Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It was Arthur’s fault.

It was always Arthur’s fault.

The day had started somewhat well for Merlin. He’d brought Arthur his breakfast, dodged a spoon thrown at him (Merlin had eaten half of Arthur’s sausages so he could somewhat forgive that), stood in the back of yet another council meeting, and was now being dragged on the fourth hunt this month with Arthur and his assorted knights.

It had been a few oddly quiet months in Camelot. Only one sorcerer came for revenge, and they were quickly dealt with by Leon and Percival (an unlikely, but highly effective duo) before Merlin had even worked out who the sorcerer was. There had been no unexplained deaths, no mysterious illnesses or conditions, no otherworldly creatures needing anyone to prove their worth, no other-otherworldly creatures wanting to eat peasants, not even any strange lights. All in all, the last couple months were wholly and completely ordinary.

So really, Merlin should have expected something to go horrifically wrong.

Arthur was ranting about his sword again. Or one of his daggers. Or his crossbow? To be honest, Merlin stopped listening a good mile back. They’d been riding for so long now, the sun had started dipping below the tree line, and insects of every description were buzzing around Merlin’s ears. Gaius had mentioned that Merlin was likely loved by creatures of all descriptions because of his magic, but as he slapped at another mosquito who attempted to make a home in his ear, he imagined he would rather be a little less loved, thank you very much.

“-erlin. Merlin. Merlin.”

One would think that His Royal Pain in Merlin’s Arse could go five minutes without harassing someone, but apparently not. Merlin continued to slap around his own head, feeling wings under his fingers as he came into contact with one especially determined insect. If only this mosquito was the most annoying thing in Merlin’s life at that moment.

And now he was poking Merlin with a branch. Arthur, that is. Not the mosquito. Although Merlin would almost prefer the mosquito to Arthur’s antics at this point.

“Arthur, I swear to –” Merlin began, only to receive a mouthful of leaves thanks to the branch that was now in his face.

“Well, if you’d listen to me I wouldn’t need to poke you to get your attention,” Arthur threw the branch back to the forest floor now that Merlin was looking at him. “All I was saying is that we’re going to have to stop for the night soon. So, if you could go start on gathering firewood for us, that’d be much appreciated, Merlin,” Arthur had a strange talent for being exceptionally patronising while also sounding like he had never been rude once in his life. It was actually quite impressive, not that Merlin would ever tell him that.

Instead of arguing, Merlin sighed and dropped off his horse to pick his way through the undergrowth. If Arthur ever actually had to do any work it may just kill him. His system would probably just go straight into shock, honestly. As a physician’s apprentice, Merlin knows the human body and yep, Arthur would probably just collapse as soon as someone came near him with a list of tasks. It was always Merlin who had to do this kind of thing while he just sits up there on his horse, not a care in the world. Really, the pay’s not good enough to justify all the mud Merlin has to walk through on a daily basis. Should Merlin ask for a raise? Maybe when he gets back he’ll ask Gaius–

“Minus the mumbling, Merlin.”

He’s so asking for a raise.

Merlin collapsed onto a log a couple hours later with a number of new scratches and his hair soaking wet. Gwaine immediately made his way over, carrying a flagon of water and the rudimentary first aid kit all knights carried.

“I still don’t know how you managed to fall into the river like that, mate,” Gwaine said as he handed a clean rag to Merlin.

Nodding his thanks, Merlin held the rag to a particularly bad scratch on his shoulder. “Well, it’s not like I planned to fall in.”

“Not that that would be surprising.”

Merlin rolled his eyes at Arthur across the fire before turning back to Gwaine, “He’s awfully judgmental for someone who can’t light a fire without help, isn’t he?”

“That wood was wet! Honestly Merlin–”

Merlin was spared from hearing the rest of Arthur’s sentence by a high pitched ringing that echoed through the clearing. Slapping a hand over his ear, Merlin looked around to see whether the others heard the ringing too. Next to him, Gwaine was doing much the same thing with both hands clasped over his ears. White sparks started appearing in Merlin’s vision.

With the exception of Gwaine, no one else looked like they heard anything strange. Though they were all talking and looking at the two of them, Merlin couldn’t hear a word over the deafening noise. Arthur had stood up, and Merlin squinted to watch him circle the fire towards him and Gwaine.

Sparks were now taking over Merlin’s vision. He felt Arthur’s hand on his shoulder. After barely a moment, Arthur’s hand ripped away as though shocked. Gwaine’s hand latched onto Merlin’s arm, gripping hard enough to bruise. Time seemed to speed up and slow down simultaneously around him.

