After about half an hour, the party was in full-tilt, and the dancing was at its wildest and most exuberant, so it was a comfort and relief that the next song to play was a slow one. Suddenly, the dance floor was transformed into a peaceful place where the most violent of movements was a gentle sway.
It took all of two seconds for Haley and Anatoly to exchange glances and high-tail it off to the refreshments table”friends they may have been, but taking any aspect of a ball seriously was a little much for them.
Emma peered off toward the other side of the Great Hall, where, clearly visible over the heads of everyone else as always, Ted was slow-dancing with Ivy. The picture looked so blissful, so effortless, as though they danced every day of their lives and had no other thoughts worries on their minds. Ted certainly lacked grace, and Ivy was nervous and shy by nature, but simply swaying together, they looked as natural as a pair of trees waving in the wind.
Emma couldn’t even imagine what it would be like to be in their shoes. She wasn’t sure she’d ever be able to find slow dancing ‘natural.’
She felt a light tap on her shoulder and blinked, tearing her gaze away from the swaying couple, then turned to face her tapper. It was none other than Tyrone, his hand extended. “Hey, come on, let’s dance!” he said.
Emma hugged her forearms. “Thanks, but no thanks,” she said. “I don’t slow dance.”
“What, you a grown woman of seventeen, and you’ve never even slow danced before?” exclaimed Tyrone, his mouth forming an ‘o’ in mock shock. “But that’s, like, a life skill! I’m going to have to do something about that right away!”
“No.” Emma plopped down into a chair. “I don’t… listen, I don’t want to dance, okay?”
Tyrone sat down beside her, making his infamous sad Bambi eyes. “Oh, come on,” he pleaded, “Just one dance, and then I’ll leave you alone. It’s not like I’m a vampire that’ll suck out all of your blood if you let me anywhere near you. Though I hear some girls are into that kind of thing.” He flashed an encouraging smile. “You? Me? Dance?”
Emma rolled her eyes and made a show of sighing loudly. “Wellll…” she hesitated.
“Sure, why not, if only to get you to stop bugging me,” she groaned, getting up and smoothing her dress. She allowed Tyrone to lead her onto the dance floor, then asked flatly, “Now what?”
“Just hold on,” Tyrone told her easily, putting his arms around her waist. “And get closer than that, I don’t have the Ebola virus or anything. Keep arms and legs inside the vehicle at all times.”
Emma laughed a bit nervously, feeling the unfamiliar sensation of Tyrone’s arms around her, and moved forward until her head was resting on Tyrone’s shoulder. She put her arms around his neck. “Am I doing this right?” she asked. Her torso was still arched away from Tyrone’s”the idea of pressing up against his body made her feel bizarrely insecure.
“Er, yeah, as long as you don’t strangle me, it’s kind of hard to mess up,” replied Tyrone, clearly finding it amusing that Emma was treating slow dancing like some sort of meticulous ballroom dance with every step just so.
“And now?” Emma asked.
“Und now,” the boy whispered in her ear in a strange little accent, “ve dahnce.”
Emma reflected quietly to herself as she swayed with Tyrone that it was much easier than she thought it would be, almost an inborn reaction. Tyrone was solid and warm and would not be too low down on Emma’s imaginary list of comfortable things to lean against. She smirked silently, glancing over Tyrone’s shoulder at Ivy and Ted, thinking how painful it must be to slow dance with someone as bony as Ted. She wondered if Ivy ever got bruises from such activity.
It was strange, being able to feel the pulse in Tyrone’s throat and to feel his breath lightly stir her hair. The feeling of it all was soothing, almost hypnotic, and in her opinion, the song to which they were dancing had to be ludicrously short. It went by so quickly.
“Well!” Tyrone said merrily as a fast song began. “That was fun, wasn’t it?”
Emma didn’t look up at him. She somehow couldn’t bring herself to look into his eyes”the very thought of it made her come close to blushing in an Ivy-esque fashion. Her skin tingled weirdly. “Uh, yeah… I guess,” she mumbled.
“Do you want to take a break from dancing and get some food?” Tyrone asked, jerking his head over to one of the tables where punch and snacks could be found.
“Food sounds good right now,” said Emma, still looking away from his face. “But not from the food table. I have a better idea.”
“Huh? What do you mean?”
