Shiiiizcheeeen
Traitor.
Merlin can’t think of anything worse. He’s been called things that history’s forgotten on purpose. He’s been abused and tortured and pulled inside out. He’s been the victim of war crimes before and after they were classified as such. There aren’t a lot of things you could say or do to him that would make him blink these days.
Traitor.
That still hurts.
It hurt him every time Uther uttered it from the throne room, condemning and hollow, following him through the day and stealing into his bed at night to crush him until it sounded like Arthur’s voice saying it. It hurt whenever someone spit it at him from the pyre, accusing him of leaving them to die out of pure selfish cowardice. It hurt even when he and Arthur transcended devotion, rewrote the spiritual and physical laws to be together as truly and eternally as it was impossible to be, and still people hissed it through their teeth at him with untempered hate in their eyes.
It hurt when he and Arthur had to leave the people they found along their way, taking their love and stealing away like thieves in the night, unable to grow old with them, and were cursed up and down for it. It hurt when they were hated by their children for outliving them. It hurt whenever it came up in their secret intelligence stints, when they were supposed to be fighting for their country but were fighting for good. With every lie Merlin told, it hurt a little less, and it hurt a little more.
Merlin’s told a lot of lies.
You can’t give anyone or anything your everything when your everything eclipses the sun and they’re dust mites. But that’s what everyone wants. Everything. What else are they supposed to tell them? They’ve lived so many lives, and each of them Merlin would give his all if he could. He can’t though. No matter where and when they are, whatever the circumstances, Merlin and Arthur are holding back. They never show all their cards. They are lying. They are faking.
T r a i t o r.
Merlin feels Arthur start to tremble ever so slightly beside him. Arthur. Shit, he’ll be…
…Furious. Yep. He’s trembling with rage. In some ways, eternity has been fantastic for their patience. In others, it’s been quite the opposite. And this is a sore topic. Whatever that word means to Merlin, Arthur’s never liked it. Nothing gets him quite so enraged as him or Merlin’s loyalty being called into question. Both of them still equate that word with executions. Merlin still gets scared. But Arthur gets angry. Every time, he grabs Merlin by the face hard and burns him with his eyes, reminds him fiercely that it’s not true. And if he’s feeling generous, Merlin stops Arthur before he razes any buildings or dismantles any organisations that integrity comes in many shapes and sizes, and some people have trouble recognising it, but no one knows it better than them. That they have not, nor have ever been, traitors.
These children don’t know what they’re saying. They don't know what that word means. And they don’t deserve an angry Arthur.
Merlin whips the mess away with a thought as he turns to his husband. The last thing Arthur needs is a visual reminder.
It takes a lot of deep breathing techniques, soft murmurs in the old tongue, and gentle but firm assurances, but Merlin’s just about got his husband wound down when they realise the kids are gone and it’ll be past curfew in a minute. In fact, the entire dorm is strangely empty. There’s no one for Arthur to rage at anyway.
They get the news from Liz a minute before almost the entirety of Gryffindor pours into the common room all in a tizzy. Almost the entirety, except their Gryffindors. It’s always something.
“The chamber of secrets. I’ve heard that before, why have I heard that before?” Arthur asks the wall.
“It’s Slytherin’s, I heard. Salazar Slytherin’s. Or it was,” Neville explains, seemingly scared of the topic and simultaneously happy to be of use. “There’s a legend that he made a secret chamber in the school and trapped a monster in there to purge the school of muggle-borns. If it’s open now- well that can’t be good, can it?”
Merlin flinches at ‘purge’. Ah, another sore topic. Call him sensitive, Merlin’s always had a bit of a knee-jerk reaction against genocide.
“Salazar?” Arthur repeats, sounding unsure they’re talking about the same person. “Salazar Simon Slytherin, Salazar?”
Neville nods heartily, and then frowns. Simon? That’s not in Hogwarts: A History.