And as Merlin clutched Gwaine’s arm in return, he felt a hook wind its way around his navel and yank him away from the clearing.

Amidst the swirling, sparks and ringing, Merlin finally lost awareness of his surroundings.

The first thing Merlin became aware of was a persistent ringing between his ears and behind his eyes. Echoing through his skull, he could feel his pulse sluggishly making itself known in his arms and legs, causing them to throb in time with his heart. He dragged open his eyes, but could only make out the stone floor he must be lying face-down upon before pressure behind his eyes forced them closed. Moisture fell from his nose, the drip on the stone floor incomprehensibly loud to Merlin’s aching head. Groaning, he turned his head to the side. Bracing himself for whatever he was about to see, Merlin squinted at the room around him.

Or at least, that’s what he meant to do. Instead, all he saw before losing his battle for consciousness was a broad man shoving a stick between his eyes.

Merlin didn’t know how yet, but this was definitely Arthur’s fault.

Chapter Text

Merlin had dealt with a variety of magical peoples and creatures during his lifetime. From goblins, to lamia, griffins and unicorns, even serkets, Merlin felt he has quite enough experience at this point that he should perhaps stop being quite so shocked when another magical race joins the party. Though calling these people a “magical race” could be inaccurate, maybe if they spoke anything understandable then Merlin would feel more inclined to be polite. And if they didn’t feel the need to point sticks at his face. So many bloody sticks.

They were doing it still even now. A man, with relatively light hair and layers of clothes of light brown and grey colours, was pointing his stick at Merlin, as his… friends? Kidnappers-in-arms? As the others paced around the room and talked to one another in turn. There were three of them in total including stick-man; the other two being a broad man (possibly the same one who stuck his stick in Merlin’s face earlier) who, now that Merlin was looking (and conscious), sported a bright blue and obviously enchanted eye and a peg leg. The last one in the room reminded Merlin of his own Dragoon persona, with a long beard and clothes so bright Merlin had to assume the man was some kind of noble or royal. Or just colourblind.

The room itself looked well-furnished and expensive, if dark. A fireplace stood in the corner furthest from Merlin – unlit, even as cold crept into Merlin’s boots from the grey stone floor. Flicking his eyes across to the wooden door, Merlin tuned out his captor’s conversation. If he were more confident they wouldn’t see, he would have used his magic to extend his senses past the door to check for guards or other captives. But even though the three sounded like they were fairly occupied, from what he could tell at least one of them had an eye on him at all times. Or in the case of Eye-man over there, had one eye on him full stop.

Independently moving enchanted eyes. That’s just great. Merlin would never complain about Gaius’ tendency to ‘keep an eye on him’ ever again.

The other reason Merlin held his tongue and his magic had more to do with the auras of power surrounding the men. Merlin had never really been able to sense the old religion on people, so whatever it was these men were it wasn’t of the old religion, as far as Merlin could tell. But even so, surrounding each of the men was almost a radius of heat. Or something like heat. Similar to the haze that rises from cobblestones in summer’s worst days, that seems to distort the air above the path. Or maybe Merlin had just hit his head a little bit hard on the floor earlier.

Either way, he’d rather not risk doing anything until he was sure of what these men were capable of. There was also the minor complication of the ropes binding Merlin to what feels like a terribly designed chair. But still, Merlin’s other reasons were perfectly valid, thank you very much.

It seemed all Merlin could do at this point is wait.

Gwaine was not having a great day, to say the least.

He’d been helping Merlin clean up next to the fire when it felt like he was hit by one of Percival’s gauntlets, been struck by lightning, and yanked off his horse by the stomach all at once. All of which wouldn’t be great to experience individually, let alone all together with no warning. The ringing in his head has left all his past hangovers in the dust, he’s sure. So really, is it any surprise that he really wasn’t in the mood to deal with people shouting and arguing around him in a language he doesn’t know?

“Next person who speaks or gets too close to me is getting kicked,” Gwaine may have been tied to a chair, but his feet were still relatively free to move.

One of the redheaded young men (and weren’t there a lot of those?) moved even closer to Gwaine after his threat, close enough that Gwaine could count every freckle splattered across the kid’s nose if he wanted to. Ah well, he did warn them.

“Ow, ow, ow…” Huh, it seemed no matter what language you speak, getting kicked in the shin still hurts like a bitch. Gwaine let a corner of his mouth tilt upwards as the young man hopped across the room towards his twin.

