin gives him some time before he scoops up the sentence where Harry left it.

“People have been debating it for millennia. There are muggles that, very perceptibly, define magic to be science they don’t yet understand. Sorcerers, wizardkind, have learned it, though. Studied it. Honed it. Made it an art. That’s why Transfiguration lessons suck, Harry, ‘cause it’s all theory behind a practice, like anything else. Maths, alchemy, chemistry, magic- it’s all science. But if you don’t understand the theory, it looks different, doesn’t it? I just think, there are a lot of sciences out there I don’t understand. A lot. So when I get to see them in action, just watching the results of a thing without understanding how it happened… I don’t know. Seems like magic to me. Not the science, magic. Maybe what I mean is… it feels magical. Miraculous? Marvellous? I suppose it would be different depending on your relationship with the term. It’s probably diminished somewhat by practical study, Charms sort of lose their charm after the hundredth essay you write on them, but I’ve written a lot of essays, and I still feel like that. I still feel like I don’t understand, and that makes it all very exciting.”

“I feel like that all the time,” Harry admits with a happy little exhale. “I’ve never heard it put that way before though. Most people don’t… they see it as mundane. And I guess it is. But I wasn’t raised with it. I was…” he shakes his head, at a loss for words. “Magic’s still magical to me.”

Merlin beams. 

“Did you… were you… raised? With magic?” Harry chances carefully. That’s ridiculous. He doesn’t need to be careful with Merlin. 

Merlin sandwiches his hands flat between his knees and thinks about how to answer. 

“I was raised aware of it. But, hmm…” he shakes his head. “It was forbidden.”

Harry’s eyebrows fly into his hairline. “Forbidden?”

“Forbidden forbidden,” Merlin confirms. “Not everyone likes things they don’t understand, Harry.”

“The Dursleys are like that,” Harry says. “Did you… I mean, how did you learn? How did you get out?”

Merlin sighs, thinking back. “Well, I didn’t until I was older. Then I was very careful. I made an ally who had my back. Stashed my spellbook under a floorboard. Talked to anyone, anyone I could find that knew anything about magic and wouldn’t rat me out. But mostly I was very, very lucky.”

“You taught yourself?” Harry asks incredulously. 

“As much as I could. When my reason to stay died, I left, and just sort of kept learning. You can learn all sorts of things by complete accident just sort of wandering around talking to people.”

Harry leans forward. “What else did you learn?”

Merlin thinks for a second. “Love is not a viable hangover cure, but pineapple juice is. For best results, apply both.”

They spend three days like that. Harry tells him about his friends, about his favourite subject and the most interesting things he knows. Merlin gets to properly meet Harry’s familiar, Hedwig, and then gets to explain the difference between any old pet and a familiar, because the poor boy’s never heard the term ‘familiar’ in his life. Is it outdated? Merlin doesn’t think so. And it sounds like an english word, so he’s probably not mixing up his languages. Maybe Harry just needs to wander around and talk to more people, learn more things. 

They watch movies and play Diddy’s video games and Merlin does end up teaching Harry to tapdance. It makes him even happier than using magic in this dour, oppressing old prison of his, somehow. Harry says that Merlin’s a fantastic cook, even if he hates it, and Merlin doesn’t say it but he’d bloody well hope so after learning the art from all over the world. 

“Thank you for staying with me,” Harry says over curry on the third night. “You didn’t have to.”

“Thanks for having me,” Merlin says genuinely. “Kick me out whenever you want, though.”

“No, no, I’m glad of the company,” Harry says. “And the food. I’m not used to anyone looking after me.”

“You don’t need looking after, but it sure is nice, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Harry agrees. “Anyway, I am happy to have you here. But if you want to go- that is, if you have somewhere to be, don’t stick around on my account. If you want to go home… actually, it all happened rather suddenly. No one’s missing you, wondering where you are, right?”

Merlin shakes his head. “Not that I’m aware of. If I have a home I can’t remember where it is. If anyone’s knocking down my door to find me, they have to find the door first. Door may not even exist. It’d be a fun exercise in futility, but not much else. I wish them luck. What?”

Harry’s staring at him, jaw near unhinged, eyes wide as plates and eyebrows once again lost to his wild hair.

“You’re homeless?”

“No, Harry. I’m probably houseless. Very big difference.”

“Is there?”

“Most definitely. I’d be lost without a home. A house is just a house.”

“But you just said I could kick you out whenever!”

“You can. ‘S your house.”

“But you’d have nowhere to go!”

“Isn’t it exciting?” 

Harry laughs in amazement, eyebrows scrunched, shaking his head incredulously. 

“Where’s your home, then?”

Merlin taps his temple with a happy little twinkle. “I keep him with me.”

“Him?”

“The man of my dreams.”

Harry’s mouth makes a surprised little ‘o’ shape. “The one who likes me?”

Merlin nods. “I knew he would.”

Harry slurps some more curry, considering this. 

“What’s his name? Does he have one?”

“To me he’s Arthur.”

“That’s a good name,” Harry offers. “Kingly.”

“He’s certainly that,” Merlin chuckles. 

“He’s not mad at you for staying with me? For… chasing the front lines?”

Merlin snorts into his root beer. “That’d be rich. He was on the front lines so much he went and died on them. Nah, if anything, he was mad I lost at Twister. He’s a terrible loser, Harry. Terrible.”

Harry’s gone still, his eyes a little wide as he stares back. 

“He died?”

“Mhm,” Merlin confirms. 

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly, setting his cutlery down. “If he was your home, you must miss him very much.”

Merlin snorts. “Not really. I see him every night, even the nights I don’t want to. Are you a sweet tooth? Because I can make dessert.”

Harry doesn’t get to answer, because there’s a crash from the kitchen.