Merlin allows himself a long and drawn-out groan. This? Really? In the middle of a social revolution with blood purity and house elitism at its heart? Holy shit, Sal, Arthur told you that chamber thing was gonna bite you in the ass.
The story’s sure gotten twisted. At the time wizards were still the oppressed minority, and the wounds from the witch trials and burnings were still fresh. Salazar in particular came from a place with no stomach for magic unless it was God’s, and he suffered for it. He knew better than anyone what they were protecting. He didn’t hate muggles or muggle-borns indiscriminately, but he had more trouble trusting them, particularly with his home, this place he built from the ground up with his chosen family so people like him would be safe. He had trouble believing it wouldn’t be ripped away from him if he let his guard down for a moment. The chamber was insurance. It was just a safety measure. It was only a rumour, anyway, there’s no monster, that’s just where Sal kept his familiar, Basil. It was more like a big basilisk tank than anything. Merlin wonders how Basil’s doing, anyway. Are they still alive? Are they getting enough to eat? Merlin should check.
More pressing are the concerns regarding whoever’s responsible for the message. Someone’s stirring shit up and using Sal’s legend to do it. What’s the point? It looks just like throwing up smoke to Merlin, but to petrify a cat, a familiar, is no small feat. Basil might’ve done it, there’s always enough water in their chamber to reflect those lethal eyes of theirs, which would result in petrification, but how would Mrs. Norris have gotten in? Has someone actually opened it? Another parseltongue? That’s extremely unlikely, with all the renovations Hogwarts has gone through over the years, Basil’s chamber would be somewhere under the second floor girl’s bathroom by Merlin’s estimate, if it’s still there at all. This is so weird.
Supposing Basil did get out, though, they were always fond of using the pipes to get around. Well, when they were making a prison break. They were all too happy to tag along around Sal’s shoulders or legs if they were being taken for a walk, eyes shut like Sal trained them, but every now and then they got naughty and snuck out into the pipes. If they knew they were being naughty, that’s where they’d be. They’d still keep their eyes closed, though, wouldn’t they? They were a good basilisk, really, they never wanted to hurt anyone.
When the trio finally return, it’s with wide eyes and grim faces.
“Harry’s hearing voices,” is the first thing Hermione says.
“Hermione!” Ron chides.
“What? If anyone will have any ideas, it’ll be Em. Tell him, Harry.”
Harry shuffles nervously from foot to foot, looking up at them through his unruly fringe. “You promise not to think I’m mad?”
“Mad? Harry,” Merlin chides, a little disappointed he even has to ask. “People hear voices for all sorts of reasons, it’s never as simple as mad.”
“It’s just us,” Arthur adds. “What did you hear?”
So Harry tells them. It started after the party, and they followed it right to the message on the wall. Apparently this isn’t the first time he’s heard it either, but no one else can. Rip. Tear. Kill.
That doesn’t sound like Basil. Best to be sure, though.
“Harry, you’ve never spoken to snakes before, have you?”
Harry’s head whips up, eyes wide and frightened. “How did you know about that?”
“He knows everything, mate, I’ve stopped questioning it,” Ron sighs.
“You might’ve just been hearing a particularly aggressive one that found its way into the castle somehow. Sometimes they get into the pipes,” Merlin supplies.
“The snakes I’ve met so far have all been very reasonable,” Harry disagrees.
“If I got lost in a high school sewage system I’d probably want to rip, tear, and kill too,” Arthur shrugs. He makes an excellent point. Harry doesn’t seem convinced, but Hermione looked confident that the matter’s closed.
“It’s a good thing we didn’t tell anyone about your voices then,” Ron comments.
“Why?” Harry asks.
“Parseltongue- talkin’ to snakes- a bit creepy, but bloody brilliant, by the way- it’s a Slytherin thing. Salazar himself was s’posed to have the gift. Everyone would think you’re the heir,” Ron says.
“But I’m in Gryffindor.”