The older members of the gibberish-speaking crowd didn’t seem to have noticed his actions. They were leaning over a table on the other side of the room, pointing and arguing over what looked like multiple sheets covered in writing. One girl with the most gravity-defying hair Gwaine had seen in quite some time was emphatically waving her hands at a pink-haired woman. Two older people with bright hair (just how many redhaired people are there here?) were gesturing towards the group of younger men and woman stationed slightly away from the table, the older woman in particular seemed to be having an intense argument with a skinny, dark and ratty-haired man over something to do with the young men and women, if the yelling, glaring, and gesturing was anything to go by.

The most interesting group, however, had to be that group of young men and women. They were huddled standing close to a corner, talking to each other in low voices and glancing between Gwaine himself and one of the doors to his left. One boy, a black head of hair amongst the red, was also glancing across to the skinny man with what looked like increasing concern. There was a story there, Gwaine was sure.

Gwaine was thrown out of his considerations by the creaking of feet on old wood floors outside the door. He wasn’t the only one who’d heard, as all conversation in the room quietened to wait as the new arrivals opened the door and made their way through. Gwaine felt his eyebrows raise when he saw the first arrival, and his unsettling eye, before he saw someone he was both grateful and concerned to see in this strange place.

“Merlin!” His friend looked to be in the same situation as Gwaine, with the only notable difference being the fact that his chair was floating about a foot off the ground.

“Gwaine!” How Merlin could be smiling right now was beyond Gwaine, but that seemed to be the trend with his friend. “How are you, Gwaine? They haven’t hurt you, have they?”

“Not as such,” Gwaine rubbed an ache on his left forearm behind the back of the chair he was tied to. “I feel as though I’ve been stomped on by a horse, but that was due to whatever it was that bought us here. You’re alright as well?”

Merlin shrugged as a very… brightly dressed old man lowered his stick to direct Merlin’s chair to the ground.

“I’m well enough. Though I think I’d rather not be bound to a chair and poked with sticks in the future.” Merlin’s glare towards the man with the weird eye told Gwaine exactly who was at fault for any stick-assault.

“Wouldn’t we all, mate.” Gwaine looked pointedly towards the redheaded twins, one of whom was still rubbing his shin. Good.

“So,” Merlin looked around at the room’s occupants, “have you got any idea what the deal is with these people? Because at first I thought they must have kidnapped us for information or ransom, but they don’t seem to have any idea who we are. And I haven’t heard them mention you-know-who once.”

“You-know-who?”

“The prat. The royal prat,” Merlin glanced surreptitiously around the room, “I don’t want to say his name in case they recognise it.”

“I don’t think they can understand us, anyway,” Gwaine glanced around the room far more obviously than his friend, “but sure mate, ‘You-Know-Who’ it is.”

“So do we think they’re from You-Know-Who or not?”

Harry kept his eyes on the two men across the room as Ron spoke. They were obviously familiar with each other, talking back and forth in that strange lilting language that even Hermione seemed to have trouble identifying from what Harry could hear of her conversation with Remus over at the table. It really shouldn’t surprise him that Mrs Weasley had no issue with Hermione giving her opinion over at the Order’s “adult” table, but the rest of them even being in the room was “just terrible” and “exposing children to men who could very well be Death Eaters, Sirius Black!” And as much as Harry appreciates Sirius’ determination that they are all old enough to make their own choices, he really doesn’t think that yelling that they’ve all “seen more than enough Death Eaters already, two more isn’t going to make a difference!” at Mrs Weasley probably isn’t the best way to go about things. Not that anyone had asked his opinion on the matter.

Harry did feel the argument was a bit useless though, seeing as if either of them were Death Eaters then Voldemort would have been knocking on the door to Grimmauld Place already. Not that he’d knock. Blow the place up more likely. Either way, they wouldn’t be standing in the dining room discussing it, that’s for sure.

Regardless, Harry was positive that neither man was a Death Eater for the simple reason that some genius had tied the long-haired one up in such a way that his right hand was resting right on top of his left forearm behind the back of the chair.

Which is the equivalent of giving someone with the Dark Mark a cell phone with Voldemort on speed dial.

All of this, Harry would have happily shared with the group had this happened a couple months ago. But as it stood, Harry was still just a little bit pissed off with everyone.

They would work it out eventually, he’s sure.

They did not work it out eventually.

Chapter Text

It took thirteen hours for Hermione to find a solution to the language barrier.

Thirteen hours of panicking Order members thinking they could be attacked at any time. Thirteen hours of Lupin and Hermione pulling their hair out over stacks of books from the Black Library, trying to find a fix for the language barrier. Thirteen hours of Mad-Eye’s eye becoming increasingly madder, spinning rapidly in its socket as he ranted at anyone unfortunate enough to be within earshot. Thirteen hours of the two men being locked in separate first floor bedrooms, guarded by the strongest wards Sirius could convince his house to create.