She grabbed his arm. “You’re hopeless, did you know that?” she asked with a grin. “Come on, I’ll show you.” And she led him off down the hallway, away from the Great Hall. The kitchens were always the best source of snacks if you knew how to get in, and she found it somewhat amazing that Tyrone had never once paid a visit there. In any case, she liked having the upper hand again. Having Tyrone Thomas teacher her how to do anything was just too weird.
“Where exactly are you taking me?” Tyrone asked as they made their way through the abandoned corridors.
“Well, haven’t you ever wondered how I got the canary creams into everyone’s food on April Fool’s Day in our fourth year?” Emma replied, rounding a corner.
Emma couldn’t help remembering the night of the ball in their fourth year when she and Tyrone had walked through these same halls, determinedly not speaking to one another. It was bizarre how little she’d known about Tyrone just two years before. She’d only seen him as a conceited girl-chasing jock, and while of course this was true, she’d had no idea about his strange sense of humour, weird hobbies, and all of the assorted personality quirks that could only belong to Tyrone.
When they reached a portrait of a bowl of fruit, Emma tickled a large green pear in the foreground and watched it transform into a door handle.
“Welcome,” she announced, swinging open the door, “to the Hogwarts kitchens.”
Tyrone’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline, and he blinked two or three times to make certain that he wasn’t dreaming. The kitchens were teeming with busy house elves bustling about their business, and generous portions of some of the school’s finest desserts were laid out on the tables and counters. “Okay, I’m pret-ty sure we’re not supposed to be here,” he concluded.
“Nope, we’re not,” Emma told him, smiling. “We’re also not supposed to fly around the grounds at midnight, but since when do you care?”
One of the multitudinous house elves curtseyed neatly for the human guests. “Miss Emma!” she squeaked. “Is you and your friend wanting anything?”
“Oh, yeah, let’s just have two plates with a little bit of everything,” she replied carelessly. “This is my friend,Tyrone Thomas, by the way. He’s pretty cool, but he has lousy table manners, so try not to stare.”
Tyrone looked torn between being smug that he’d been called ‘cool’ and being wounded that his table manners had been insulted, so he compromised by accepting his plate of puddings and digging in.
“Don’t eat that in here,” Emma hissed, elbowing him in the side.
“Whaa?” replied Tyrone with his mouth full, showing off the poor table manners that Emma had mentioned before.
She bent down next to him and whispered directly in his ear so that none of the elves would overhear her. “Look, believe me, it’s not fun, having a couple hundred elves standing around watching you eat. It’s kind of creepy, really.”
“Gotcha,” Tyrone whispered back with a gigantic wink, as Emma straightened back up and announced loudly,
“Thanks for the puddings, people… elves… Erm, we actually have something to do that’s, er, urgent, so if you don’t mind, we’ll be leaving right about now.”
The elves’ faces fell and their ears drooped as though the idea of watching two teenagers eat dessert was the most exciting thing that would happen to them all year. Sadly, this was probably the case.
“We’ll be back!” Tyrone assured them, flashing his infamously brilliant smile at the elves and topping it off with his patented wink. “Try not to miss me too much.”
“Stop winking so much, you look like you have some kind of psychotic eye twitch!” said Emma, but she was laughing.
The two of them settled down with their plates in a comfortable alcove in the corridor and leaned against the wall together.
Tyrone chuckled to himself. “We’re such bad influences on each other,” he commented. “I mean, it seems like every time we hang out, we do something crazy.” He took a big bite of pie. “How do you know so much about the castle, anyway?”
“You’re looking at a Weasley here,” Emma told him, wiggling her eyebrows. “Not to mention that Haley’s got the Marauder’s Map, and I bashed my brains out studying Hogwarts: A History for the Triwizard thing last year.”
“Oh yeah, that challenge.” Tyrone shuddered. “The one where I was on that paranoia potion and I was too scared to walk down to the Great Hall on my own and you had to help me… that was really weird. I was trying to forget about it. Thanks, Em.” He was silent for a moment, gazing off into space and running his fingers absently through his short curls. “You know,” he said at last, “That’s, erm, a pretty cool dress. You, well, you look really…”
“Sweaty?” supplied Emma, cutting him off. “Yeah, I probably do. But then, you’re--”
“”dashing? Thanks, I””
“”brag too much, yeah, we all know,” she finished for him, loving the concept of getting the last laugh. “Why are we finishing each other’s””
“”desserts?” Tyrone suggested, taking a biscuit off of Emma’s plate and stuffing it into his mouth. “I have no””
“”Mustache!”