“People are stupid,” he shrugs. Ron also makes a good point. He shakes his head. “Don’t worry mate, you’re nothin’ like that type. I always knew Salazar Slytherin was a twisted old loony, but I never knew he started all this pure-blood stuff. Just goes to show. I wouldn’t be in his house if you paid me. Honestly, if the Sorting Hat had tried to put me in Slytherin, I’d’ve got the train straight back home...”
Harry looks faintly sick, and Merlin, through his own rising temper, remembers that he just talked Arthur down from an angry precipice, and this may just put him right back up on the edge.
“That’s enough, Ron,” Arthur bites hard. All of them snap to attention at the tone. Merlin makes no attempt to regulate the unimpressed expression on his face. “A house is just a house. It’s meant to support you, instil you with a sense of belonging and pride, nothing more.”
“It was different back then,” Merlin reminds Ron in a tone less biting, but more cutting for its blatant evenness. Merlin isn’t arguing this point, he’s stating it. “Your outrage at the unjust, baseless persecution of muggle-borns is understandable, but remember the roots of that thinking. At the time, wizards were the unjustly persecuted. Muggles burned sorcerers alive for existing. It had nothing to do with dirty blood. Salazar Slytherin had your same vehemence, for the same reasons. Now you condemn him. Worse, you condemn innocents that have nothing to do with your quarrel. People aren’t put in Slytherin because they are a certain way, it’s because Slytherin’s values would benefit their development most. Get some perspective. We can’t afford to be divided in this, and I won’t stand to hear your ignorance, not while we’re fighting to correct it in others.”
Harry hangs on his words like they’re sacred things. Hermione’s jaw has dropped. Ron’s has too, and his eyes are near bugging out of his head. He can’t even think of an argument, and that’s more proof than anything that it’s not one worth having- Ron’s a professional arguer.
Harry is the one to break the icy silence.
“The hat wanted to put me in Slytherin,” he says so quietly.
Merlin didn’t think Ron could get any more shocked, but he was wrong. He stares at his best friend like he’s a new, impossible species that defies known fact.
And with that, they say goodnight and take their leave.
🐍
Merlin is worried when Arthur’s up before him. That only happens under very certain circumstances, and he’s not sure he wants to know which category this one fits under. But he’s not here waiting for him, and he didn’t wake Merlin up, so he’s probably fine. He’ll find Merlin if he needs him.
Merlin’s distracted by a quiet shuffle and turns to find Harry already putting his shoes on. It’s still dark outside, for Avalon’s sake. But he can hardly talk, and it’s not like it’s that unusual for Harry, who Merlin suspects has insomnia. Where’s he going, though?
“Morning,” Merlin murmurs, keeping his voice low and wrapping his scarf around his neck habitually. Harry looks up from tying his shoe, forgetting the other one, so Merlin does it for him with a surreptitious flick of his wrist.
“Morning. Alright?”
“Yeah, yeah. You going out for a walk?”
“Yeah, thought I’d go before…” Harry trails off and his gaze strays to Ron’s bunk, where he’s in an uncharacteristically fitful sleep. Merlin nods.
“I was gonna… I told Malfoy he could sit with us,” he says hesitantly, checking for Merlin’s reaction. Like he’s asking permission. Merlin nods again with a happy smile.
“Oh, brilliant. He’s still in the infirmary? Yeah, you’ll wanna go get him, then.”
“Yeah, I always get nervous walking through the Great Hall alone in front of all the tables, you know, so…”
Merlin does know. And there’s a whole new dimension to it now that inter-house mingling’s been introduced. It’s like navigating a prison cafeteria- where you sit is a political statement. Merlin’s actually been in prison cafeterias less daunting than the Great Hall’s been lately. Draco shouldn’t have to do it alone.
“Do you want me to come with?” Merlin asks.
Harry shakes his head. “I mean if you want to. But I’m- I’ll be okay.”
“I know you will.”
Harry smiles at him, a genuine Harry smile, and makes his silent way out the dorm door.
Harry does take a walk first, since he’s up and out. The grounds are beautiful before sunrise. Everything’s so quiet and peaceful. The world is so big and yet so comfortingly small, and Harry’s got it all to himself in the early morning hush.