They’d had to add an extra strength silencing charm to the long-haired man’s room after about an hour. The less said about that, the better. Harry’s ears were still ringing.

Dumbledore’s eyes were rapidly losing their twinkle, and Tonks’ hair was staying stubbornly dark maroon despite any of her attempts to change it. Ron started carrying a wizards chess set he’d found in one of the drawing rooms around with him everywhere like an emotional support army of tiny marble people. Fred and George were suspiciously quiet—which didn’t bode well for anyone. Ginny’s hair was smoking, like literally smoking, as if to be a threat of what would happen to any person who pissed her off.

Harry was pretty sure that even Kreacher was feeling the stress; he’d watched the raggedy elf snarl and hiss at a stone gargoyle for ‘smiling too loudly in Mistress’s hallway.’ Harry didn’t know what happened after that, but an hour later the gargoyle was gone and the hallway had unnervingly clean floors.

Basically, everyone bar Harry had gone fully ‘round the bend.

It was the language barrier that was the main issue. The men had failed to understand even the slightest bit of English, though they were obviously wizards—what with how the long-haired one’s speech was interspaced with exclamations of ‘Merlin’ every couple of minutes whenever the two were in the same room.

Harry still wasn’t sure how the two had come to be in Grimmauld to begin with. The research efforts of Lupin and Hermione were focussed exclusively on how to solve the language problem, rather than anything about the men’s origins.

Which, for an investigation into two random people who got into their ‘impenetrable headquarters,’ was a pretty backwards set of priorities.

Harry was beginning to think that maybe the Order had a hand in bringing the men here. He knew you couldn’t accio a person thanks to his research for the first task, but maybe there was a way to do it with a different spell? Harry had no idea.

And if the Order had been the ones to bring the men here, as Harry was beginning to suspect, then why did no one know who they were?

Thirteen hours after the two men had somehow come to be in Grimmauld, Hermione raced into the dining room and slapped something down on the table. She had a wild look in her eye, similar to how she looked the time she held Rita Skeeter captive in a jar. Great.

Harry walked over to stare down at the scroll she’d laid down over the table. It was nonsense to him, but apparently meant something to the adults in the room.

Dumbledore perused the scroll. “It appears Miss Granger has discovered the solution to our guests’ problem.”

Harry made eye contact with Ron, who shrugged in response.

At least he could always count on Ron to be just as confused as he was.

Merlin was this close to lighting everyone in this house on fire, including himself. If it weren’t for the very real risk of killing Gwaine at the same time, he definitely would have done it by now.

He wasn’t sure how many hours it had been, but to Merlin it felt like an eternity. He was locked in a bedroom—or rather, he was in a room attempting to convince its inhabitants that it was a bedroom. The absence of anything even slightly resembling a bed made that an uphill battle. Merlin could relate, seeing as every bloody day was an uphill battle for him. The room didn’t even have a bed. A bedless room does not a bedroom make, in Merlin’s eyes.

The door (and furniture-void walls) were overlaid with more of the shimmering almost-magic. It made the whole room appear to be slightly swaying at all times, and Merlin had had to shut his eyes more than once to quell the nausea it was causing him.

Now, one may ask themselves at this time whether Merlin had attempted to escape during his hours of forced solitude. And to that person, Merlin would happily say; if he could have, he would have. Okay?

About two minutes into his captivity, Merlin had tried to break out. It had then taken he didn’t know how long for his hair to stop standing on end and for him to stop coughing up bright purple sparks. Like, actual sparks. He had burnt his tongue coughing them up. The wooden floorboards were riddled with tiny black marks where the sparks put themselves out as they made contact.

So, no. Merlin was happy to wait out for a while longer, as anything more strenuous on his behalf would likely bring the whole building down around him. He didn’t fancy testing his immortality today, thanks.

And really, he wasn’t totally alone. The stick-obsessed people had put Gwaine in one room over. Merlin was very, very, very aware of where Gwaine was at any given moment.

How did Merlin know, you ask?

Gwaine had a fantastic lung capacity and knew a wide variety of drinking songs.

Merlin plastered his hands over his ears as Gwaine’s current song reached another screeching crescendo.

He had been going for hours .

On second thoughts, Merlin might just burn the whole place down anyway. Gwaine included.

Fortunately for Gwaine, Merlin’s door was opened before he had the chance to act on his (somewhat murderous) plans.

