Off to the Burrow
“Look what I found!”
Arthur turns to his husband, reluctantly reacquainting himself with actual clothes for the first time since summer break started.
Merlin’s holding up his most recent brown jacket. Every few decades he has to get a new one since styles change and clothes wear and tear. No matter what century they’re in, Merlin’s still Merlin, as constant as the sunrise, and his style has changed amazingly little in thirteen thousand years. This one’s a beat old leather jacket, simple as he could find, but it actually fits him most of the time, which is an improvement from his Camelot days. Arthur appreciates that, because Merlin looks bloody good and it’s a crime to hide him under a bunch of loose old rags. Yes, clothing design has come a long way from peasant rags and lady’s corsets. Thank Avalon. There were days Arthur felt like introducing Merlin as a wet rat that followed him home, he looked the part so much. Then there were days when he looked like poetry. It gives Arthur more whiplash than the gender swapping does.
Arthur jabs a finger at the offending garment threatening to cover up a work of art, but before he can start talking the work of art’s cutting him off.
“No pointing. We talked about the pointing.”
“You have to shrink that to fit you, it’s too big.”
“Still pointing. Stop it.”
“Merlin-”
“Pointing!”
Arthur gives up and puts his finger down. “You are not leaving it that big.”
“Oh yeah? Who’s gonna stop me?”
“I will give you three guesses.”
“Why can’t I leave it like this?”
“Because it goes past your thighs! Do you want the flappy hands?” Arthur demands rhetorically, gesturing at where the sleeves flop over Merlin’s hands.
“I like the flappy hands! They’re good for punctuation!”
“Shrink it!”
“Why!”
“Shrink!”
“No!”
“Shrink it, Merlin, or I will shrink it double with you still in it.”
“Fine,” Merlin groans like he’s actually five years old. His eyes do that delicious golden thing and the wrinkles smooth out across his shoulders as the fabric contracts over his muscles. He crosses his long arms with a pout. More importantly, the cut of the fitted jacket settles across his shoulders like epaulettes, proud and broad like Arthur knows he is, really. One of these days pride will come naturally to Merlin. Until then, Arthur will force it on him, because goddamnit if there’s one person on this earth who’s earned it, it’s his husband. He gives Merlin a proper smile and manages to tease one out in return.
Merlin tosses Arthur his own most recently chosen jacket, the red bomber that Merlin calls proof he misses his cape. Arthur rolls his eyes but shrugs it on without saying anything.
“How are we getting there?” he asks as Merlin fusses with his hair. He’s stopped protesting that particular slight. His hair needs all the help it can get in the mornings, even if it’s Merlin’s.
“We’ll just apparate, won’t we?”
“Merlin, we are children. Children can’t apparate.”
“We’re what?” Merlin blinks. “Oh yeah. Ummm…” he spins on his heel neatly, scarf whipping out behind him. “How do children get anywhere?”
“I don’t know, I’m not a child.”
“You just said-”
“Merlin.”
“Alright, I don’t know how we’re getting there. How are we getting there?”
“You’re lucky,” Arthur smirks, whipping out a letter from the pocket of his jeans. “I’ve been in touch with the twins. They’re picking us up. Should be here in twenty minutes.”
“Oh, brilliant, Arthur! C’mon then, you want an orange or something for the road?”
“No, try Harry.”
“Right, Harry!” Merlin exclaims with the brightness of someone who’s remembered something exciting. He forgot about Harry. This’ll be fun!
Fun is exactly the right word for a flying Ford Anglia.
The turquoise doors spring open automatically (though nothing about this car is automatic, it’s ancient in mortal terms).
“Hop in, kiddies and cads, uncles Forge and Gred are takin’ you home!”, George calls enthusiastically from the driver’s seat.
“About time too, I’m not sure we coulda wrestled Hermes from Percy’s claws again. Not sure how we did it the first time, honestly,” Fred notes from the seat beside him.
“Who’s Hermes?” Harry asks breathily, still trying to wrap his noodle around a flying car.
