Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The defiant one, born as summer turns,
Marked as equal, yet the throne he spurns.
The shadowed king's grip, a fate designed,
One must perish, their paths intertwined.

Trust not the hand that points the road,
For brightest lanterns cast the darkest code.
The sea's own heir, with blood of old,
Shall break the lie when waves strike gold—
And from the ash, the storm takes hold.

When the last spark of Albion's light
Is choked by the hand that claims the right,
A scion of ancient mage, long held fast,
Shall break the chains of ages past.

Through trials three of blood and bone,
Where lies are carved in hallowed stone,
The false sage's reign shall meet its doom,
When star and storm breach the tomb.

And lo! The marked child shall see,
The puppet strings binding destiny,
For neither can live while both remain,
When truth comes not by joy, but pain.

╰ ૮꒰ ˶• ༝ •˶꒱ა ╮ 〰

Chapter Text

If Weirdness Were an Olympic Sport, I'd Have Gold Medals.

Most kids worry about normal stuff—homework, bullies, whether their crush likes them back. Me? I was the reigning champion of 'What Fresh Disaster Is This?'

Take my eighth birthday. All I wanted was that blue stuffed whale on the top shelf at Toys "R" Us. When Mum said no, I threw the kind of tantrum that makes parents consider giving their kids up for adoption. Then—BAM—every blue whale in the store launched itself at me like some kind of plushie missile strike. I still find bits of polyester stuffing in my socks sometimes.

Or third grade, when my class took a field trip to the aquarium. One minute I'm staring at a hammerhead shark, the next, my entire grade is doing synchronized swimming with the marine life. The best part? Everyone else looked like they'd taken a dive in a pool after getting out. Me? Dry as a bone. Try explaining that to Mrs. Henderson, who was already two seconds away from quitting teaching forever.

Mum says even weirder stuff happened when I was a baby, but she refuses to give details, and I try not to dwell on those. Knowing my luck, it probably involved exploding diapers and rogue garden gnomes.

The point is, I thought I'd seen it all.

Then an owl crapped in my cereal.

Not a metaphor. An actual, living barn owl, the kind that usually hangs out in spooky barns and makes noises that sound like dying cats. And it swooped through the open window into the room – thanks to Mum's obsession with "fresh air," which I'm pretty sure is code for "eavesdropping on the neighbors" – scattering cereal and orange juice like a feathered hurricane.

The owl dropped a thick envelope of heavy parchment, sealed with crimson wax, right into my bowl of soggy Frosted Flakes. The wax was a fancy crest with a lion, an eagle, a badger, and a snake all crammed around a big, ominous "H." Then, it perched on top of the refrigerator, staring at me like I owed it money. Or maybe like I was a particularly delicious mouse.

"Shoo!" I said, waving a spoon dripping with sugary milk. "Go on! Get out of here!" The owl just blinked those amber eyes. It was clearly unimpressed with my spoon-wielding skills. I swear, it looked like it was thinking, Kid, I deliver mail to actual wizards. A little milk-soaked spoon ain't gonna scare me.

Mum walked in, wiping flour-covered hands on her apron. "What's all the—" Her eyes locked onto the owl. "Is that an owl?" she demanded, her face going through different expressions—disbelief, fear, resignation—before finally landing on irritation.

"It brought me mail," I said, poking the now-soggy envelope. "And I think it's judging my life choices."

Mum's face did this weird twitchy thing where it couldn't decide between laughing or screaming. Finally, she settled on a strangled sigh. "Let me see that."

Before I could react, she snatched the letter and—in one fluid motion—flung it into the stove where it burst into green flames.

"Hey!" I yelped. "What the—"

"You are not going to Hogwarts." Mum's voice had that steel-edge she only used when she meant business.

"But—"

"No buts, Percy." She turned to face me fully, and for the first time I noticed how pale she'd gone. "You don't need to have the burden of that world. You will soon have enough on your plate."

The owl let out an offended hoot.

Mum spun toward it. "And you can tell Dumbledore—" She grabbed the nearest object (which happened to be a rolling pin) and brandished it like a sword. "—that we want nothing to do with his schemes!"

The owl took off so fast it left feathery afterimages, crashing through the still-open window in its haste to escape.

Silence settled over the kitchen. My cereal was ruined. The window was broken. And Mum was still clutching that rolling pin like it was the only thing keeping her upright.

"Mum," I said slowly, "what aren't you telling me?"

Mum's expression tightened, her gaze darting around the kitchen as if she expected Devil himself to pop out of the pantry. "Percy, there are things about our family you don't know. Things about our ancestry."

"Our ancestry?" I echoed, feeling bewildered, "What do you mean? You've always said we're just normal people. Well, somewhat normal. I mean, we did have all those weird incidents..."

Mum sighed, rubbing her temples like she was trying to massage away a headache. She took a deep breath, gathering herself, and let the bomb drop, "We are last direct descendants of Merlin."

The name hit me like a bullet, and my jaw dropped. "We're related to the Merlin? The wizard from the legends? As in, the guy with the pointy hat and the beard and the whole 'pulling the sword from the stone' King Arthur's Merlin?"

Mum nodded, looking both serious and a little anxious. "Yes, that Merlin. But it's not all epic quests and magical adventures." Under her breath, she added, "But he was still more of a 'mysterious dark-hooded guy' if the family portraits are correct."

I blinked. "We have family portraits?"

"Oh, loads," Mum said, waving a hand like this was no big deal. "Most of them are cursed, though. One tried to turn me into a newt when I was twelve. Took three days to reverse the spell—had to eat nothing but pickled herring until my fingers stopped being scaly."

I stared at her. "You're joking."

"Do I look like I'm joking?" She held up her hands. "I still can't stand the smell of fish. But that's not the point."

She lowered her voice, "Nobody can know about our ancestry. Nobody can even know that the line has lived on."

"But why?" I pressed.