It was the (hopefully) colourblind man from earlier who opened the door. His robes were now the brightest green Merlin had ever seen. He was tempted to shield his eyes. The bearded old man had a stick held in one hand as he pushed Merlin’s door open.

He moved the stick forward in Merlin’s direction.

Not this shit again.

Merlin eyed him warily. “Don’t even—”

There was a flash of red, and Merlin knew no more.

Chapter Text

“So, now what?” Harry murmured to  Hermione.

Dumbledore and Remus stood over the two men, who were bound to the same chairs as before by a couple of well-performed incarcerouses. Fred and George had volunteered to cast them, and had done so with a viciousness that made Harry wince. Both the visitors were unconscious, which was probably for the best—Merlin knew Harry would be panicking if he was the one tied up with two wizards he didn’t know holding him at wandpoint.

He forcefully stopped his mind from sending him back to the memory of the graveyard, when he was tied up to Tom Riddle Senior’s gravestone. Bad brain, don’t think about that shit. There weren’t any Death Eaters here, he reminded himself. Real Mad-Eye Moody—who stood like a ghoul in the corner, eye flicking from one side of the room to another constantly—was creepy, but he wasn’t a Death Eater in disguise anymore.

“Professor Dumbledore and Lupin are going to cast a language-bestowing working,” Hermione said, eyes bright and grin widening with each word. Harry took a small step away from her. Yeah, he has self preservation sometimes when it’s really necessary, shut up. “They need two people for it. It’s fascinating, really. Their wand movements must be mirrored, so ideally one caster should be left handed for the spell to take, and both casters must chant the incantation in ancient greek whilst mentally repeating a translation of the incantation in the desired language. Honestly, it’s no wonder it’s so rare. I cannot believe we were able to find it in Sirius’ library!”

Ron sent a baffled look at Harry over Hermione’s head. Harry doesn’t know what his face is doing, but Ron must take it as commiserating.

“Whatever you say, Hermione,” Ron said. “I’m just happy we don’t have to be the ones casting it on them.”

Hermione huffed. “Well, we would struggle to even attempt it. None of us are left handed, Ronald.”

“George is left handed, isn’t he?” Harry said.

“What do you mean?” Ron frowned at Harry. “No he’s not.”

“He definitely is.” At least, Harry was like, eighty percent certain of it, anyway. It was the only reason he was so good at telling them apart. Even the Marauder’s Map got it wrong sometimes.

The three of them looked across at the twins in unison. The twins, who had almost certainly been listening in, grinned widely and switched which hand they were holding their wands in.

“Eh.” Ron shrugged. “Best to leave some mysteries alone, I guess.” Then, he turned a smile at Harry. “Not that you’d know anything about that, mate.”

Harry reached around Hermione and slugged Ron in the shoulder. Ron let out a loud snort, and Hermione reached a hand up to cover her smile.

“If we could have silence in the room please,” Professor Dumbledore said calmly, not looking in their direction. “I’m afraid that any interruptions shall mean we restrict the number of persons allowed to watch the proceedings.”

The implication that its was the youngest who’d be asked to leave first was not lost on Harry. He glared at Ron, who, like a prick, waggled his eyebrows and put a finger to his lips. He saw Hermione rolling her eyes at them both, as if she’d been any better. Harry felt a rush of affection for his best  friends.

Lupin and Dumbledore both started to chant and wave their wands over the skinnier man. A light blue cloud formed over him slowly, growing more opaque with each word of the spell. It soon covered the skinny man completely, obscuring him from Harry’s view. After a minute or so, Lupin and Dumbledore stopped casting and the blue seemed to be absorbed by the bound man. The two professors started again on the long-haired one.

Their chanting reminded Harry of Dudley’s shitty rap music he used to play at full volume, the way the professors spoke rapidly with no breaks. Add some background music or beatboxing and they’d be near indistinguishable to Harry’s ear.

Of course, it must be noted that Harry James Potter had about as much musical know-how and talent as a rabies-infested grindylow on copious amounts of cocaine. ‘The Boy Who Lived to be Tone Deaf’ would not be an inaccurate pseudonym for the poor boy. Being raised in a cupboard did not lend oneself to being musically literate.

If the narrator had happened to be one Hermione Jean Granger instead, who had been in piano lessons from a very early age, one may have been blessed with a far better comparison as to the musicality of the spell. Alas, shit happens.

Gwaine awoke with a splitting headache. He opened his eyes before slamming them closed again against the brightness of the room.

He was tied to a chair again, the numbness of his left buttock telling him that this was not a recent development. He tilted his head from side to side and cracked his neck loudly while waiting for his eyes to adjust. Gwaine couldn’t be certain how many people were in the room, but he thought he could hear at least three people breathing other than him.