“Percy’s owl,” George replies as Harry and Merlin crowd into the back.
“That prat’s been acting very oddly this summer, very oddly indeed. And he has been sending a lot of letters and spending a load of time shut up in his room... I mean, there’s only so many times you can polish a prefect badge…” Fred muses.
Arthur finally stops whistling at the car and hops in, squishing Merlin in the middle so he doesn’t have to look out the window. He exchanges a look with him at the new information about the older Weasley brother.
“He’s got a boy,” he mouths knowingly. Merlin shakes his head though and mouths back.
“Girl.”
Arthur raises his eyebrows at his other half. Has he met Percy?
Merlin doubles his bet and they silently shake on it, then turn back to the conversation going on around them as George takes off.
“-Yeah, Dad’s crazy about everything to do with Muggles; our shed’s full of Muggle stuff. He takes it apart, puts spells on it, and puts it back together again. If he raided our house he’d have to put himself under arrest. It drives Mum mad,” Fred is saying.
Merlin frowns. “Oh yeah, isn’t a flying car illegal?”
“Yes?” Fred replies, waiting for him to make a point. Merlin shrugs. He doesn’t really have one, he was just curious.
“Illegal?” Harry bawks a little.
“Oh, sure. We’re very much not supposed to be doing this,” George says cheerfully. “But given our present company, we figure we’d be fine.”
“Present company?” Harry echoes, sounding a bit like a broken record.
“Yeah. Us,” Fred winks.
“We’d never let anything happen to ya, Harry,” George assures him with a private little chuckle.
Merlin tucks away a smile. Arthur resolutely looks out the window so he doesn’t laugh.
A few miles later Arthur starts squinting at the dashboard and, annoyingly, leaning over Merlin to do it. The annoying part is he definitely knows it makes Merlin feel better about being up so high. Prat.
George gives him a questioning eyebrow raise.
“Your temperature gauge is high. Your radiator probably just needs some water,” Arthur says by way of explanation, despite the fact that George was definitely inquiring about the greenness of Merlin’s face rather than Arthur’s sudden interest in the dashboard. Fred turns a little so Merlin can see him but Harry can’t, raising his eyebrows in his own question. Merlin gives him a little nod. He’ll take care of it.
He closes his eyes to let them flare gold. When he opens them the temperature gauge is settling back down to a reasonable level. Fred gives him a cheeky little thank-you nod, and even better, pretends Merlin doesn’t look like hell warmed over.
“That’s the main road,” George speaks up, peering down through the windshield. “We’ll be there in ten minutes... Just as well, it’s getting light...”
A faint pinkish glow dyes the horizon to the east something beautiful, making Merlin think of the old Greek myths. He read a book about them once, and they described the sunrise so beautifully he never looked at it the same. Then george tips the car a little lower and Merlin’s stomach has more pressing matters than Greek myths- namely, crawling up his esophagus. Arthur subtly wraps an arm around his chest, holding him in place, sort of like how Merlin held him at Camlann, and that’s a distracting enough thought that Merlin makes it through the cautious landing.
Ottery St. Catchpole, in the middle of nowhere. Brilliant red streaks over the blades of grass as the sun finally kisses the sky it’s been teasing.
This is a lovely meadow, but they’re not alone in it. A most marvellous house sits nestled in the grass, and the first thing Merlin thinks of is a nest. It looks quite like one. It’s old, old in the way Merlin is on his good days, loved and loved some more. The shingles that might’ve been vibrant red once rattle ominously against the roof at their landing. Built almost into the house- or maybe the house was built out of it- is something like a wooden pigpen, well past its working days. Lopsided expansions are built up and out from the original building, not much more than a shack, slanted out oddly with crooked windows and mis-matching planks of wood hammered in. Merlin counts at least five chimneys, none of them the same make, shape, or colour. A lively jumble of rubber boots, also in all different colours and sizes, take up the entire entryway alongside a very rusty cauldron. Several fat brown chickens cluck around the yard welcomingly, a few of them having found their way onto the roof somehow. A lopsided sign stuck in the ground reads THE BURROW.