He nods respectfully to the ghost of the Grey Lady gliding along the bridge, looking out over forever. He waves at the early risers in the portraits, the occasional cat or owl that swoops or scampers past.
“I say, look at that!” Exclaims a particularly sociable old potioneer that lives in his frame on the second stairwell by the dungeons. “I must’ve finally gotten through to you. Both shoes tied, I never thought I’d see the day. Now we just have to do something about that hair…”
Harry waves him off. Looking down, he realises both his shoes are actually tied- he always gets in trouble for that.
Malfoy’s surprised to see him. He probably thought that Harry forgot about his offer, or that he’d meet them at the Great Hall. Maybe it’s just strange to see anyone up so early, but Malfoy’s up, so he can hardly talk.
Madam Pomfrey’s done a sterling job on him, as usual, and he bears almost no trace of the scuffle he was the centre of only a couple of days ago. He’s missing the gel he usually has in his hair and it makes him look a lot more human. He’s pulling on a rich green Slytherin jumper, bold as brass, when Harry comes in.
“Your hair,” Harry says stupidly.
Malfoy raises a sheer blonde eyebrow.
“You don’t- you usually have,” Harry clarifies, pressing his hands against his head to indicate the gel.
“I don’t have any product in the infirmary.”
“It’s good. I mean, like that. I like- it looks g- better. I think.” Gods above, Harry, stop talking.
Malfoy stills, his long fingers slowing where they’re tucking in his jumper and smoothing it down. Then he smirks a little.
“Like I’m going to take hair advice from you,” he jabs, eyes flicking up to Harry’s messy twists. He’s sort of like a human firework in the hair department.
“Yeah, best not,” he chuckles.
Harry learns a lot on the way to breakfast. He had no idea the Slytherin common room was under the black lake. The way Draco describes the windows, it must be really beautiful. He tells Draco about the Gryffindor common room in exchange, how it's always toasty warm, how the fire never dies, how the windows are super tall with long red and gold curtains, and you can see out forever like you’re at the top of a castle. Draco reminds him that it is. Harry feels stupid pretty often when he talks to Draco, but at least he doesn’t seem to mind.
Before they go into the Great Hall, Draco stops him.
“How’s Weasley taking it?”
“He’s being contrary,” Harry admits. “But Em and Arthur knocked some sense into him last night. He’ll come around, if he hasn’t already. You can’t really disagree with Em. Or Arthur.”
“No?”
“Mm-mm. Em’s always right. He knows everything. And Arthur, well. You just don’t argue with Arthur.”
Malfoy does something uncharacteristic then and look down at his shoes, scuffing them once against the stone floor.
“And if he doesn’t come around?”
Harry shakes his head. “He’s being a tosser. If he doesn’t come around… he will. Or he wouldn’t be our friend.”
Malfoy uncrosses his arms and smooths his hands over his Slytherin jumper again, like he’s regretting wearing it.
“...And Granger?”
“Pretty sure she’s already on board. If she wasn’t before, Em will have convinced her last night.”
“What did he say?” Draco asks curiously.
Harry blinks. A lot. He said a lot. Harry never gets anything across as well as Em does, he probably won’t do it justice, but...
“He called Ron out. Ron said something about not being in Slytherin if you paid him, and Arthur shut him right down. Then Em explained it all real calm. The history. Where the divide started and why. I don’t think even Hermione knew that…”
“Where it started?”
Harry nods. “He said it had nothing to do with blood purity. Wizards and witches were persecuted, you know, in witch trials. Executions and hangings and really horrible stuff. Em said that’s where the anti-muggle sentiment came from- the fear of persecution. This was supposed to be a safe place for witches and wizards, and at the time, that meant no muggles. Or at least, most muggles couldn’t know about it. And over time I guess it just… flipped. Now it’s the muggle borns who’re persecuted. It makes a lot of sense, but… it’s just really sad.”