Mum's grip on the rolling pin tightened until her knuckles turned white. She glanced at the broken window, then back at me, her voice dropping to a whisper.

"Merlin's blood brings special abilities—powers that should seem impossible."

I swallowed. "So... what? People want to, what, steal it?"

"Some do." Her eyes darkened. "Others want to destroy it before it can be used. There are factions—secret ones, even in the wizarding world—who've spent centuries hunting down Merlin's descendants. They believe the bloodline is too dangerous to exist."

A cold knot twisted in my stomach. "But we're not dangerous. I mean, unless you count the time I accidentally turned Mrs. Henderson's wig into a family of angry ferrets—"

"Percy." Mum's voice was sharp. "This isn't about what we've done. It's about what we could do. Merlin didn't just pull swords from stones—he shaped kingdoms. Wars. Fate itself. And there are people who think that kind of power should never be passed on."

I stared at her. "So... what? They're going to, what, kill us?"

Mum hesitated, and that was answer enough. "Or control us," she added. "And the headmaster of that school—the one that just sent you an admission letter—is one of them. He'd want to control us."

The kitchen felt too small suddenly, the walls pressing in. I looked down at my ruined cereal, the milk now tinted green from the ashes of the letter.

"So what do we do?" I asked.

Mum exhaled, setting the rolling pin down. "We stay hidden. We don't draw attention. And most importantly—" She fixed me with a look that brooked no argument. "—you stay awayfrom Hogwarts. It is a good thing that Dumbledore does not know about my heritage when I ran away from that world."

I wanted to argue. I wanted to ask a million questions—about Merlin, about magic, about why the heck an owl had just dive-bombed my breakfast. But the look in Mum's eyes stopped me.

She was scared.

And if Mum was scared... that meant we were in real trouble.

╰ ૮꒰ ˶• ༝ •˶꒱ა ╮ 〰

We spent the rest of the day pretending the morning's incident never happened—until another owl crashed through the window at dinner.

This one had better aim. It arrowed straight for Mum like a feathery missile, dropping a mail onto her lap before beating a hasty retreat. The envelope looked identical to mine—thick parchment, crimson wax seal with that fancy "H" crest. The whole magical special delivery package.

Mum picked it up like it might explode. (Given my track record, not an unreasonable fear.) She cracked the seal, scanned the letter—and all the color drained from her face.

"Uh-oh," I said around a mouthful of meatloaf. "That's your 'the laundry just started folding itself into attack origami' face."

She didn't laugh. Not a good sign.

"It's from the deputy Headmistress," Mum said, voice tight. "She says..." Her fingers crumpled the edges of the parchment. "She says if you don't respond by tomorrow, a professor will come to 'personally ensure the invitation is received.'"

I nearly choked on my green beans. "They're sending a wizard to our house? Like... a home invasion but with magic wands?"

Mum cursed under her breath, "Damn that old goat!" She sprang up like she'd been electrocuted and stormed into her room. A few crashes later — plus what sounded like a very creative string of profanity which I had never heard her use — she emerged wielding a stick.

No. Not a stick.

A wand.

Before I could ask, she dove under the sink like a woman possessed and emerged with a plain white bowl—the kind you'd use for cereal, not whatever magic nonsense she was clearly up to.

"What's it for?" I asked, my mind racing through possibilities: Nothing came up. Unless she was planning to prepare cereal for our guests.

"A scrying bowl," Mum said, already carving runes into the ceramic with a butter knife. "Or, more specifically, a fortune bowl. It lets us peek into the near future."

"Look into the future!?" I yelped. "Since when can we do that?"

Mum shot me a look — the one usually reserved for when I asked why I couldn't just fix the leaky faucet by yelling at it. "Since always. Now hush. And don't blink."

She filled the bowl with water, muttered something that made my ears buzz, and—

The water in the scrying bowl shimmered, then darkened into an inky void before resolving into an unfamiliar scene:

A great hall, lit by floating candles. Long wooden tables packed with students in black robes. At the front, an ancient-looking three-legged stool sat with a tattered, pointed hat resting on it.

My stomach dropped. "Uh... Mum? What is this?"

Mum's grip tightened on the bowl. "Quiet. Watch."

The image zoomed in — and there, walking nervously toward the stool, was Percy himself.

Mum's knuckles were white around the scrying bowl. I stared at my own face in the dark water—my hair sticking up like I'd been electrocuted, my eyes wide with the kind of terror usually reserved for surprise math tests and spiders in my socks.

The vision-me reached the stool. A teacher—a stern-looking witch with square glasses—placed the tattered hat on my head.

And then the hat moved.

Not like, oh, it slipped a little. No. It twitched. Then its brim opened like a mouth, and—

Mum slammed her hand over the bowl. The water sloshed, the image shattered, and the kitchen light flickered.

"That's enough," she said, voice tight.

"But—!" I yelped. "The hat was gonna talk! Since when do hats talk?!"

Mum massaged her temples. "Since wizards decided being normal was overrated." She dumped the water into the sink with a splash. "Point is, we can't let that happen."

"But—" I flailed, "—that was Hogwarts, right? And I was there! Which means—"

"Which means nothing," Mum cut in. "Scrying shows possibilities, Percy. Not certainties. The future is a liar. It tells you what you want to hear so it can stab you in the back later."

I blinked. "That's... weirdly specific."

Mum ignored me, pacing the kitchen like a caged tiger. "They're coming tomorrow. Which means we have until sunrise to disappear."

My stomach dropped again. "Disappear? Like... leave the country?"

"If we have to." She grabbed a duffel bag from the hall closet and started throwing things in—a jar of peanut butter, a flashlight, a very suspicious-looking bundle of dried herbs. "Pack only what you can carry. And no incidents on the way out."

My mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. I looked like a goldfish that had just been told its bowl was about to be drop-kicked.

Mum was halfway through stuffing a loaf of bread into her duffel bag when I finally spoke up.