“Why.” Gwaine heard a low grumble next to him. Could it be…? “What the fuck did I do to deserve this. Fucking… sticks. I hate sticks.”

Gwaine opened his eyes. There, bound tightly to his own chair beside Gwaine, was Merlin.

“Merlin!” Gwaine grinned at his friend. “Are you alright, my friend?”

Merlin’s face screwed up and he looked Gwaine up and down. “Why are you talking like that?” He asked. “I can still understand you, but you’re speaking another language. How…?”

Gwaine had no idea what Merlin was talking about, and was just about to inform him so when they were rudely interrupted.

“Please, there is no need to panic, my boys.” The old man was stood in front of them, joined by the scarred, poorly dressed man from before. The teenagers Gwaine had seen earlier were stood against one wall, and the man with the magic eye was glaring from a corner. The old man had a kind smile on his face, and his eyes were twinkling brightly. Gwaine hated him more and more by the second, and from the heat radiating from Merlin beside him, Gwaine assumed his friend felt the same.

Merlin must have an iron grip over his magic to be emitting that much heat without setting anything on fire. Gwaine felt a sense of pride at his friend’s abilities.

It was almost offensive that Merlin didn’t think Gwaine knew about his magic, but Gwaine wasn’t going to burst his bubble over it. Not all of the knights were as selectively blind as Arthur. Plus, Merlin tended to only make sure Arthur was knocked out before doing some spell, and Gwaine hasn’t the heart to remind him that the rest of the knights aren’t reliant on Arthur’s consciousness to still be awake and aware. He did wonder why Merlin hadn’t broken them out of their bonds already, but Gwaine was sure Merlin had his reasons.

“Did you even hear what he just said?” Merlin broke Gwaine from his considerations. The old man had paused his talking at some point while Gwaine was zoned out. Merlin looked exceptionally pissed off for some reason. Probably the kidnapping.

“Not even remotely,” Gwaine smiled.

Merlin was glaring at him. “If I had to listen to drinking songs for the last however-many-hours, you can listen to a single explanation for why you’re speaking another language, Gwaine.”

Okay, well that explained why Merlin looked angry. Though, the kidnapping likely hadn’t helped Merlin’s mood, either.

“I’ve been told by many that I’ve the voice of an angel,” Gwaine sniffed.

“You’ve met a lot of liars,” Merlin deadpanned. “Can you really not tell the difference between how I’m speaking and how you’re speaking?”

“I cannot.”

Gwaine heard Merlin sigh under his breath. “Fantastic.”

At least Gwaine could always rely on Merlin being optimistic enough for the both of them. Merlin was a better man than any other, and Gwaine was lucky to count him as one of his closest friends.

Merlin was so close to burning the whole house down. So, so close.

Gwaine was still grinning guilelessly at him. Merlin would be sure to murder him first when he was surely driven to homicide.

Merlin could feel the new language trying to force its way through his mouth, and he doubled down on pushing it back with his magic. Gwaine was obviously a lost cause, but Merlin could still communicate with him without their kidnappers understanding, even if the knight couldn’t do it back.

“It seems I’ve forgotten to introduce myself!” The walking rainbow said jovially, eyes as bright as his robes. “My name is Albus Dumbledore. Now, I must ask, who are you both?”

Merlin turned to Gwaine and said in the common tongue; “Do not answer him.”

“I don’t think it will make that much of a difference,” Gwaine said. “But if this is like your You-Know-Who plan, I won’t argue, mate.”

The room erupted in noise at Gwaine’s words.

For fuck’s sake, what now?

Chapter Text

The Weird-Eye Man in the corner yelled something incomprehensibly, pointing a finger and generally causing Merlin a headache.

The red haired twins were shouting about eating death, Dumbledore (and thank fuck one person had introduced themselves, Merlin was getting sick of describing them all in his head) was mumbling to himself and genuinely rubbing his hands together. The frizzy-haired girl had turned to the other teenagers and was speaking frantically to them. Merlin swore he heard the scarred man in front of them start growling at Merlin and Gwaine, but that surely wasn’t right.

Merlin wanted to bash his head against the floor again. Maybe if he tilted his chair far enough and positioned his head just right he could put himself out of his misery. Was it too much to ask that Gwaine not say every thought that came into his head?

“Did I say something wrong?” Gwaine hissed to Merlin.