Draco’s quiet for an inordinate stretch of time, and Harry starts to feel very self-conscious. Just as he opens his mouth to salvage it, or more likely, dig himself a deeper hole, Draco speaks.
“...I’ve never heard it told that way before.”
Harry deflates all the courage he’d plucked up that he no longer needs and shrugs.
“Told you. Em knows everything.”
💬
Arthur spends the morning in war council with the Weasley twins. When some anonymous little shit spray-painted their bunk with that ugly fucking word, they committed to guerrilla warfare. Arthur can do guerrilla warfare. These kids wanna play elitist with the big kids? Then let’s play.
Luckily the twins only had their heads a little bit up their arses, not half as far as Ron has his, so once things got serious they drew up their conclusions and ended up on the right side. And on hearing about the vandalism, they were more than happy to provide their services. Arthur found their enthusiasm and intelligence refreshing, and the feeling was mutual- by the end Arthur got two sloppy salutes and ‘it’ll be our real and true honour, sire.” “Yeah, Those kids are fucking toast.” By the sharkish grins across their mischievous faces, Arthur doesn’t doubt it for a second.
Having sent his champions off, Arthur heads over to breakfast. Merlin should be there with Harry and Hermione by now, if not Ron. The kids don’t like to go into the Great Hall alone, they find it daunting, so either he or Merlin always make themselves available at mealtimes to accompany them. It was just a luxury before, more to ease Harry’s horrible anxiety than anything else, but now they wouldn’t want the kids going alone, not with tensions so high among the houses. Well, Arthur’s on it, starting with addressing the infighting. He’s gonna shut that shit down quick so they can focus on the actual enemy.
Today Arthur comes into the hall alone to find Merlin, Hermione, Harry, and surprise, surprise, Draco Malfoy sitting at the end of the Gryffindor table. That shade of Slytherin green Malfoy’s so boldly got on sure does stand out. Oh, shit, where’s Ron?
Arthur scans around and catches him staring right at the crew, stuck in place. Hermione notices and nudges Harry, and soon they’re all looking back at him. Ron’s ears go pink and he straightens, and he starts moving stiffly, but not towards them.
Arthur catches him around the bicep before he can stomp off. It’d be a mistake. Ron whips back to look at him looking as confused as he is trying to look angry.
“Where you goin’?”
“Don’t worry, I can tell when I’m not wanted-”
“That’s stupid, Ron. Come sit with us.”
Ron hesitates.
“‘M I still welcome?”
Arthur works hard not to roll his eyes. Teenagers, honestly. “Duh, as long as you can be civil. So you gonna break out hearts, or what?”
Ron huffs and shrugs his hand off, but Arthur can see the defeat in his eyes. Arthur’s won the standoff. “No promises.”
All three of them melt with a mixture of pride and relief as they make their way over, and Ron’s ears go from pink to red.
Arthur claps Draco on the back as he passes, which startles him quite badly. He looks around like someone’s gonna call him out for it, but Arthur does it to Harry and Harry still jumps every time too.
Ron plops stiffly down across from him.
“Weasley,” Draco acknowledges with a little head nod.
“Malfoy.”
And just like that, it’s another standoff. Holy shit, teenagers.
“Boys,” Hermione bemoans.
“Hopeless,” Merlin agrees beside her.
“Anyway, you were saying, Hermione?” Harry encourages.
“Well, it’s just interesting, is all. Dumbledore couldn’t cure Mrs. Norris, and that makes me think that whatever attacked her might not be — well — human.”
“Why’re you so sure she was attacked?” Merlin asks, popping a grape into his mouth.
“I dunno, maybe ‘cause she was petrified,'' Ron offers. Arthur snorts.
“Plenty of things in this world can petrify passively. Active petrifications are more rare in the wild than passive ones, it’s only in heavily populated magical areas that it’s even recognized as an attack curse.”
“You don’t mean medical petrifications? For treatment?” Hermione shoots, leaning forward.