"This is a terrible plan."

She didn't even look up. "Percy, we don't have time—"

"No, listen!" I grabbed her arm. "Running away is just gonna make them more suspicious! If we bolt in the middle of the night, they'll know we're hiding something!"

Mum froze, her grip on the glowing jam jar tightening like it was the only thing keeping her from screaming. The purple light pulsed in rhythm with her twitching eye. "Oh brilliant," she said, voice dripping with sarcasm thicker than the suspicious jam. "So your grand plan is to sit here like a duck in a shooting gallery until they barrel our door down?"

"Not a duck," I corrected. "A secret agent duck."

Her eyebrows attempted to escape into her hairline.

I plowed on before she could argue. "We tell them I'm not some legendary Merlin-descended freakshow. Just your average, garden-variety wizard kid whose mum got fed up with the Wizarding World's whole 'let's pretend it's still the 12th century' vibe." I grinned, the plan stitching itself together in my head. "We play dumb. Act impressed by Dumbledore's whole 'wonderful and benevolent grandfather act' thing —" I mimed gagging at that. "—while secretly plotting his downfall."

Mum's expression flickered between disbelief and reluctant consideration. The jam jar's glow dimmed slightly as her grip loosened. "You want to... lie to Albus Dumbledore?" she said slowly, like the words tasted bad. "One of the most powerful wizard alive?"

I shrugged. "What's he gonna do, peek inside my head and find out I'm really thinking about how much I want to set his beard on fire?"

Mum's mouth twitched—almost a smile, but not quite. The jam jar's glow flickered uncertainly, casting eerie purple shadows across her face. "Percy, you don't understand. Dumbledore isn't just powerful. He's clever. He's the kind of wizard who plays chess with real people as pawns and wins. That's exactly what he would do to every student who goes to Hogwarts."

I crossed my arms. "Yeah, well, running won't help, so we might as well out-stupid him."

Mum blinked. "Out-stupid him?"

"Yeah!" I grinned. "Dumbledore expects schemers. He expects people trying to outthink him. But you know what he doesn't expect?" I leaned in. "A complete and utter disaster."

Mum opened her mouth—then closed it. The jam jar's glow pulsed once, then steadied into a warm, approving violet.

"...Merlin's socks," she muttered. "That might actually work."

"So... we're doing this?" I grinned.

She hesitated, then muttered something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like, "We're all going to die." But then she squared her shoulders like she was psyching herself up to wrestle a grizzly bear and nodded. "Fine. But we're doing this my way, at least until you stop being clueless about..." She waved a hand vaguely. "Everything."

She fixed me with a look so intense I half-expected her eyes to start shooting lasers. "Rule one: Nobody is safe," she said, ticking off fingers. "Professors? Probably Dumbledore's spies. Portraits? Snitches and spies. Students? Half are spies, and the rest will get you killed by being annoying."

I blinked, "So... trust no one?"

"Trust no one." Mum nodded, "Except if I say the go-on, then maybe you can trust that person. But otherwise. Trust. No. One." She punctuated the last three words by jabbing her finger into my chest like she was trying to activate my secret self-destruct button.

╰ ૮꒰ ˶• ༝ •˶꒱ა ╮ 〰

The next morning, we waited. Mum had spent the night doing her best impression of a deranged cleaning fairy. By sunrise, the kitchen looked like it had never been assaulted by an owl with a grudge—windows repaired, cereal stains vanished, even the lingering smell of burnt parchment magicked away. (I suspected she'd used actual magic for that last part, but when I asked, she just muttered something about "lemon and spite" and shoved a toast in my mouth.)

I sat at the table, drumming my fingers nervously. "What if they don't come?"

Mum didn't look up from sharpening a butter knife with unsettling intensity. "Oh, they'll come."

As if on cue, there was a knock at the door.

Mum and I exchanged glances.

"Showtime," she muttered, shoving the knife into her apron pocket.

I took a deep breath, plastered on my best clueless kid face, and opened the door.

Standing on our porch was a woman who looked like she'd stepped right out of a Victorian nightmare. Tall, severe, with a pointed hat and robes so stiff they probably could've stood up on their own. Her glasses glinted in the morning light, hiding her eyes behind twin circles of reflected glare.

"Perseus Jackson?" she asked, voice crisp as autumn leaves.

Mum stepped forward, wiping her hands on her apron like she'd just been kneading dough and not preparing for magical espionage. "Minerva McGonagall," she said, voice carefully neutral. "It's been a long time."

The woman — McGonagall — stiffened slightly. "Sally." Her gaze flicked between us, sharp as a blade. "I see you've been... busy."

Mum's smile was tight. "Oh, you know. Raising a kid. Avoiding wizarding drama. The usual."

The air between them crackled with something unspoken. McGonagall's fingers twitched like she was resisting the urge to reach for her wand.

I cleared my throat loudly. "So. Uh. You're here about the letter?"

McGonagall's attention snapped back to me. "Yes." She reached into her robes and pulled out another envelope—identical to the one the owl had delivered, right down to the crimson seal. "Your acceptance to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Headmaster Dumbledore was... concerned when you didn't respond."

Mum crossed her arms. "We weren't planning to."

McGonagall's eyebrow arched. "That isn't your decision to make."

"It is when it's my son." Mum's voice had gone dangerously quiet.

For a moment, neither moved. Then McGonagall sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Sally, be reasonable. The boy clearly has magic. You can't just—"

"I can," Mum cut in. "And I will."

McGonagall's lips pressed into a thin line. Then, abruptly, she turned to me. "Perseus. What do you want?"

I opened my mouth—then hesitated. This was it. The moment to sell the act.

I let my eyes go wide, feigning excitement. "I mean... Hogwarts sounds amazing! Flying brooms! Spells! Talking hats!" I shot Mum a pleading look. "Can't I at least try it?"