Tyrone narrowed his eyes. “Okay, that’s going too far!” he yelped, spraying Emma with crumbs as she cackled like a hyena. He sighed. “Every conversation we have turns out like this, doesn’t it?”
“Well, yeah, I have to insult your not-a-mustache every chance I get, don’t I?”
The boy gave her a half-smile. “I get the point, Ems, but that’s not really what I meant,” he said. “What I mean is, I’ll start off with something to say, and by the end, we’re just goofing off and I don’t get the chance to say it, you know?”
“Goofing off!” Emma exclaimed indignantly as she crossed her eyes and balanced an éclair on her nose. “Why, whatever could you possibly mean?”
“Oh, don’t get me wrong, goofing off is fun and all,” Tyrone continued, not even bothering to acknowledge Emma’s spectacular éclair-balancing skills. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, it’s one of my favourite things to do. But it’s just… sometimes, I kind of want to talk without, you know, turning everything into a joke. I know, I know, I’m being lame… but what I’m trying to say here is, can you just listen to me here for a minute?”
Emma squinted at him, trying to figure out what he meant by that. True, nearly every conversation they had could be classified as ‘banter,’ but was there anything wrong with that? “What’s the big deal, anyway?” she asked. “What are you talking about?”
“I guess…” Tyrone stumbled over his words, trying to find ones that worked. It was like one of those Rubik’s cube puzzles. “I don’t know, it just seems like sometimes you have to give these crazy reasons for everything, like, ‘I’ll go to Hogsmeade with you, but only to get you to stop bothering me.’ ‘I’ll go flying with you if you stop singing that song.’ ‘I’ll hold your hand, but remember, it’s just a teamwork exercise.’” He paused. “I’m going to sound so stupid here, but sometimes, I just wish you’d say, ‘Yeah, I’d like to. Yeah, I like hanging out with you.’”
What was he getting at now? “I’m not following you.”
Tyrone looked her in the eye, and she didn’t look away. There was something captivating in their swirls of hazel, speckled with green flecks and gold dust. Boys really shouldn’t be allowed to have such pretty eyes.“I really did like dancing earlier,” he said quietly, and his breath was soft and warm on Emma’s face. Not surprisingly, it smelled like chocolate. “And I like hanging out with you. And maybe what I’m trying to say is, I just like you.”
His nose was almost touching Emma’s, their faces so close together that his features blurred before Emma’s eyes. Almost as though he was preparing to dance again although they were sitting down, Tyrone’s arms wrapped gently around Emma’s shoulders, and he leaned in closer. Having Tyrone so close made Emma’s heart do strange things that she wasn’t sure were healthy. She could hear her pulse pounding in her ears. Emma brought her arms up as well, reaching toward his face. And then suddenly…
“Tag, you’re it!” shouted Emma, bopping him in the back of the head and racing around the corner.
“What the”Emma, wait, what are you d””
But Emma had already darted into the girls’ lavatory, found a stall, and bolted the door shut. Her breathing was laboured as she drew her knees up to her chest and hugged them tightly, her eyes pricking and stinging inexplicably.
She’d come so close. She’d almost let herself slip and give into something she’d declared long ago she would never even dream of doing, not even in her worst nightmares. She could be friends with Tyrone. She could go to a harmless little dance with him, watch a film or two, go flying a few times. But she’d resisted Tyrone for so long that there was no way she was going to let herself give in any time soon.
After all, the one thing Emma Weasley prized above all others was being in charge of herself. No matter what, she would never let anyone else control her or push her around, especially not a boy. If there was anything that she could be proud of, it was that nobody told her what to do.
Meanwhile, back in the Great Hall, Ted and Ivy were thoroughly enjoying themselves at the ball. They were far from the most graceful or coordinated of dancers, and their vast height difference didn’t exactly help, but they always had a good time dancing, talking, and simply spending time together.
“I think I just accidentally stepped on my own foot!” Ted noted. “D’you think I get bonus points for that?”
Ivy smiled, amused as always by his affable awkwardness. Here eyes were bright and her cheeks were flushed from the dancing. As the song ended, she happened to glance over toward the food table where a set of deep yellow robes caught her eye.