“Well it wasn’t anything I said,” Merlin told him quietly, still speaking in the Common Tongue. “It tends to make plans less effective when you immediately tell the enemy about them.” Be calm, Merlin. Be calm . He consciously unclenched his fists where they were tied behind his back and breathed in and out once deeply before continuing. “I doubt they actually know who you meant. Do not give them any more information.”

Gwaine nodded slowly. “Perhaps they intend to make us admit for whom we stand by making it seem as though they already know who we are referencing to,” Gwaine whispered quickly. “A bluff! You know who, and I know who, and they want us to think that they know who too, but they in fact do not know who!”

Merlin stared at Gwaine. Gwaine, looking incredibly proud of himself, smiled brightly back at Merlin. Merlin doesn’t think Gwaine heard the words that came out of his mouth, sometimes. It actually pained Merlin a little bit to understand the gods-awful language they had somehow forced upon Gwaine and himself (the language had settled in a corner of Merlin’s mind, ready and waiting for him to use it).

Of all the convoluted shit Merlin had heard people say (usually just before they try to kill Arthur), that sentence of Gwaine’s had to be one of the very worst. Merlin knows how to pick his battles, though.

“Sure,” Merlin said. “Sounds about right.”

Gwaine nodded smugly to himself. If only Merlin could tell Gwaine about his magic, he could use his frustration to burn the ropes around them to ash. Gwaine was forgiving in nature and raised outside Camelot where magic was treated more as a tool than a weapon, but Merlin still felt as if a stone were lodged in his throat at the thought of telling Gwaine he was magic.

If only he hadn’t been so good at hiding his abilities, maybe they could have escaped long before now. Though, Merlin reminded himself, the mimicry of magic these people had seemed to be incompatible to his own.

They all had that same displacement in the air around them, some more noticeable than others. Could he call it an aura? It didn’t look like any aura he’d heard described in his (very limited) spell-books, but he supposed it was the closest word he had.

Dumbledore’s was almost as headache-inducing as his fashion choices, making Merlin feel almost as though he was viewing him through water. Strangely, the strongest aura other than Dumbledore’s belonged to the dark haired boy standing off to the side. So it wasn’t a person’s age that decided how strong their aura was, but rather some other qualifier.

Either way, he would not be attempting any magical escape plans while two people with such significant auras were in the room. Nor would he be attempting anything while Gwaine was at risk of discovering his magic.

At least the walls weren’t quite so shimmery anymore. Coughing up purple sparks, he reminded himself, was not enjoyable. Honestly, remaining kidnapped may be preferable to imitating Kilgharrah and spewing fire out of his mouth again. Surely being a Dragonlord should have come with some kind of flame-resistance, but apparently not. No, that would have been far too useful.

Merlin watched as Dumbledore waved his stick through the air, and a new shimmery wall appeared and bisected the room in two. Merlin, Gwaine, Dumbledore, the man with scars on his face, and the man with the magical eye on one side—the teenagers on the other. Merlin couldn’t hear what the teenagers were saying anymore, but from the looks on their faces they weren’t pleased with the new situation.

Freaky-Eye-Man thumped forward.

“So,” he spat. Actually spat . Merlin felt spittle land on his brow. “You admit to working for You-Know-Who.”

“I wouldn’t say we—“

“Gwaine, shut up. ”

Dumbledore cleared his throat and looked at Merlin pointedly. “If we could keep the conversation to English please, gentlemen. We wouldn’t want anything to become lost in translation after all that time spent finding a language-bestowing spell.”

Merlin glared up at him and said nothing.

“Alas,” Dumbledore sighed. “I had anticipated this.” He withdrew a small vial from somewhere in his robes. “This is a variation of Veritaserum brewed by a friend of mine.” The man paused as if waiting for a reaction. He raised an eyebrow at the both of them when they stared blankly in response. “Just three drops each will do the trick, I expect. Remus, if you’d be so kind?”

The man with scars across his face, apparently named Remus, took the vial and opened it above Merlin’s head.

Merlin pulled both his lips into his mouth and bit down tightly. He was not drinking a random potion.

Absolutely the fuck not.

They’d have to force it down his throat. They’d need to hold him down and pray to whichever gods they worshipped that he didn’t burn them to a crisp for even trying to dose him. Lightning would rain down upon them, just as Nimue met her demise, so shall they. Merlin would destroy their entire bloodlines before submitting to—

It took about two minutes of the newly-dubbed Remus pinching Merlin’s nose shut for him to give in. Was Merlin proud of it? No. But, then again, Gwaine didn’t even try to resist. He had stuck his tongue out immediately, like an idiot.