Mum's expression darkened. "Percy—"

"He wants to come, Sally," McGonagall said smoothly. "Surely you won't deny him his birthright?"

Mum's jaw clenched. I could practically see the war raging behind her eyes—between keeping me safe and keeping up the ruse.

Finally, she exhaled sharply. "Fine."

McGonagall's posture relaxed slightly. "Excellent. We'll expect him on September first. The train leaves from King's Cross at—"

"But," Mum interrupted, "on one condition."

McGonagall paused. "Which is?"

Mum's smile was razor-thin. "I'm coming with him."

Silence.

McGonagall blinked. "What?"

"You heard me." Mum crossed her arms. "I'm not letting him go alone. If he's attending Hogwarts, I'm going as staff."

McGonagall's composure cracked. "Staff? Sally, you can't just—"

"Actually," Mum said sweetly, "I can. Last I checked, Dumbledore's been looking for a new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor. And coincidentally, I happen to be very qualified."

McGonagall looked like she'd swallowed a lemon. "You haven't practiced magic in years."

Mum's hand slipped into her apron pocket. "Want to test that theory?"

Another beat of silence. Then McGonagall exhaled through her nose. "I'll... speak to the Headmaster."

Mum nodded. "You do that."

McGonagall gave Mum a look that could've curdled milk. Then, without so much as a see you never, she inclined her head—just slightly, like a queen tolerating a peasant—and teleported away with a crack!

Mum slammed the door shut and whirled on me. "What the hell was that?"

I grinned. "Acting."

She groaned, dragging a hand down her face. "Merlin's soggy balls, Percy. We are so doomed."

I shrugged. "Eh. Could be worse."

"How?!"

I grinned. "At least we're not boring."

Mum stared at me. Then, slowly, she started laughing—a wild, slightly unhinged sound.

"Yeah," she said, shaking her head. "Definitely not boring."

Chapter Text

History: The Ambrosius family, otherwise known as the Emrys family to the British Wizarding World, was founded by Merlin's son, Meteor, in King Arthur's time.

Year: 731 A.D. Evening. Somewhere in a forest in England.

"Meteor! My son! Meteor! Where'd you run off to, you little lightning bolt?" Merlin called out, whacking his staff against the forest floor. "I told you not to wander off farther than you can throw a badger!"

"Up here!" A voice yelled from the top of a tree. "Come on, Dad! You gotta see this!"

"Oh, for the love of Excalibur," Merlin sighed. He waved his staff, muttered something about "gravity-defying shenanigans," and floated himself up to the tree. He landed on a branch right below his son.

Meteor was perched on the tippy-top branch, practically hugging the sky. When he saw his dad, he pointed like a kid who'd just spotted Santa Claus riding a unicorn. "I just saw a dragon! A huge, scaly, fire-breathing... thing flew right up into the sky!" His arms were waving around like he was trying to conduct an orchestra of squirrels.

Merlin squinted in the direction Meteor was pointing. All he saw were stars, which, admittedly, were pretty cool. "I'm sure you did, son," he said, trying not to sound too sarcastic. "Now come on, it's time to head back to the castle before the trolls start their midnight rave."

Meteor, being the stubborn, headstrong kid he was, crossed his arms and pouted. "I know you don't believe me!" He complained. "You took so long getting up here, you missed it! It was awesome!"

Merlin just smiled and gestured with his hand, like, chop chop, let's get a move on.

"Fine, fine, fine," the boy grumbled, standing up and trying to balance on the ridiculously thin tree branch. He glared back at the spot where he'd seen the dragon, then started walking towards his dad. Just before he reached him, one of his feet slipped on something slimy on the branch. Meteor fell backward, his eyes widening like he'd just seen a basilisk.

Time seemed to slow down, like one of those cheesy dramatic scenes in a play. Meteor fell backward in slow motion, his face a mask of pure terror, while his dad watched, looking like he'd just been told the cafeteria was serving broccoli for the rest of eternity. Then, time sped back up, and Meteor screamed, "FATHER!" right before plummeting fifty feet.

Merlin was so stunned, he forgot he could use magic to save his son. "METEOR!" he yelled, like that was going to help. He immediately jumped down from the tree, flicked his wrist to soften his landing (thank goodness for basic spells), and rushed towards where he figured his son was going to land.

As he neared a clearing, he heard two voices giggling. One of them definitely sounded like his son. He crashed through the bushes like a clumsy rhinoceros and landed right on top of a... puddle?

"Father!" Meteor cried out, sounding more surprised than hurt.

"Oh, my Meteor!" Merlin jumped up immediately and almost crushed his son in a hug. "You're safe! You're alive! I thought I'd lost you to the squirrels of doom!"

Meteor didn't look quite as thrilled to see his dad. Instead, he was staring at the puddle of water on the grass with a look of pure horror, like it was about to sprout legs and attack. "Father! You're standing on a Vilia!"

Merlin jumped back like he'd been stung by a thousand bees. "Vilia? Where? Where?" He looked around wildly, then saw his son pointing at the wet patch on the grass. Merlin turned pale. "Oh, no."

"Oh, no indeed," an airy, cool voice sounded in the clearing. "You have no idea how much that tickled." The puddle of water rose into the air and formed a pale-blue woman with wavy blue hair and eyes as clear as a mountain spring. "Is this what I get for saving your son? Merlin Ambrosius, the Dragon-lord, and close advisor of his majesty King Arthur." She leaned forward, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "I wonder, has your pride finally short-circuited your brain?"

Merlin stared at the woman, his jaw hanging open like a drawbridge. "What is your motive for appearing before us, Vilia?" He said the last word like it tasted like dirt. "It is not in your kind's nature to do... anything helpful!"

"My name," the Vilia said, her voice turning icy, "is Cordelia, proud descendant of the sea, and you will use it when you address me! And it's none of your beeswax, druid, what I can and cannot do. Maybe I was just bored." She turned into a blob of water and zipped away into the forest, probably to go haunt a swimming pool.