Of course, Merlin thinks, that’s much more accurate. Not a nest. A burrow.
“Sorry it’s not Buckingham palace,” Fred says, sounding defensive, proud, and secretly worried all at once. George sneaks a glance at Merlin and Arthur. Merlin gets it- from Ron he understands the Weasleys are most protective of their home, which quite a few people stick their noses up at. The twins know Merlin and Arthur aren’t just any kids they’re bringing over, it would be reasonable to assume they’re accustomed to ‘better’. Merlin wonders what they’d think of the shack he grew up in, where he slept on the floor and in the winter shared with the animals.
“It’s brilliant,” Harry breathes appreciatively. Merlin concurs, and it must show on his face. This place is beautiful, and it tops Buckingham palace any day if you ask Merlin. There’s love seeping out of the walls. Honestly, it looks like a different approach to Arthur and Merlin’s house- also a humble little cottage in a big fuck off field, expansion charms aside.
“Now, we’ll go upstairs really quietly,” says George, clapping his hands together for attention, “and wait for Mum to call us for breakfast. Then, Ron will come bounding downstairs going, ‘Mum, look who turned up in the night!’ and she’ll be all pleased to see you and no one need ever know we flew the car.”
“Right,” Fred hums. “Come on, we sleep at the — at the top —”
George has gone a nasty greenish colour, his eyes fixed on the house. Fred looks alarmingly like someone looking into the eyes of Death, something Merlin is quite the authority on. The other three wheel around.
A plump little woman with hair not unlike a lion’s mane and the sleeves of her knitted cardigan rolled up is marching across the yard, scattering chickens, and for a short, plump, kindfaced woman, it’s remarkable how much she looks like a saber-toothed tiger.
“Ah, “ says Fred.
“Oh, dear,” says George.
Mrs. Weasley comes to a military halt in front of them, her hands on her hips, staring from one guilty face to the next. Merlin has no idea if he is, in fact, guilty in this circumstance, but looking at Mrs. Weasley, he really hopes he isn’t, and it’s better to be safe than sorry. In all his years he has never encountered anything quite like the wrath of a mother.
“So,” she snaps.
“Morning, Mum,” George chirps hopefully, in what he clearly thinks is a jaunty, winning voice.
“Have you any idea how worried I’ve been?” Mrs. Weasley returns in a deadly whisper.
“Sorry, Mum, but see, we had to —”
All but Arthur and Harry are taller than Mrs. Weasley, but it gives them no advantage as her rage breaks over them all like a tidal wave.
“BEDS EMPTY! No NOTE! Car gone — could have crashed — out of my mind with worry — did you care? — never, as long as I’ve lived — you wait until your father gets home, we never had trouble like this from Bill or Charlie or Percy —”
“Perfect Percy,” mutters Fred.
“YOU COULD DO WITH TAKING A LEAF OUT OF PERCY’S BOOK!” Mrs.
Weasley yells, prodding a finger in Fred’s chest. She has quite the set of lungs on her. There is a difference between screeching and yelling. Mrs. Weasley yells. “You could have died, you could have been seen, you could have lost your father his job —”
It seems to go on for hours, hours that Arthur spends taking all of the abuse like a good stoic soldier and Merlin much more wisely spends trying to make himself as unnoticeable as possible, subtly shifting behind Fred, who shoots him a nasty look. Merlin does not feel bad in the slightest. Harry doesn’t seem to know what to do, looking nervously between everyone and jumping whenever Mrs. Weasley’s voice raises another decibel level (which is to say, quite a lot). When she finally turns on him he backs away on instinct, looking scared. Okay, now Merlin feels a little bad.
“I’m very pleased to see you, Harry, dear,” she coos pleasantly with a genuine smile. “Come in and have some breakfast. You too, Em, I see you, and Arthur, come in, come in!”
She turns on her heels, grinding the grass beneath her boots, and marches back into the house. Harry, after a nervous glance at Fred and George, who nod encouragingly, follow her.