They just so happened to belong to Charybdis Nott, standing with a dark-haired Slytherin boy but constantly casting glances over toward the far end of the room.
Ivy followed her gaze and saw Ophidias slumped over in the corner, wearing the same black robes and miserable expression as always. “I think Charybdis Nott is mad because Ophidias wouldn’t go to the ball with her,” she said thoughtfully. “And he really looks miserable.”
“I feel sorry for her,” said Ted thoughtfully, a rather surprising statement seeing as Charybdis rivaled Professor Zabini for the title of his least favourite person at Hogwarts. “She’s been awful lately, but I mean, I know I’d be mad if you went away for a year and then when you came back, you didn’t want anything to do with me.” He looked over toward Ophidias. “I feel sorry for both of them. Azkaban must be a nightmare.”
Only Ted could say something like that, Ivy thought to herself, and she admired him for it. Try as she might, she wasn’t sure that sympathy would ever be the first emotion to come to mind when she looked at Charybdis Nott. Still, as she looked over at Ophidias, that very same emotion welled up inside her.
Ivy remembered all too well her first year at Hogwarts, when she didn’t want to speak to the Slytherins”who were just as unwilling to talk to her, blood traitor that she’d been deemed”but the members of the other three houses knew her only as Draco Malfoy’s daughter and made sure that they were at least equally cold.
She’d known what she believed in and that she was nothing like Malfoy, but she’d been too shy to make her voice heard, too frightened to let anyone know who she really was. It had taken Haley to trust her at last and extend an offer of friendship before Ivy felt like she was able to be herself.
And now Ophidias was going through what she had. The people he’d known before he’d gone to Azkaban now seemed narrow-minded and cruel to him, and yet he didn’t have the courage to do anything more than hover like a ghost on the edge of society. Maybe all he needed was a little bit of trust and friendship as well.
Ivy looked up at Ted, her expression pensive. “Would you mind sitting out one song?” she asked him softly. “Because if you want to dance, that’s all right, too, but if you don’t mind, I sort of want to go do something.”
“Be my guest,” he replied, peering at her through his shaggy hair. “Although I am kind of wondering what this is about?”
“Don’t worry,” replied Ivy, “You’ll see in a moment.” She gave him a hug, and, adjusting the ribbon in her hair, made her way across the room. Recalling the etiquette training in which Pansy had enrolled her when she was small, she held her head high “as though suspended from an imaginary string,” as she remembered the instructor singing. She stopped in front of the chair in the far corner of the Great Hall.
“Ophidias,” she said gently.
The occupant of the chair’s head snapped up, and he stared at her with weary eyes. “What?”
“Look, you should be dancing and having fun. I can’t just watch you sit here looking sad all night long,” Ivy told him.
He made a noise like a rhinoceros sitting on bagpipes. “Yes, you can. Just don’t bother me. Go back and dance with that stoner werewolf boyfriend of yours like a good little Gryffindork.” Just because he was ‘good’ now didn’t make him nice, Ivy thought grimly.
“Ophidias, he’s not a sto””
“I know, I know. Can you just go away already?”
“No.” Ivy’s voice was small but defiant as she extended her hand. “Dance with me.”
Ophidias’s pale eyebrows shot up. “Excuse me?”
“I want you to dance with me,” she repeated. “A brother-sister dance, like when we were little and took etiquette classes together… only this time, it’s not ballroom dancing, of course.”
It was what Emma liked to call a ‘pity dance.’ Pity dances were something Haley was good at, but this was Ivy’s first”not counting the time Tyrone had asked her to the Valentine’s Day Ball as a favor, not realizing that she already had a real date.
“I… I can’t just get up and dance!” Ophidias protested, in an oddly rusty voice. “Especially not with you!”
Ivy’s hand remained outstretched. “I remember the first ball I ever went to, I thought ‘Ophidias is the best dancer out there. I wish I could dance like him, instead of sitting here, too scared to stand up on the dance floor.’” She looked at him pleadingly. “I don’t want to be annoying, but I do want to look out for you.”
“Why?” spat Ophidias. “You’re not even my sister anymore. You’re adopted now, remember? And don’t go feeling like you have any responsibility. I mean, I never looked out for you. All I ever did was, I dunno, threaten you and get your friends in trouble.”