Merlin could feel whatever the potion was seeping through his thoughts, compelling him to speak. It was insidious, but not impossible to overcome. Just as he thought this, he felt a wave of something wash over him.

Unbeknownst to Merlin, this particular variant of Veritaserum made the drinker incredibly happy to engage in candid conversation without simply turning into a question-answering robot like one under normal Veritaserum tends to. It was, essentially, weaponised liquid goodwill. Ironic, really, considering the greasy-haired man who created it.

“Now, I must ask,” Dumbledore said. “Do you boys work for You-Know-Who?”

“I wouldn’t say we work for him,” Gwaine said cheerfully. “We’re more-so brothers in arms, I’d say.”

“You-Know-Who has no ‘brothers in arms,’” Weird-Eye-Man hissed. “He only has followers. Minions.”

“Excuse you,” Merlin said in the kidnapper’s language, unable to stop himself thanks to the potion’s interference. “We’re not anyone’s minions.”

“Being a Knight is an honour,” Gwaine said proudly.

“A Knight?!” Dumbledore gasped. His eyes widened and Merlin heard him mutter something about time under his breath. “Do you mean to tell me you’re Knights of Walpurgis?”

“Gesundheit,” Gwaine said.

“Knight of…” Merlin screwed his face up. “Knight of Wal—what now?”

“The original followers of You-Know-Who!” Weird-Eye-Man exclaimed. (And yes, Merlin was just as annoyed with the lack of names given to him as any other sane person would be.)

“You know what, I’m beginning to think I don’t know who,” Merlin said. He flopped his head to the side to look at Gwaine. “Maybe it’s not a bluff, just more than one.”

“We’re definitely talking about more than one You-Know-Who,” Gwaine agreed, a serious look on his face as he nodded wildly. Merlin giggled a little at Gwaine’s hair flying around his face.

“Multiple You-Know-Whos.” Dumbledore looked disturbed. “I had suspected… but to have his resurrection occur in such a way…”

“Resurrection?!” Merlin had to cut in. He felt almost drunk, and any inhibitions he’d had about talking were long gone. “We’re absolutely talking about different You-Know-Whos.”

“We should call your You-Know-Who ‘You-Know-Who.’ And call our You-Know-Who ‘You-Know-Who-Two!’” Gwaine said, with the confidence of a man who had no idea what he was talking about.

“That’s the whole problem, though,” Merlin pointed out.

“No…” Gwaine said, frowning. “That would fix it.”

Merlin squinted at his friend. “Do you mean ‘You-Know-Who too’ or ‘You-Know-Who-Two’?”

“You just said the same thing twice, mate.”

“This language is hell.” Merlin looked down at the ropes binding his arms. “Frankly, this conversation would be a lot easier if I could use hand gestures right now.”

One of the men, Remus, tried to get the conversation back on track. He looked absolutely defeated as he asked; “Are either of you Death Eaters? Or Knights of Walpurgis, I suppose.”

Before Merlin could answer, Crazy-Eye spoke up. “The only Knight still alive is Nott.”

“Not what?” Gwaine asked.

“Cantankerous Nott.”

“That’s…” Merlin was so fucking confused right now. He could feel the joy of the potion beginning to wear off. Glancing at Gwaine, he must have felt the same. “You just added a noun?”

“Adjective,” Remus said quickly, almost like a reflex. The man grimaced immediately after speaking.

There was a beat of silence.

“Please don’t make me more fluent in this shitty language than you’ve already forced me to be,” Merlin deadpanned.

“I’d say these knots are more stubborn than cantankerous,” Gwaine said, looking down at the ropes consideringly.

Merlin watched Remus drop his head into his hands, and couldn’t help but feel sympathy for the man. This had to be the worst interrogation to have ever occurred. Like, Merlin genuinely wanted to sit them all down and give them some tips at this point.

He rolled his head to the side and Dumbledore start talking again. Merlin decided to take a leaf out of Gwaine’s book and started to hum loudly. After all, it wasn’t like he could answer questions he was unable to hear.

Harry was rapidly losing respect for the older members of the Order. He listened to the conversation happening behind the one way sound ward with growing incredulity. Eventually, both the men stopped replying and hummed loudly instead. Harry honestly couldn’t blame them in the slightest.

“Have they considered that maybe, just maybe, he’s an actual knight?” Harry had to be going insane. There was no way this was what his life was like.

“How’d you figure that?” Ron asked, looking at Harry with a raised eyebrow.

“He’s wearing chainmail, Ronald.” Hermione sighed. “You know, this is what happens when an entire society doesn’t begin standardised schooling until age eleven.”

Harry nodded his head solemnly.