“Thanks for the help, oh great and wise Keeper of Balance and all things good,” George mutters out of the side of his mouth at Merlin, who smiles innocently back at him.
“Oh, you guys are gonna hate this,” Arthur smirks. “He’s a Slytherin.”
“WHAT!”
Both of them are cut off by Mrs. Weasley yelling from inside for them to hurry up, and Merlin takes the opportunity to scamper off, chuckling to himself. Alright, he’ll be a Slytherin, if only for the shock value.
The inside is just as mismatched as the outside. The ceilings are low, low enough that most of the gangly Weasley boys can’t actually stand up straight. The kitchen’s sort of weirdly dispersed around the room, broken up into a cupboard over there, a pantry over there, and countertops on the other side of the room. In between them is a long thin table with a crooked plaid tablecloth and a fruit basket, lined with odd chairs ranging from a chipped red stool to an even more chipped brown dining chair. The windows are a fascinating blend of things, looking like many stained glass designs cobbled together into the frames. Sunlight streams through the entire place, highlighting dust mites and stained rags and striping the room with the shade from the rafters.
Arthur elbows Merlin and points out the marvellous clock over the mantelpiece that reads, rather than the time, the status of where each member of the family is. Books are stacked three deep underneath it, all very magical books, mind, and Celestina Warbeck’s on the radio.
Merlin is horrified to find himself almost tearing up. He must be getting emotional in his old age. He doesn’t think so often about how it used to be anymore, but every now and then it hits him, when he finds places like this, how far away this reality seemed. He never would’ve dreamed that magic could live like this when he was young, and here it is, nurtured in the best way possible. This is what Merlin fought for when people were still afraid to say the word magic out loud. When children burned for looking too magical. When sorcerers grew up afraid of themselves. The dishes are doing themselves, for Christ’s sake.
They really did it.
Mrs. Weasley clatters around, cooking breakfast a little haphazardly, throwing dirty looks at her sons as she throws sausages into the frying pan. She has to whirl around the room like a hurricane with how randomly the parts of the kitchen are spaced around the room. Every now and then she mutters things like “don’t know what you were thinking of,” and “never would have believed it.”
Merlin jolts himself into action, immediately shoving his ridiculous melodrama down to lend a hand.
“Sorry, Mrs. Weasley, let me help, I can watch these-”
“Oh, bless you, dear- SEE?!” she snaps behind her all of a sudden at her boys. “He offers to help! Take notes!” Merlin smirks at them behind her back and goes back to looking perfectly lovely the second she turns back to him. “Don’t you worry, you’re our guest, you just take a seat, you’ve been up all night, no wonder, I’ll just feed you up and you can go to bed. Harry and Arthur too. I don’t blame any of you, of course,” she assures the three of them, tipping eight or nine sausages onto Harry’s plate. “It’s not your fault my sons are completely brainless– flying an illegal car halfway across the country, really — anyone could have seen you —”
She moves onto Arthur, who looks quite happy to be plied with more eggs than most people would know what to do with. It’s not breakfast if there aren’t any eggs, after all.
“It was cloudy, Mum!” Fred protests.
“You keep your mouth closed while you’re eating!” Mrs. Weasley snaps. “Em, dear, don’t worry about that, I’ll handle it, you sit down, you’re as thin as Harry under that jacket, come and eat.”
At that moment there’s a diversion in the form of a small, redheaded figure in a long purple nightdress Merlin is a little envious of, who appears in the kitchen, gives a small squeal, and disappears in a flash of brown eyes and notably loud stomps.
“Ginny,” George explains in an undertone. “Our wee sister. She’s been talking about Harry all summer.”
“Yeah, she’ll be wanting your autograph, mate,” Fred says with a grin, but he catches his mother’s eye and bends his face over his plate without another word.
Merlin is just trying to convince Molly to let him help with the clearing up when Ron stumbles in from the steep and narrow staircase.
“Oi, you lot! Why didn’t you tell me you were ‘ere!”