“And so I’d better be nice to you so you won’t start doing that again,” Ivy told him, smiling. “And that’s why I’m looking out for you.” She smiled. “Dance?”
There was a long, long pause that seemed to stretch out over the space between them. Finally, Ophidias stood up from his chair and ran his hand through his stubbly hair. “All right,” he sighed, shaking his head. “Better you than Charybdis, at least, and this is my favourite song and all.” He hesitated for a moment, looking around the room. “You know, it would completely wreck your reputation, dancing with a someone like me.”
Ivy looked over at Haley, her sister and her first-ever friend, as she danced with Anatoly. She didn’t look as though she cared about what might happen to her reputation. She looked like she was having a good time.
Ivy smiled at Ophidias again. “And?”
Haley hummed to herself as she skipped into the restroom to touch up her lip gloss. The dance was delightful, the refreshments were delicious, and her mood was delirious from a combination of sugar, adrenaline, and ‘80’s music. It was turning out to be quite a marvelous seventeenth birthday.
So it came as quite a surprise when she entered the bathroom and realized that she wasn’t alone.
“Ooh, company!” squealed Moaning Myrtle as she floated up from one of the stalls in a mildly disconcerting sort of way, clapping her pudgy, transparent hands together. She was not moaning at all, which was never a good sign When Myrtle was in high spirits, so to speak, it usually meant that someone nearby was having a dreadful time.
“Oh, hi, Myrtle, I’m just, uh, doing my lips. So, how are you? You look… different.”
It was true”Myrtle was grinning vindictively, quite an unfamiliar and somewhat ominous sight. “Tht girl thought she was so tough, so brave last year. She didn’t give a thought about trying to make me feel better. And now it serves her right, she’s in here and she’s crying and it only goes to sh--”
She was cut off by a rather choked-sounding and extremely rude suggestion that echoed forth from inside one of the bathroom cubicles.
Haley knew that voice and that tendency toward the improper. “Emma?” she gasped. “You in there?”
“Too right I am,” Emma snapped from within the stall. “But I’m not crying… Myrtle’s just being an idiot.”
Haley pushed the door to the cubicle open, where she saw her friend curled up on the closed lid of the toilet. Her eyes looked puffy, her nose was red, and her hair was mussed and disheveled”it was highly unlikely that she hadn’t been crying, but Haley chose to ignore that.
“What’s wrong?” she asked concernedly, plopping down on the grubby and damp floor, fine robes and all. She may have cared a lot about her clothes, but she cared more about her friends.
“I don’t feel good,” Emma replied, shifting uncomfortably. “I think I’m sick.”
“Sick? Like, BLAAAAAUUGH?”
Emma nodded, her eyes downcast. “My stomach feels weird. But I’ll be okay, I just need some time.”
“Are you sure?” Haley asked.
“Yeah,” sighed Emma. She changed the subject, a typical Emma tactic to be sure. “So, this a good birthday for you? Lots of presents, dancing with that gross Slytherin pal of yours, finding out you’re Gryffindor’s heir or whatever?”
Haley let out a little giggle that sounded unsure whether it wanted to convey amusement or amazement. “I just don’t understand this whole heir…” She paused to correct herself. “Heiress of Gryffindor thing. I guess it means I’m brave or something, but if I’m in Gryffindor, I don’t see what’s so special about that. We’re all brave, aren’t we?” She shrugged happily. “I’m not going to give it much thought, though. What’s really confusing here is Jordan.”
“What else is new?” snorted Emma. “He’s always been the most confusing person I know. Right when you think you get him, he goes and does something really weird.” She wiped at a stray mascara smear under her eye and only succeeded in spreading it down across her cheekbone.
“Yeah,” agreed Haley, “but still, a Seer? Dad and Mum are going to completely flip out.” She looked extremely happy about this.
Emma grimaced. “Yeah, it’s really gonna take some getting used to.”
“But it should be fun!” Haley smiled mischievously. “Being a Seer has got to make him less boring. And maybe he’ll be able to get into people’s heads better with all this, whadyacallit, wisdom or whatever, and stop being such a prat about people who have actual feelings.”
The colour seemed to drain from Emma’s face, and her eyes narrowed. “If he tries getting inside my head, I’ll give him an injury to his,” she muttered. “Psychic or not, it’s just creepy messing around with other people’s memories and stuff.”