“No, that’s active too. It’s like anything else- if the right circumstances apply to a certain ecological biodome, it makes quicksand. That’s a natural occurrence. Same with petrification. It’s just things reacting to each other. There are also creatures with the ability. More often than not it’s a side effect of something else, rather than the main event. Mrs. Norris was probably just unlucky,” Merlin says, carefully avoiding reminding them that cats don’t get strung up by their tails naturally.
“But in a school? Surely Professor Sprout would be aware of something like that in Hogwarts?”
“I don’t know, she missed a great bloody snake moaning on about killing someone, didn’t she?” Ron reminds them.
“She what?” Draco blurts, reminding them all that he’s not quite up to date.
“We’re pretty sure there’s a killer snake loose in the pipes,” Harry explains quickly. “I heard him in my head.”
Yeah, Draco’s reaction to that is… fair.
“Harry, never go into PR,” Arthur advises.
“He’s not crazy, it’s a whole thing, you had to be there,” Merlin waves dismissively.
“Why don’t we have a poke around?” Harry suggests.
“‘Cause that went so well last year,” Arthur huffs.
“Just a look. There’s gotta be something. If we can figure it out we can stop whoever’s scaring everyone. It’s just making things worse.”
He’s right, of course. If it was bad before, it’s awful now. Tension wrend the air like a tangible thing. Glares and suspicious looks dart around the room constantly. The Great Hall is quieter than a Great Hall full of teenagers has any right to be. If things don’t improve soon, the staff might think about imposing an actual rule about house tables, and then it’ll be a lost fight.
Well, Merlin did say he wanted to get to the bottom of it. There might actually be something there. The bathroom’s up that way too, they can question Myrtle about it, maybe even get some answers about Basil.
“Come on,” Draco says all of a sudden, shooting up from the bench. “There’s still time before class, and that twit Filch will be indisposed for another forty-two minutes.”
The rest of them start following him out.
“How d’you know what Filch’ll be up to?” Ron asks suspiciously.
“He’s got a meeting at this time every Wednesday for his Kwikspell e-course,” Draco says. Ron’s eyebrows shoot up.
“He’s a squib? Ron yelps.
“Ron,” Arthur clips warningly. “There’s no shame in that, but keep your voice down if it’s not common knowledge.”
“You’ll find it’s rather handy keeping a Slytherin around, I should think,” Draco smirks. “We treasure our knowledge; particularly the uncommon kind.”
"Uhh, what's a squib?" Harry asks.
Hermione explains on the way until they find themselves staring down the cheerfully painted hall of anti-muggleborn propaganda that no one's been able to wash off yet.
Ron looks surprised to see Draco get down on his hands and knees in the newly cursed corridor, like he didn’t expect him to want to get his pants dirty or something. But Draco’s searching as eagerly as Harry is before any of them even decide what they’re looking for.
“Scorch marks!” Harry cries triumphantly, and Draco scrambles over to see. “Here — and here —”
“That’ll be from the candle holders. They usually stand along the wall,” Draco surmises.
“Come and look at this!” Hermione calls. “This is funny...”
While Arthur’s busy glaring at the message on the wall, Merlin comes to have a look at what she’s found and finds his face doing something interesting.
Spiders. About thirty of them, quickly scampering out of the topmost window pane like they can’t get out fast enough.
Right. It’s definitely Basil, then. But Basil didn’t write a socio-political statement in the name of eugenics on the wall. Someone’s using them for their own agenda. How distasteful.
“Have you ever seen spiders act like that?” Hermione asks wonderingly.
“No,” Harry murmurs. “have you, Ron? Ron?”
But Ron is unresponsive. Arthur waves a hand in front of his face and gets little to no reaction.
“What’s up?” Merlin asks.
“Nothing,” Ron says with the tension of an elastic band pulled taught.
Draco looks between him and the spiders. “Arachnophobia?”
“What?” Harry asks.
“He’s scared of spiders,” Merlin finishes.