“I didn’t want you stealing any of my bacon!” Arthur throws back easily, roping Ron into a headlock and rubbing his head with his knuckles.
“Careful with the kids!” Merlin calls over his shoulder. Fred snickers.
“Ah, ow- Why don’t you ever do that to Harry!” Ron grits from his compromised position.
“Can’t get past all the hair,” Arthur replies, finally letting up and shoving him toward the table for breakfast. Harry subtly starts unloading his plate a little onto Ron’s.
“Blimey, I’m tired,” George yawns, sensing a lull and setting down his knife and fork at last. “I think I’ll go to bed and —”
“You will not,” bites Mrs. Weasley. “It’s your own fault you’ve been up all night. You’re going to de-gnome the garden for me; they’re getting completely out of hand again —”
“Oh, Mum —”
“And you two,” she said, glaring at Ron and Fred. “You can go up to bed, dear,” she adds to the other three. “You didn’t ask them to fly that wretched car —”
But Harry, who’s eyes haven’t stopped resembling saucers since he caught sight of their ride, quickly interrupts. “I’ll help. I’ve never seen a de-gnoming —”
“Of course we’ll help,” Merlin agrees, giving Arthur an authoritative glare. Arthur looks offended at the lack of faith in his manners. As if Merlin hasn’t had thirteen thousand years to get acquainted with Arthur and his ‘manners’.
“That’s very sweet of you, dear, but it’s dull work,” Mrs. Weasley says. “Now, let’s see what Lockhart’s got to say on the subject —”
And she pulls a heavy book from the stack on the mantelpiece, a rather gaudy thing with gold trim that looks second-hand. George groans. Merlin raises his eyebrow, interest piqued.
“Mum, we know how to de-gnome a garden —”
Harry ducks his head horizontal to look at the cover of Mrs. Weasley’s book and Merlin mentally coos. He’s so cute. Mrs. Weasley flips the cover back to look at the handsome wizard on the front, who winks up at her and swishes his princely robes with a would-be subtle flourish. Merlin snorts a little at the similarities between him and Arthur- wavy blonde hair, bright blue eyes, and a dazzling smile. He has Arthur’s granite jaw and confident stance. You’d be hard pressed to find two less similar people in the world, but they share enough physical traits that Merlin can think up quite a few things to say about it that would make Arthur steam from the ears. He looks up to do just that and finds Arthur already looking at him with a warning look, knowing exactly what he’s thinking.
Written across it in swooping gold script are the words Gilderoy Lockhart’s Guide to Household Pests.
“Oh, he is marvelous,” Mrs. Weasley simpers, beaming down at the author. “He knows his household pests, all right, it’s a wonderful book...”
“Mum fancies him,” hisses Fred in a very audible whisper.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Fred,” Mrs. Weasley snaps sharply, her cheeks rather pink. “All right, if you think you know better than Lockhart, you can go and get on with it, and woe betide you if there’s a single gnome in that garden when I come out to inspect it.”
Yawning and grumbling, the Weasleys slouch outside with Harry, Arthur, and Merlin in tow. The garden is just what Merlin imagined, growing in patches, reeds stuck up around a big green pond full of frogs that ribbit at each other. Merlin bets there are fireflies at night, and if they’re lucky, maybe even dragonflies. Plenty of weeds in the uncut grass, gnarled trees with meandering roots melting out of the seams, mostly magical plants and flower bushes sprouting up around the place and a little herb garden. Really, the only thing Merlin would add is a strawberry bush.
“Muggles have garden gnomes, too, you know,” Harry tells Ron as they cross the lawn.
“Yeah, I’ve seen those things they think are gnomes,” Ron returns, bent double with his head in a peony bush. His Chudley Cannons pyjama top falls up to his armpits. “Like fat little Santa Clauses with fishing rods...”
Harry is quite shocked to find that they do not, in fact, look like fat little Santa Clauses with fishing rods. Arthur considers warning him when he catches his first gnome and attempts to peacefully drop it over the fence, but settles for laughing at him when it bites him and he sends it flying almost fifty feet.