Haley didn’t look troubled. “Oh, I don’t know, I think it’s pretty awesome. Haven’t you ever thought about seeing the future?”
“No,” her cousin replied flatly.
“Oh… well, I have. Every time I have a cup of tea, I look for some kind of sign in the tea leaves. I’m kind of jealous of Jordan, really.” Her voice was bright, making it obvious that if there was any jealousy on her part, it was of a peaceful nature. “I’m the one who loves Divination and all…”
She paused thoughtfully, gazing off into thin air so that it looked as though she was quite intent on reading the “ZABINI IS A GIT’ graffiti someone had scrawled on the inside of the stall. “You know, she said at last, “This… Heiress of Gryffindor thing, it’s just really weird. I can’t get my brain around it. I mean, if Jordan’s already a genius and good at pretty much everything, I guess I can see how it makes sense that he’s Merlin’s heir. Merlin was crazy creative with magic”I mean, he invented half the spells we use every day. I can see Jor-jums doing something like that. But me…” She looked down at the skirt of her robes.“I know I’m brave and all that, but so’s everyone in Gryffindor. It’s just so weird that I’d be the one.”
Emma rolled her eyes. “Don’t be stupid, you’re one of the bravest people I know.”
“I’m nowhere near as brave as Gryffindor,” Haley stated. “Not like I wish I was braver or anything, ‘cause you and e both know I’m perfect how I am, right? I just think… you’d be a way better Heiress of Gryffindor than me. You’re the one who’s insanely brave.”
Emma stared at her, and her eyes were hard and dark. “No, I’m not,” she said quietly. “I’m not brave at all.”
“MERLIN. Often referred to as Merlin of Camelot or Myrddin Wyllt. Birth date is unknown, though he was said to be two hundred years old when he died in 1204. Widely considered to be the most brilliant wizard in history, Merlin was a man of prodigious intelligence, magical skill, and the wisdom of an extremely accomplished Seer.
Some experts believe that he may have been born to poor Muggle serfs, mainly because no birth of a child with his name was documented by the Ministry of Magic, although others believe that his birth was not recorded because he may have been illegitimate. Either way, he grew up in rural Wales, where he greatly loved the outdoors and was often seen with among animals. He was said to be extremely energetic and bright, and had a hunger to learn as much as he could about the world around him.
When he was small, he witnessed an extremely gruesome and bloody battle that so disturbed him that he fled and lived alone in a cave for the next several years. Withdrawn from society as he was, most believed him to have gone mad from the horrors of the battle, but when he emerged at last at age fifteen, he was a fully capable Seer who had received his full powers unusually early, possibly because from the psychological shock.
According to legend, Merlin often wrote and sang ballads during his years in the cave, and those who walked by often believed the area to be haunted when they heard a beautiful, disembodied voice singing from out of nowhere.
Merlin was among the first pupils to attend Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, although he started in his fifth year. He was greatly admired for his ability, specially noted by Godric Gryffindor, and in his years at Hogwarts, he developed such important components of magic as Apparition, Occlumency and Legilimency, and many common spells and potions.
Compassionate toward Muggles and believing that magic should be used to help them even if they did not fully understand it, he founded the Order of Merlin when he was only sixteen years old. The organization still exists today, and bestows its prestigious award upon wizards and witches who make outstanding contributions to their fields.
Indeed, he did become greatly involved with Muggles. He served as a mentor for young Arthur Pendragon, the famous king of Britain in its utopian Camelot days, and he was an integral part of Camelot’s court. Even Muggles are familiar with the name Merlin because of this, although most believe him to be a myth.
Merlin did eventually marry a beautiful and skilled witch named Vivienne Nimue, who was said to have been raised by forest nymphs and loved nature even more deeply than her husband.
They had a son, Gwion Wyllt, together, but when he was still quite young, Vivienne left Merlin. Some old stories say she loved the woods so much that she trapped her husband inside an oak tree, but this is a confused mangling of the truth.
In reality, she transformed herself into an oak for the rest of her life. Merlin was deeply sorrowful and visited the tree every day until he one day simply vanished, long after Arthur and Gwion’s own deaths. While Merlin is often depicted as an old and wizened man at Camelot, he was in fact only ten years older than Arthur, and they were friends just as much as mentor and student. But after Vivienne left, when Merlin was in his thirties, he aged dramatically almost overnight.