Meteor stared after the blob for a second, then rounded on his father, his face red with anger. "Look what you did! Cordelia saved me! She healed me from my injuries from the fall, and you come along and scare her off with your... your Merlin-ness!"

"Vilias are not to be trusted, my son," Merlin told him gravely. "They may seem kind, but every creature has an agenda, a hidden motive. They're like politicians, only with more scales."

"You're saying that as if we humans don't have agendas!" Meteor raised his voice. "You're saying that all other creatures, except for humans, are evil! That's so... species-ist!"

"I never said that!"

"You heavily implied it!"

"Well, excuse me if I don't trust any creature after spending most of my life fighting against them!" Merlin shouted back, his voice echoing through the trees. "It's not like they send thank-you notes after trying to eat you!"

"That doesn't mean Vilias are evil!" Meteor retorted. "Everyone knows they're peaceful and kind! They're like the dolphins of the spirit world!"

"That's what they want you to think!"

Meteor glowered at his father, his eyes flashing. "Well, then I'm afraid I don't agree with you there," he said quietly, a stark contrast to Merlin's shouting. "You're being completely unreasonable."

"I'm sorry, son," Merlin said, lowering his voice. "I shouldn't have raised my voice. But I'm doing this for your own protection."

"But you still think every creature is not to be trusted, except for humans."

"Yes." It was an immediate reply, as firm as a granite boulder.

"I can't live with that," Meteor said, looking away and trying to blink back tears. "I already had some doubts about the way you treat creatures, ever since I saw you ignore that nymph who was stuck in a tree when I was six. But this? This is my breaking point."

"What?" Merlin asked, confused.

Meteor's voice wobbled like a Jenga tower about to collapse. "I can't live with your... your worldview. It's too... black and white. Too... boring." Meteor turned away from his father. "And I won't. You can't force me to accept your beliefs. I'm not one of your enchanted suits of armor."

"If I must, I have to," Merlin said, extending a hand towards his son. "It's for your own safety, Meteor. I can't let you run off and get eaten by a griffin because you think it just wants a hug."

Meteor turned and gave his father a tight hug, like he was saying goodbye. After a few seconds, he whispered, "Sorry, Father, but I can't accept it. I have to see things for myself." And he pushed him away. He then turned and ran towards the forest, away from his father, away from safety, and into the darkness.

Merlin stood there, the silence after Meteor's departure ringing in his ears louder than any dragon's roar. He watched the forest swallow his son whole, a knot of regret tightening in his chest.

"Well," he muttered to himself, the word tasting like ash. "That's just...perfect." He wanted to chase after Meteor, to drag him back and lock him in a tower if necessary. But he knew it wouldn't work. Meteor was as unyielding as Excalibur itself. And deep down, Merlin knew he'd pushed him too far.

The next few years were a slow, agonizing decline. He threw himself into his duties, advising Arthur, battling monsters, and trying to keep the kingdom from imploding. But the joy had gone out of it. Every victory felt hollow, every spell cast with a leaden heart.

He tried to find Meteor, of course. He scried in his pools (always cloudy, always just out of reach), sent enchanted birds (they always came back empty-taloned), and even consulted with a grumpy sphinx (who just wanted to be left alone to solve puzzles). But Meteor remained elusive, a ghost in the wind.

With each passing year, the regret gnawed at him. He started to see Meteor everywhere: in the faces of young apprentices, in the laughter of children playing in the courtyard, in the fiery sunsets that reminded him of his son's stubborn spirit.

He became withdrawn, irritable, a shadow of his former self. Arthur, bless his oblivious heart, tried to cheer him up with feasts and tournaments, but nothing worked. Merlin was slowly fading away, consumed by grief and guilt.

One day, he simply didn't wake up. He was found in his chambers, slumped over a table, a half-finished letter clutched in his hand. The letter was addressed to Meteor.

His funeral was a somber affair. The sky wept along with the mourners, a relentless downpour turning the graveyard into a muddy swamp. Arthur, his face etched with sorrow, delivered a eulogy, praising Merlin's wisdom, his courage, and his unwavering loyalty.

But the words felt empty, hollow. Everyone knew that Merlin had died not from old age or illness, but from a broken heart.

Watched from far away, perched on a tree branch like a particularly emo gargoyle, a hooded figure wiped away a stray tear that slid down his face. Next to him, a blob of water materialized and transformed into the Vilia, Cordelia. She wrapped her slender arms around the hooded figure. "You can move on, my dear," she said softly. "His story has come to an end. And your story... can finally begin."

He didn't say anything, merely continued watching the funeral. As it ended, he turned to Cordelia and said faintly, "Let's go." A sudden gust of wind blew, making the trees sway and the leaves swirl like a miniature tornado. When it finally stopped, the hooded figure was gone, leaving only the faint scent of sea salt.

╰ ૮꒰ ˶• ༝ •˶꒱ა ╮ 〰

Villa - water spirits that inhabit brooks and streams. They appear to be benevolent in nature and possess powerful healing magic.

Chapter Text

I woke up to something wet and feathery smacking me in the face.

For one glorious second, I thought maybe Mum had finally snapped and thrown a live chicken at me for leaving my socks on the stairs again.

Then I opened my eyes.

An owl.

Another stupid owl.

This one was perched on my chest like it owned the place, its talons digging into my ribs with the delicate grace of a butcher's knife. It glared down at me with the judgmental intensity of a librarian who'd just caught me doodling the books.

"Oh, come on," I groaned.

The owl huffed—which, honestly, rude—and dropped a letter onto my face before launching itself out the open window (which had definitely been closed last night).

I peeled the letter off my forehead. Thick parchment. Fancy wax seal. The whole oh-look-at-me-I'm-so-magical routine.