Soon, the crowd of gnomes in the field start walking away in a straggling line, their little shoulders hunched.
“They’ll be back,” Ron huffs as they watch the gnomes disappear into the hedge on the other side of the field. “They love it here... Dad’s too soft with them; he thinks they’re funny...”
“Why don’t you offer them an alternative?” Merlin inquires.
“An alternative?”
Merlin shrugs. “Greener pastures. If you offer them a better place to live, or strike up an agreement with them, you wouldn’t have to do this all the time.”
“Oh, brilliant,” Fred exclaims, but he sounds completely serious, not at all sarcastic. It’s not like they haven’t thought of it before, but surely having a- whatever Em is, on their side would change the game a bit. “If you think of anything, you let us know. If I never have to de-gnome a garden again it’ll be too soon.”
“If Goldilocks Lockhart didn’t think of anything in his book, I doubt you’ll actually come up with anything that’ll work,” Ron grumbles.
Merlin shrugs. Maybe he’ll make a little gnome oasis they can move to later tonight.
Merlin’s eyes snap wide as something bangs.
“He’s back!” George crows. “Dad’s home!”
Arthur lets the others rush past him, quickly coming to Merlin’s side. It’s easy to tell he’s not here anymore. Where he is, Arthur’s not quite sure- they have far too many memories to guess at- but it must be something more recent, given the trigger. Ever since firearms were invented, loud bangs (doors slamming, cars backfiring, fireworks) can set either of them off.
Arthur murmurs quietly until he risks taking Merlin’s hand to place it against his chest. His heartbeat is familiar to Merlin, it’s usually enough to bring him back. Sure enough, after half a minute, Merlin blinks back into himself.
Merlin nods and squeezes Arthur’s hand when he’s ready to go in.
The man Arthur assumes to be Mr. Weasley, judging by the red hair, is slumped in the biggest kitchen chair, the chipped green one, with his glasses off and his eyes closed. It’s quite remarkable how incredibly opposite, and amazingly similar he and his wife are. Where she is plump and short, he is thin and tall, enough that he must have a hell of a time getting around his own house. Where her hair is thick and bristled like a mane, his is thin and balding, but not enough that it’s hard to tell his hair is as red as his children’s. He has a long pointy nose for his long pointy face, crinkled around the eyes with telling smile lines that do a good job of hiding the worry ones. His vest is a dapper brown plaid paired with long green robes, dusty and travel-worn, like he crossed the kingdom just to get home. Sorry, the country.
“Why would anyone bother making door keys shrink?” George is saying.
“Just Muggle-baiting,” sighs Mr. Weasley. “Sell them a key that keeps shrinking to nothing so they can never find it when they need it.. Of course, it’s very hard to convict anyone because no Muggle would admit their key keeps shrinking — they’ll insist they just keep losing it. Bless them, they’ll go to any lengths to ignore magic, even if it’s staring them in the face... But the things our lot have taken to enchanting, you wouldn’t believe —”
“LIKE CARS, FOR INSTANCE?”
Mrs. Weasley has appeared, a grim spectre in the doorway as if to block escape, holding a long poker like a sword. Mr. Weasley’s green eyes jerk open. He turns slowly, sheepishly, to look guiltily up at his formidable wife.
“C-cars, Molly, dear?”
“Yes, Arthur, cars,” repeats Mrs. Weasley, her eyes flashing. “Imagine a wizard buying a rusty old car and telling his wife all he wanted to do with it was take it apart to see how it worked, while really he was enchanting it to make it fly.”
Mr. Weasley blinks those expressive eyes of his, mouth working around excuses even as he discards them.
“Well, dear,” he starts very carefully, “I think you’ll find that he would be quite within the law to do that, even if — er — he maybe would have done better to, um, tell his wife the truth... There’s aloophole in the law, you’ll find... As long as he wasn’t intending to fly the car, the fact that the car could fly wouldn’t —”
“Arthur Weasley, you made sure there was a loophole when you wrote that law! Just so you could carry on tinkering with all that Muggle rubbish in your shed! And for your information, Harry, Em, and Arthur arrived this morning in the car you ‘weren’t intending to fly!’”