His true name was not Merlin, although that was the nickname that he chose to use. His given name was Myrddin, but this was changed because it was difficult for those not native to Wales to pronounce, and because of a joking observation once made by Erasmus the Irksome, who compared him to the merlin, a sort of small falcon found in England that is exceedingly swift and often successfully challenges birds much larger and fiercer than itself.
Merlin himself was small and slight of stature and quick both mentally and physically, and as a boy prodigy, he often challenged the false wisdom of so-called prophets far older and more experienced than he. He enjoyed the comparison and chose to use it for the rest of his life.”
Jordan closed the book and coughed slightly as a cloud of dust enveloped him. Ever since his seventeenth birthday, he’d been discovering all he could about Merlin and reading up on his life. He’d already discovered a bizarre amount that they had in common… thought he hoped the ‘wife turning herself into a tree’ thing didn’t apply to him.
The last few days had been like living in someone else’s body, and it wasn’t only he that had changed. The way people reacted to him was different as well. Just a few days before, he would typically have been greeted in the hallway between classes with a few casual ‘hi’s, some ‘when’s Quidditch practice today?’ maybe a ‘get out of my way,’ and possibly a ‘quick, help me with my homework, because it’s due in ten minutes and I haven’t started yet and Zabini will kill me’.
Now, he was either regarded with a sort of respectful intimidation or with a boundless curiosity. It seemed like he was constantly inundated with a stream of questions. He wondered if this was what it must be like to be his father. Everyone was either too frightened to talk to him or was too awed to stop talking. His personality probably didn’t help much, either, he thought. While his father had always had an ‘aw shucks, I’m just a regular guy’ air bout him, Jordan had never found it easy to be friendly.
According to Professor McGonagall, the last true Seer the school had seen was Professor Trelawney, and not only had that been very long ago, she also wasn’t much of a Seer. So it was understandable for the student body to get excited about Jordan’s gift. Just not very enjoyable.
“Jordan,” said a very brisk voice from behind him. He turned around to see Cecilia Longbottom, standing with a stack of books. “I want to talk to you.”
“Please do,” replied Jordan, though his flat tone was not nearly as gracious-sounding as the words might suggest.
Cecilia took a seat opposite him at the table, and Jordan got his first good look at her since his seventeenth birthday. The sunburst he had noticed around his own reflection was not something that set him apart from the rest of the world. Everyone had his or her own aura, and now he could see them, though he wasn’t quite sure how to interpret what they meant.
Ivy’s was a tranquil shade of pale shimmering blue, while Emma’s was a virulently pulsating orange with a faint pinkish tinge around the edges and an odd little brown spot near the centre. Ted’s, in accordance with his two-metre height, was quite large, an interesting mix of black and white in a harmonious yin-yang like arrangement. Tyrone’s was a bright, almost neon shade of purple, flecked with gold in a way that Emma would recognize as quite similar to his eyes. But even larger than Ted’s aura was Haley’s, at odds with her petite stature, and it blazed around her in a chipper shade of cherry red.
Jordan had gotten used to seeing everyone’s auras, and Cecilia, he noticed, had barely any, only a faint halo of a pale buttery yellow.
“Well, I know we haven’t worked on our genealogy projects in awhile, and I think we should get some stuff done on it,” said Cecilia, brushing back her long brown hair.
Jordan nodded, feeling rather glad that some things never changed. It was somehow pleasant, that sensation of déjà vu”he’d met with Cecilia for so many sessions of work on the Inter-House Unity project, and being a Seer hadn’t changed that. “I did do some work on my own,” he said, sliding his journal over toward her. “Come April, Professor Zabini’s going to be absolutely gobsmacked.”
Cecilia leaned over, resting her chin on her hand slightly nervously. “Hey, er, I was at the ball on Valentine’s Day, and, well, I couldn’t help but notice that you were going on about being Merlin’s heir.”
“Yes, yes I am,” Jordan agreed with the casual air of someone who’d just been asked whether he was fond of chocolate. “It’s definitely different, but I’m, er, adjusting to it.”
“Well… I don’t think we should put that on our project,” Cecilia said quickly. “It would be safer just to go back as far as our research goes.”
“Safer? What do you mean?” asked Jordan, his brown furrowing.