This one read:

"HOGWARTS SCHOOL SUPPLIES LIST – TERM STARTS SEPTEMBER 1ST"

I stared at the envelope in my hand, and bolted downstairs. Mum was in the kitchen, frying a pancake — a blue pancake — on the stove. She didn't even look up as I skidded into the room, nearly taking out the fruit bowl with my elbow.

"Mum!" I waved the letter like a battle flag. "There's a supply list! You didn't tell me Hogwarts expects me to show up with, like, equipment!"

Mum sighed, the way she always did when I brought up anything magical — like she was mentally calculating how much therapy this was going to cost her later. "Yes, darling. Wands, robes, cauldrons, the works. Standard issue for wizarding school."

"But cauldrons?" I sputtered. "What am I supposed to do with a cauldron? Brew existential dread?"

"Potions class, dear."

"Right. Because that's a normal thing." I squinted at the list. "Wait —The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 1? There are grades? Is this magic or a standardized test?"

Mum finally turned, fixing me with a look that said, I brought you into this world, and I can still vanish you from it. "It's still a school. You'll manage."

"And what's this?" I jabbed at the parchment. "One wand. Like, just one? What if I lose it? What if it breaks? What if I accidentally turn it into a baguette?"

"Then you'll be a very hungry wizard."

I groaned and stared at the supply list like it had just insulted my favorite socks. (Which, for the record, were the neon green ones with tiny dancing tacos. Don't judge.)

"Mum," I said, "where exactly are we supposed to get all this stuff? Is there, like, a wizard Walmart?"

Mum wiped her hands on her apron, which had WORLD'S NO.1 MUM printed across the front in aggressively cheerful letters. "Diagon Alley," she said, as if that explained everything.

I waited.

She didn't elaborate.

"Okay," I said slowly. "And how do we get to Diagon Alley? Do we take the Tube? A flying carpet? A very determined pigeon?"

Mum sighed (a recurring theme in our conversations) and reached into the junk drawer, pulling a battered old tiny baby shoe from it. It was pink, scuffed, and had what looked like fossilized banana puree crusted on the sole.

"This," she announced, "is a Portkey."

"A what-key?"

"Portkey. Instant International magical transportation." She wiggled the shoe. "Legal of course, I asked for one from the Department of International Magical Cooperation right before I left." She sounded genuinely disappointed at that, as if she had wanted to use an illegal one just to spite the Department.

I stared at the tiny shoe like it had just declared war on common sense.

"You're telling me," I said slowly, "that the magical equivalent of an Uber is a crusty baby shoe?"

Mum shrugged. "It's what they had."

"Did you at least get to pick the object?"

"No."

"So some Ministry bloke just handed you this and said, 'Here's your interdimensional travel device, madam, enjoy the dried banana'?"

Mum's smile was dangerously serene. "Something like that."

I poked the shoe with a finger. It didn't do anything. No sparks, no ominous hum, no sudden urge to break into nursery rhymes. Just the faint smell of old dairy.

"How does it even work?"

"We hold onto it when I say the password, and it whisks us away."

"That's it?"

"That's it."

I eyed the shoe with deep suspicion. "What's the password? Please don't say 'banana.'"

Mum grinned. "It's not."

I narrowed my eyes. "Mum. What's the password?"

She twirled the crusty baby shoe between her fingers like some kind of deranged fairy godmother and set it down onto the table. "Hocus Pocus Alakazam."

I blinked. "You're joking."

"Nope."

"That's — that's the most cliché thing I've ever heard."

Mum shrugged again. "The Ministry isn't known for its creativity. Now, go finish your breakfast. We'll go shopping after you change." She plopped a plate of blue pancakes in front of me like they were the most normal thing in the world.

I stabbed a fork into one, took a bite (it tasted amazing, obviously), and mumbled through a mouthful, "What's wrong with what I'm wearing?"

Mum gave my pajamas — an oversized t-shirt that said I Paused My Game To Be Here and plaid pants with duct tape on one knee — a once-over and raised an eyebrow at me. "Darling, even the ghosts at Hogwarts dress better than that."

I swallowed dramatically. "First of all, rude. Second of all..." I paused. "That's fair." Then I went back to eating.

Twenty minutes later, I bolted upstairs after breakfast and slammed my bedroom door shut. My room looked like a tornado had swept through a video game store, a comic book convention, and a yard sale all at once, and decided to set up camp. I yanked open my closet, which groaned like it was physically offended by the idea of being used, and started rummaging through the chaos.

"What do wizards even wear?" I muttered, tossing a suspiciously crumpled hoodie over my shoulder. "Is there a dress code? Do I need a pointy hat? Do I have to, like, commit to a color scheme?"

I stopped mid-rant, holding up a faded black t-shirt that read, "Trust Me, I'm a Superhero." It was either that or the bright orange shirt with a dancing hot dog on it. I went with the superhero one. Seemed less likely to offend someone's magical sensibilities.

I threw on some jeans with only minor holes in the knees (which made me feel super fancy, thanks for asking) and shoved my feet into my beat-up sneakers. Style-wise, I was somewhere between 'reluctant mall employee' and 'guy who accidentally wandered into a wedding,' but it would have to do.

When I came back downstairs, Mum was waiting by the table, the crusty baby shoe Portkey sitting in front of her like it was the guest of honor. She had changed into what I could only describe as "business casual witch": a black blazer, jeans, and boots that looked like they could stomp on someone's dreams. Her hair was tied back in a neat bun, and she had that look on her face — the one that said I'm prepared for nonsense, but I'm not in the mood for it.

"Ready?" she asked, holding out the shoe.

"No," I said, but grabbed it anyway.

Mum smirked. "Hocus Pocus Alakazam."

I barely had time to roll my eyes before the world yanked itself sideways.

It felt like being flushed down a magical toilet, which is as fun as it sounds. There was this wild, spinning sensation, like someone had stuffed me into a giant tumble dryer, and I couldn't tell which way was up. My stomach tried to escape through my ears, and I was pretty sure my brain had temporarily given up on life.