“Har- ” said Mr. Weasley blankly. “Who?”
He looks around belatedly, catches sight of the three extra children in his house, and jumps. At this point one or two more probably wouldn’t make that much of a difference.
“Good lord, is it Harry Potter? That’d be Em and Arthur, then? Very pleased to meet you, Ron’s told us so much about — ”
“Your sons flew that car to Harry’s house and back last night!” Mrs. Weasley shouts. Arthur has known drill sergeants with less intimidating lung capacities. “What have you got to say about that, eh?”
“Did you really?” Mr. Weasley gasps eagerly. “Did it go all right? I — I mean,” he falters as sparks flew from Mrs. Weasley’s eyes, “that — that was very wrong, boys — very wrong indeed...”
Merlin purses his lips so he doesn’t laugh. Arthur stands on his foot and puts on a beaming smile to distract them from his husband’s snickering. This is the man who was warning him about his manners a half hour ago.
“Let’s leave them to it,” Ron mutters to them as Mrs. Weasley swells like a bullfrog. “Come on, I’ll show you my bedroom.”
They slip out of the kitchen and down a warm narrow passageway to an uneven staircase that- surprise, surprise- is just as narrow and steep as it looked from the first floor. More haphazard, slapdash windows mark their progress, painting the wood a warm golden brown. Fred and George slip off from the crowd on the second landing with a wink.
“We’re just down this hall. You’re welcome anytime- even if you are a Slytherin," George whispers.
"We saw you first, anyway,” Fred says. Merlin gives them an enthusiastic nod. Oh, he’s definitely spending a healthy slice of time with the twins while he’s here, have no fear of that. He tells them as much and then runs to catch up with the Ron party.
On the third landing there is a familiar flash of brown eyes locked right on Harry before the door slams. Merlin flinches reactively, but he’s good this time. He keeps his breaths carefully measured as he follows them up the rest of the way, pretending to be out of breath from the stairs as Ron explains that Ginny’s not usually this quiet.
They climb two more flights until they reach a door with peeling paint and a small wooden plaque on it that reads RONALD’S ROOM.
They can’t all go in at once, so they awkwardly shuffle in single file. Just as well- Ron’s room is quite hard to parse.
Even Harry’s head nearly touches the sloping ceiling, so Merlin’s bent almost double. That’s not the half of it. Nearly everything in Ron’s room is a violent shade of orange, making walking in something like walking into a furnace. It’s mostly posters. Everywhere they look the Chudley Cannons team waves energetically back at them.
“Your Quidditch team?” Harry notes politely as Merlin tries to cough out the overload of orange assaulting his senses.
“The Chudley Cannons,” Ron confirms, pointing at the orange bedspread, which is emblazoned with two giant black C’s and a speeding cannonball. “Ninth in the league.”
Ron’s school spellbooks are stacked untidily in a corner (to match the house), next to a pile of comics that all feature The Adventures of Martin Miggs, the Mad Muggle. Ron’s magic wand is lying on top of a fish tank full of frog spawn on the windowsill. Merlin wonders at that- they have a frog pond right outside, don’t they?
Harry steps over a pack of Self-Shuffling playing cards on the floor and looks out of the tiny window. Merlin waves back at the quidditch players while Arthur does what he can to stride around a room that’s far too small and crowded to stride in. Ron watches them all nervously, as if waiting for their verdict.
“It’s a bit small,” he shoots quickly. “Not like Em and Arthur;s place. And I’m right underneath the ghoul in the attic; he’s always banging on the pipes and groaning...”
Harry, grinning widely, states, “This is the best house I’ve ever been in.”
“Ron,” Merlin whispers, leaning in conspirationally with a twinkle in his eyes. “It’s brilliant.”
“A place to be proud of,” Arthur concurs encouragingly.
Ron’s ears go pink.