Cecilia sighed. “I mean that we can’t turn in a project based on a dream that you had! We need sources and data to back up what we’ve learned, and there’s nothing here in the library that says you’re related to Merlin and Godric Gryffindor.”
Jordan’s eyes took on that dark, penetrating look they’d had so frequently in weeks past. “Nothing in the library that says that? I’m in the library, aren’t I?” he said quietly.
“Look, I don’t mean to offend you, but nobody’s ever proved that Divination is real. It’s imagination and lucky guesses. I’m not calling you a liar, but people who guess right a lot and have weird dreams can end up fooling themselves. But there’s no real proof!” exclaimed Cecilia. “I’m not calling you a liar, I know you really believe this, but maybe you’re just… wrong.”
Jordan couldn’t believe what he was hearing. How could anyone suggest that what was happening to him was all his imagination? He’d provided plenty of proof. He was a sensible person. Shouldn’t Cecilia recognize that he wouldn’t come out in the open about something like this unless was certain?
“Everything looks different and I can remember things that happened to someone else, or that haven’t happened yet,” he said. “Is that enough proof for you? It’s not my imagination that you almost died when you were nine because your mother mixed a potion that was supposed to thicken hair but that was actually poison.”
Cecilia gasped. “Who told you that?” she spluttered.
“Nobody did,” Jordan informed her calmly. “I have memories from the past and the future stored in my mind, and sometimes, if I concentrate particularly hard on one subject”for example, your childhood”if I’m lucky, a good memory might come to mind. It’s a bit like the index of a book. You see individual topics, but you don’t know anything about them until you turn to the proper page. Do you understand?”
“No,” replied Cecilia. “This is insane.”
“Maybe it is,” snapped Jordan, “But I’m not.”
“That you I hear, Ceci?” Professor Longbottom called as he wheeled out from behind a row of bookcases.
Cecilia winced at the nickname. “Yes, it is, Dad,” she said without enthusiasm. Jordan could sympathize with that”he had not been happy with his own father teaching at Hogwarts for a year.
“Listen, have you seen my bag of fairy moss spores?” the professor asked his daughter. “Because I remember I had it with me yesterday in the library, but now I can’t find it, and I need it for a lesson, so I came back to the library to look again and see if I can””
“It’s hanging off your armrest,” Cecilia interrupted, not even bothering to look up from her books to see if she was right.
The Professor looked down below his armrest and chuckled softly to himself when he saw an extremely conspicuous bright yellow bag, marked in large black letters, “FAIRY MOSS SPORES.”
“Oh, right!” he exclaimed happily, rather reinforcing the ‘absentminded professor’ stereotype. “Thanks, Cecilia, I don’t know how I’ keep my head on without you.”
“Thanks,” replied Cecilia without enthusiasm. “Oh, and, er, Dad? Your cardigan’s on inside out.”
Professor Longbottom squinted down at his torso to see if this was the case. “Oh, yeah, it is, I remember. I spilled pumpkin juice on the front at breakfast, so I just turned it inside out so you couldn’t tell. Well, good night! And have fun working on your project.” He began to wheel away, then turned back, smiling. “Jordan, tell your dad I’m really proud of you.” And with a wave, he was off toward the corridor.
Cecilia looked a bit embarrassed. “I don’t see how he can know so much about plants and nothing about common sense,” she mumbled, then turned back to Jordan. “Well, how far back does the Potter family go?” she asked, all business again.
“On paper, it goes back to Theophilus Potter in 1291,” he stated, “but it’s ludicrous to stop there when we can trace back to Merlin.”
Cecilia sighed in an exasperated way that reminded Jordan strongly of his Aunt Hermione. “Because! There’s no way to cite your sources!” she told him. “I can tell everyone that I had a vision that I’m descended from Jack the Ripper, but””
“Jack the Ripper was actually three women,” Jordan interjected in a smooth, slightly bored voice.
“Whatever!” Cecilia exclaimed, not impressed by this display of Seer knowledge. “But anyway, saying I’m related to him won’t mean it’s true! And I’m really not trying to be mean, but I can’t believe you until I know what you’re saying is true.”
Jordan looked at her sadly. There was no way he could explain himself, much less convince her that he was speaking the truth. And he knew that Cecilia wasn’t going to be the only person who wouldn’t understand.
He wished Telemency existed.