Then—

THUD.

I face-planted onto a pile of cabbages.

I lay there, sprawled across a mound of cabbages, their damp, leafy stink invading my nostrils like an unwelcome houseguest. My face was smushed into one particularly soggy specimen, and I was pretty sure I'd just invented a new sport: Extreme Vegetable Faceplanting. Above me, the world buzzed with noise—shouts, laughter, the clatter of coins, and what sounded suspiciously like a goat bleating. I groaned, peeling myself off the cabbage pile, and spat out a leaf that had somehow wedged itself between my teeth.

"Real smooth, Mum," I muttered, wiping cabbage juice off my cheek. "You couldn't have aimed for, like, a pillow factory?"

Mum, of course, had landed on her feet like some kind of magical ninja. She stood a few steps away, brushing imaginary dust off her blazer, the crusty baby shoe Portkey tucked casually under her arm. "You're alive, aren't you?" she said, raising an eyebrow. "Stop whining and get up. We're in Diagon Alley."

I staggered to my feet, my sneakers squelching in what I hoped was just cabbage water, and finally took a look around. Diagon Alley stretched out before us, a chaotic, cobblestoned street that looked like it had been dreamed up by a mad architect with a fetish for wonky buildings. The shops leaned over the street at impossible angles, their signs swinging in the breeze: Eeylops Owl Emporium, Flourish and Blotts, Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions.

One storefront had a cauldron the size of a small car bubbling away out front, belching purple steam that smelled like burnt marshmallows. Witches and wizards bustled past in robes of every color, some clutching armfuls of parchment, others dragging kids who looked as confused as I felt. A guy with a beard down to his knees haggled with a street vendor over what looked like a screaming mandrake root, and a flock of owls swooped overhead, dropping letters like feathery bombs.

It was like someone had taken a medieval village, tossed in a circus, and sprinkled the whole thing with glitter and chaos. My brain short-circuited trying to take it all in.

"Whoa," I said, which was about the most intelligent thing I could manage.

Mum grabbed my arm, yanking me out of the path of a witch who was balancing a stack of books taller than she was. "Focus, Percy," she said. "We're not here to gawk. First stop: Gringotts. We need money before we can buy anything."

"Money?" I said, dodging a woman carrying a stack of books that were hissing. "Can't we just use, like, a credit card?"

Mum gave me her patented I raised you better than this look. "Wizard money, darling. Seventeen silver Sickles to a Galleon and twenty-nine Knuts to a Sickle. No plastic card allowed."

As I wrapped my head around the new currencies, Mum led me through the twisted and turned street, the cobblestones uneven under my sneakers. We passed a shop window filled with broomsticks that hovered like they were itching to take off, and another with a display of potions that changed color every few seconds, one labeled Essence of Eternal Optimism (which I was pretty sure Mum could use right now). A group of kids my age pressed their noses against the glass of Quality Quidditch Supplies, oohing over a sleek broom called the Nimbus 2000. I wanted to stop and stare, but Mum's death grip on my arm kept me moving.

Finally, we reached the end of the street, where a massive white building loomed over everything else like a grumpy uncle who'd shown up to ruin the party. Gringotts Wizarding Bank. Its snowy white marble facade gleamed in the sunlight, all columns and sharp angles, looking like it belonged in ancient Rome, not a street full of exploding cauldrons and screaming plants.

Standing flanked beside its burnished bronze doors, wearing uniforms of scarlet and gold, were two —

"Goblins," Mum murmured as we climbed the white stone steps toward him.

I got my first proper look at the goblins. They stood a head shorter than me—which, admittedly, wasn't difficult—with faces that seemed carved by someone who took great pleasure in crafting villains. Their sharp, calculating eyes glinted above a beard tapered to a needle-like point, and I couldn't help but notice their unnaturally long fingers and feet. With a stiff bow, the two ushered us inside.

Before us, was a second set of doors — this time silver — with words engraved upon them:

Enter, stranger, but take heed

Of what awaits the sin of greed,

For those who take, but do not earn,

Must pay most dearly in their turn.

So if you seek beneath our floors

A treasure that was never yours,

Thief, you have been warned, beware

Of finding more than treasure there.

"Gringotts is one of the most secure banks in the world," Mum told me, as we stepped through the doors into a vast marble hall. "You'd have to be mad to try and rob it."

I looked around in awe. A massive crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling, shimmering above the bustling activity below. At least a hundred goblins perched on high stools behind a long counter, scratching away in enormous ledgers, weighing coins on brass scales, and inspecting gemstones through tiny eyeglasses. Dozens of doors lined the hall — too many to count — with yet more goblins ushering witches and wizards in and out.

Mum prodded me toward a workstation where a goblin with a beard like frayed rope was stabbing his quill into parchment. She shot me a look and pressed a finger to her lips, and made the universal gesture of 'stay.' We waited. And waited. The scritch-scratch of his pen sounded suspiciously like go away.

Then—slow as a troll doing arithmetic—he lifted his head. Dark eyes pinned us in place. I swear I heard his joints creak.

"Well?" he snapped.

Mum dipped her head in that half-bow wizards use when they're trying not to offend goblins. Then she made a sound like someone gargling knives.

I'm not exaggerating. It was all guttural clicks and throat-scraping vowels—the kind of noise that makes you check your neck for bleeding. The goblin's head snapped up so fast I heard his vertebrae crack. His eyes went wide, black and gleaming like fresh-spilled ink.

When he answered, his voice was rusted iron and broken glass. I didn't understand a word, but I understood the way his fingers twitched toward the dagger at his belt.

I stared at Mum, waiting for her to react to the goblin's dagger-twitch.

She didn't.