“Really, Ron? I never knew that,” Hermione says in surprise, straightening to look at him. “You’ve used spiders in Potions loads of times...”
“I’m not-!” he tries to defend. Then he looks at Draco once and seems to find something on his face that makes all his posturing deflate. “...I don’t mind them dead. I just don’t like the way they move...”
Hermione giggles.
As that fight breaks out, Merlin takes the opportunity to slip over to Myrtle’s bathroom, brushing past Arthur as he goes.
“Get them out of here,” he whispers.
He closes the door to the girl’s bathroom and tries not to close his eyes in dismay at the muffled “woah, is that a snake?” he hears his husband cry unconvincingly behind him. Arthur will figure it out.
Merlin makes a quick change, melting into a form most people tend to find more girlish than her original one, and just in time, because Myrtle comes shuffling gloomily out of the last toilet stall, picking a spot on her chin.
She matches her bathroom, which looks like it was set up by a movie crew to inspire depression. Everything is washed out into a dull yellow-grey. The high windows are too dirty to allow in any light, thick with cobwebs and grime. One toilet stall door is hanging off its hinges. They were all probably green at some point, but now they just look sick. And Myrtle is always sick. Her pigtails droop like wilted flowers, putting emphasis on the notion that she’s melting, her face an uncanny impression of the Scream mask. Colour is not welcome here, and neither is Merlin. She’s very glad of it. This place feels inescapable.
“Hello,” Merlin greets softly, and her voice comes out as a little girl’s. She is a little girl now, she supposes.
“I’ve never seen you here before,” is what Myrtle says, her words dragged out into long low moans. She reminds Merlin of the traditional ghostly stereotype. Myrtle is like the word ‘haunt’ in ethereal form. She’d be great at a Deathday party.
“I’ve never been here before, but I thought I’d visit.”
Myrtle snaps to look at her suspiciously. “Me? Visit me?”
“If you don’t mind.”
“Come to see how ugly, stupid, pathetic I am?” she spits venomously. “Heard the rumours, come to laugh at silly little Myrtle?”
“Quite the opposite, actually,” Merlin assures her. “I was wondering if you could help me. And I’m always glad of company.”
“You’re lying,” she accuses uncertainly. “What could I-” she sniffles- “possibly help you with?”
“You know this bathroom better than anyone else, don’t you? It’s safe here. No one bothers you. But someone did something quite horrible right outside your door on Halloween. I know you’d remember something like that. It was so rude of them, wasn’t it? They were being horrible.”
“I wouldn’t know,” she drags her sleeve across her snotty nose. “People are always being horrible to me. Halloween, you said? On Halloween Peeves upset me so much I came in here and tried to kill myself. Then, of course, I remembered that I’m — that I’m —”
“I’m sorry, Myrtle,” Merlin croons genuinely. “Not being able to kill yourself is terribly disheartening. Have you given any thought to trying to resolve what’s keeping you here?”
“How can I?!” she wails all of a sudden. “I was miserable in life, it’s just as well it’s my destiny to be miserable in death! I can’t even do that right! I’m too sad to even die.”
“No one’s too anything to die,” except her and Arthur, “if we figure out what’s keeping you here we can give you peace. Do you have unfinished business? It might have something to do with your death, what were the circumstances?”
“Oh, well,” she blushes coyly, flattered by the question. “It was dreadful. I was hiding in here, crying- Olive Hornby said my glasses were stupid. She regretted that, she did. Anyway, I was crying right in that stall over there, and I heard someone come in. It was a boy. He said something in a weird language and I popped my head out to tell him to buzz off and… I died.”
Parseltongue. The chamber can be opened from here.
“What did it, d’you think?” she asks, just to make sure.
“Dunno. I just remember a pair of big, yellow eyes. Over there, by that sink,” she gestures.
“Who was the boy? Do you know?”
“No,” she sighs. “Told you I couldn’t help.”
“You’ve been a tremendous help, Myrtle,” Merlin says. “Thank you so much. And we’ll figure out how to help you move on, so don’t get too dejected. Right now I have to go find a giant snake who’s in big trouble. I’ll be right back.”
And off she stomps.
The bell’s rung for class, but Merlin’s on a mission now. He doesn’t even notice himself melting back into his male-er counterpart. This has all gotten completely out of hand and it’s such an easy fix, he just needs to ask Basil to stop. Why would they even listen to the first random pureblood that comes along that speaks a lick of parseltongue? It’s not like them. And opening their eyes? They’re a good basilisk, they haven’t done that since they were a baby!
Merlin marches right up to Eadwig.
“Let me in or I will eat you,” he promises. Eadwig knows not to argue with that tone. Merlin will find a way to do it.
Albus’ eyebrows jump up at his entrance.
“Mr. Emrys. What can I do for-”
“Not here for you, actually, Albus,” Merlin cuts him off, weaving right past him and up to the founders’ portraits. He stops right in front of Salazar’s.
Sal looks just the same as he did, but he would do- Arthur painted him. Merlin wanted their kids immortalized as he remembers them, with gaps in their teeth and squeaky little voices, all intent on fitting in Arthur’s lap at once, and somehow managing it. Alas, they stand in their frames fully grown, and Sal’s silver beard brushes his velvet-cloaked chest. At least his eyes never changed- they’re still that piercing intelligent silver-blue they always were.
“It’s been a while, old man,” he sasses. Merlin crosses his arms.
“Oh, don’t pretend I don’t visit. Now, you’ve heard about this chamber business?”
“Of course. Don’t tell me you don’t remember-”
“Basil, yes, I know, but that’s just it. You left the door closed, right?”
“Yes.”
“No secret kids running ‘round you neglected to mention?”
Sal arches an eyebrow. He’s not the kids type.
“Stop, I had to ask. Basil’s got a new owner.”
This incites a flare in those diamond eyes, and Sal gets serious.
“They’re my familiar. They don’t have an owner, and if they did it would be me,” he snipes tersely.
“I know that, Sal, I just mean someone’s running around faking it. Basil’s opening their eyes.”
A sharp intake of breath and Sal’s arms uncross. “Basil wouldn’t do that.”
“I KNOW they wouldn’t, but they are. It doesn’t matter, clearly you have no idea about any of this. I’ll deal with it. Just, can you tell me where they might be right now?”
Sal huffs worriedly, eyebrows furrowing and forehead wrinkling, his hand coming up to hover over his mouth like he always did when he was thinking.
“They always liked wet places- flooded bathrooms, sinks-”
“They’re a bit big for sinks these days, Sal.”
“They’re supposed to be in their chamber. You know that. If they’re not, then they’re probably in a bathroom. That’s assuming you haven’t heard of any kitchens being raided by giant basilisks. And the pipes. They like-”
“-the pipes, yeah, I know. Okay. What’s the word in parseltongue to open the door?”
“Shiiiizcheeeen.”
“Shiiiisheeeen.”
“Shiiiizcheeeen.”
“Shiiiizheeeen.”
“Shiiiizcheeeen.”
“Shiiiizcheeeen.”
“Yeah.”
“Okay, thanks.”
Merlin’s mostly out the door by the time Albus speaks up from where he’s now standing behind his desk looking disturbed.
“Mer-”
“I’m handling it, bye,” he calls over his shoulder, already gone. He quickly doubles back to poke his head back in and hiss at Salazar, “I told you about that chamber!” and then dashes off again.
Basil is not in any of the bathrooms. Merlin even checks the sinks, just in case they’re lucky and Basil’s developed some rare condition that’s stunted their growth, but he finds no Basils.
Finally, Merlin skids back into Myrtle’s bathroom. She’s not around. Good, this would be hard to explain.
“Shiiiizcheeeen.”
It’s all very dramatic. A great rumbling as the sinks separate, grinding against the floor to make way for a great gaping opening–
Would you look at that. Big, yellow eyes.
Merlin dies.