Instead, she kept smiling like they were discussing tea cakes, not whatever throat-shredding dialect passed for goblin small talk. Then—still chatting like this was normal—she pulled a tiny iron key from her pocket and set it on the counter with a click.

The goblin's nostrils flared. His clawed fingers hovered over the key like it might bite.

"Mum," I whispered, "what are you—"

She silenced me with a look. The goblin's yellowed nails tapped the counter like a spider testing its web. Then, with deliberate slowness, he inclined his head — not a bow, never a bow — just a fractional dip of his chin that somehow felt more dangerous than a drawn blade.

"Very well," he rasped, switching to English with obvious distaste, as if the words left a bad aftertaste. "I will have someone take you down to the vault."

He barked a name — "Zantok!" — and the sound cracked through the hall like a whip.

Zantok was another goblin, who walked out of one of the doors. Younger than the others, maybe, but with a face locked in permanent disapproval—as if the entire world had personally disappointed him. His beady black eyes scanned the hall like he was tallying up everything wrong with it. When he gestured for us to follow, his clawed fingers gleamed under the chandelier light.

I did a double-take.

Those weren't just nails. They were gold — actual, polished gold — filed to razor points.

I looked at Mom, who still seemed strangely calm, and chose to stay silent as we trailed after the goblin.

The goblin held the door open for them. I'd expected more marble, more chandeliers—maybe even a polite "Watch your step" sign. Nope.

Instead, we stood in a narrow tunnel that looked like it had been clawed straight out of the earth. Torches flickered against rough stone walls, their flames casting jagged shadows that twitched like living things. The air smelled of damp rock and something sharper—gunpowder?

And the floor...

Railroad tracks. Tiny ones, laid into the stone, vanishing into a steep drop ahead.

Zantok didn't bother explaining. He just pursed his lips and let out a whistle that echoed down the tunnel like a challenge.

Something answered.

A metallic screech ripped through the passageway, and then—a cart came barreling out of the darkness, rattling toward us like it had a personal grudge. It skidded to a stop, its front carved with snarling goblin faces.

Zantok climbed in without a word. Mum followed, serene as ever.

I hesitated. The cart had no seatbelts. Or seats. Or, apparently, brakes.

Zantok's golden nails drummed against the rail. His glare said: Your choice. But I'm not waiting.

Gritting my teeth, I stepped in.

The second sat down in the cart — WHOOSH— we were plummeting into the dark.

I screamed.

The cart hurtled down the tracks at what had to be illegal speeds, twisting and turning so sharply I was pretty sure my internal organs were now in entirely new positions. The wind howled in my ears, my stomach tried to crawl out through my nose, and at one point, we took a corner so fast the cart lifted onto two wheels. Mum, the absolute maniac, was laughing.

"WOOO!" she whooped, throwing her hands up like this was some kind of theme park ride.

I, meanwhile, was clinging to the side of the cart for dear life, silently drafting my will in my head.

Finally—finally—the cart screeched to a halt in front of a heavy metal door. My hair was standing straight up, my fingers were permanently fused to the cart's railing, and I was pretty sure I'd aged ten years in the last three minutes.

Zantok hopped out like nothing had happened, strolled over to the vault door, etched with runes that pulsed faintly — not glowing, exactly, but breathing, like embers in a banked fire, and pressed his palm against it. The metal groaned, then slowly swung open.

Inside the vault, the air was cold enough to fog my breath. The walls gleamed with veins of raw silver, pulsing faintly in the torchlight like slow, sleeping snakes. And stacked in neat rows—

Gold.

So much gold.

Coins the size of my palm glittered in piles taller than I was, each stamped with a face I didn't recognize. Next to them, smaller silver Sickles and bronze Knuts shimmered in their own meticulous towers. The sheer weight of it made my head spin.

Mum, meanwhile, strolled in like she did this every Tuesday. She grabbed a small leather pouch from a hook by the door and started scooping coins into it with the casual ease of someone filling a grocery bag.

I gaped. "Mum. Are we rich?"

She snorted. "No, darling. This is just the standard trust vault. The real money is in the—"

Zantok cleared his throat loudly.

Mum smirked. "Never mind."

I stared at the gold, then at her, then back at the gold. "Wait. Trust vault? Like—"

"Yes," she said, cinching the pouch shut. "This is just a very small portion of our entire wealth."

Zantok, who had been standing by the door with his arms crossed and his golden nails tapping impatiently, cleared his throat again.

Mum rolled her eyes. "Yes, yes, we're going." She gave the vault one last wistful look—like she wanted to dive into the gold and swim in it—then steered me back toward the death cart.

The ride back up was somehow worse.

At one point, we took a corkscrew turn so violently that my sneaker flew off and hit a passing goblin in the face. He didn't even blink, just let out a stream of what I could only assume were very creative Goblin curses as we zoomed past.

When we finally screeched to a halt at the top, I stumbled out of the cart, my legs wobbling like overcooked spaghetti. Mum, the traitor, looked refreshed, like she'd just had a nice stroll through a park.

"Right," she said, adjusting her blazer. "Now that we're funded, let's — Percy, why are you lying on the floor?"

"I'm communing with the stone," I groaned into the marble. "It understands me."

Mum sighed and yanked me upright by the collar of my shirt like a kitten being scruffed.

"Honestly," she said, brushing dust off my shoulders with exaggerated care, "you'd think you've never been hurled through the earth in a suicidal goblin minecart before."

"I HAVEN'T!" My voice cracked. The echo bounced off the tunnel walls, mimicking my outrage.

She didn't even try to hide her grin. Oh, she was enjoying this.

"Really?" She tilted her head, all mock surprise. "Not even once?"

I glared. "You know I haven't!"

"Hmm." She patted my head — the absolute worst — before turning to follow Zantok. "Well, now you have. Come on, we still have a lot of shopping to do."

With that, we walked out of Gringotts and into the bustling chaos of Diagon Alley, ready to begin our shopping.

Oh joy.