He smirked, gave his wand a sharp flick, and power stirred.
In the next instant, the toxic residue saturating Merlin's body vanished.
"Hm?"
Merlin blinked, disbelief cutting across his face as he felt the corruption within him dissolve like mist under sunlight. What Ian had planted earlier… they had never been poisons at all. Instead, they were living things, viruses and bacteria born from Ian's magic itself and preserved through long-term transfiguration.
That was why his own purification spells had failed. What he'd confronted was not illness, but the impossible.
"You…"
Merlin raised his head, stupefied. For the first time, the so‑called King of Wizards understood, the curse that had plagued him so long was the product of transfiguration itself.
And truly, it was not for lack of discernment on his part. It was simple impossibility. Who would ever imagine plagues, entire swarms of disease, conjured into being through the weaving of transfiguration? This wasn't merely breaking the rules of the art, it was trespassing into realms mortals, and even gods, would hesitate to brush against.
How could Merlin ever have conceived of such a thing?
His eyes flickered as he studied Ian, wanting to speak, yet something heavier held him back. In the end, he only cast the boy a look thick with unspoken meaning.
"Your ambition… is even greater than I imagined," he murmured at last, awe threading through his voice.
"About the Raven?" Ian pressed, his voice calm but unyielding, gaze unwavering. That question still clawed at the heart of everything.
"Wait a moment." Merlin shook his head quickly.
"You trying to wriggle out of it?" Ian's eyes sharpened, his fingers tightening ever so slightly around his wand.
"Of course not," Merlin said at once, a nervous glance flicking to Ian's wand. He had no desire to once again taste the strangeness of this boy's sorcery. After a long sigh, he explained, "Let me handle… a certain risk first."
His voice carried a note of weariness, and as he turned toward the dormitory doors, his shoulders seemed heavier.
"You should know, I hid my identity for a reason."
Ian's reply was immediate, his tongue sharpened to a razor's edge. "I thought that was just because you were into… perversions."
Merlin froze midstep. His lips tightened, but he let the insult slide, striding on in silence.
Beyond the doorway, his gaze fell upon Albus Dumbledore and Nicolas Flamel, standing a short distance in the corridor, their attention fixed on him.
"My apologies," Merlin said suddenly, his voice resonant, tinged both with sincerity and regret. "This is for everyone's safety."
The shift was immediate. Dumbledore moved as though lightning had struck him, his expression hardening, all trace of warmth gone. The Elder Wand appeared in his grip like a poised spear, its tip leveled at Merlin. His voice cut low and commanding:
"Merlin. What are you planning?"
Power shimmered around the old Headmaster, his eyes sharpened with deadly vigilance.
"Headmaster Dumbledore, you are… rather vigilant."
Though still wearing the form of a child, Merlin stood cloaked in a pressure that bent the very air, an oppressive aura that no disguise could hide.
At once, Nicolas Flamel raised his wand as well, quietly stepping beside Dumbledore. His stance was steady, his face grave, two of the greatest wizards alive, now standing shoulder-to-shoulder.
Merlin rubbed his hands together lightly.
And then, It was Dumbledore who struck first. To raise his wand against the so‑called King of Wizards was no easy burden, yet Gryffindor's most renowned graduate had never lacked for courage.
A scarlet beam lanced forward, searing through the air. The atmosphere warped around it, trembling with the heat of raw destructive magic. Against a wizard of Merlin's legend, Dumbledore did not dare restrain himself. Beside him, Flamel stepped in with seamless instinct, layering protective charms in rapid succession.
The two masters moved as one.
Merlin only chuckled softly.
Slowly, almost lazily, he raised a hand. With the faintest twitch of his fingers, the crimson beam froze mid‑flight, suspended as though caught in some invisible vice.
"Fine spellwork. But not nearly enough."
His voice was calm, brittle with mockery.
"It isn't over yet."
Dumbledore's eyes never wavered. His wand shifted again, and at once the floor split with a violent quake. From the cracks erupted countless green vines, thick as serpents, lunging forward with lashing fury.
And still, Merlin remained silent, unmoving. He allowed the vines to snake toward him… only for them to wither on contact, shriveling into dry husks before disintegrating into ash that scattered across the stone floor.
Unlike his earlier duel with Ian, Merlin did not weave signs, did not incant. His very presence alone bent the flow of magic. Two thousand years had honed his sorcery past the horizon of comprehension.
Then, suddenly, "Fine wand."
His hand twitched, not to cast, but to seize.
Dumbledore's eyes flickered sharply as the Elder Wand trembled in his grip. The artifact stirred, answering to Merlin's pull, caught between two mighty claimants.
In that instant, magic surged like two oceans colliding. The air thickened with unbearable pressure, splitting stone, groaning through the corridor in thunderous echoes.
A low, endless rumble shook the walls as if the castle itself sensed the strain.
Nicolas Flamel, gauging the shear of power between the two, stepped back at last. Even he knew, this battlefield belonged to legends alone. With calm resolve he turned, intercepting the handful of wide‑eyed students who had poked their heads out from the commotion.
One sweeping volley of Sleeping Charms, and the children slumped, carried easily back into their dormitories. The casual efficiency of his movements hinted at a long‑buried past one might almost mistake for… unsavory trade.
Meanwhile, the clash raged.
"A legend forged in dragon's blood," Merlin remarked lightly, his expression unhurried even as power screamed between his hands. "And still wielding magic of this caliber. Headmaster Dumbledore, by history's measure, you stand among its very finest prodigies."
His tone was almost admiring, yet his face bore only ease, while Dumbledore's grim determination deepened.
And then, with a simple clench of his fingers, The Elder Wand wrenched free, torn from Dumbledore's grasp, streaking through the air straight into Merlin's waiting hand.
"A pity." Merlin glanced down at the artifact, the weight of it humming at his fingertips. "Even housed in this broken shell, I remain a step above you."
But even as he held it aloft, he felt it, resistance. The wand did not yield. It throbbed with defiance, as though unwilling to truly recognize him.
Still, That did not stop him from raising it higher, preparing at last to unleash his first spell in this confrontation.
And Dumbledore, though empty‑handed, showed not a flicker of discouragement.
Dumbledore's gaze lingered on the Elder Wand now gripped in Merlin's hand, as though a sudden realization had dawned upon him.
"Without the Elder Wand… you can't command the more complex magics, can you?" he asked softly, his voice so calm that it landed like bait hidden in still waters.
For a fleeting instant, Merlin froze. The tip of the wand lowered ever so slightly.
"I've been hiding… concealing myself. As for why… in time you'll know the reason. But not now." His tone grew firm again as he lifted the wand higher, Memory Charm already coiling on his lips.
But, Dumbledore and Flamel showed no alarm. Instead, Merlin's keen eyes caught a quiet shift in the old headmaster's face, the lips had moved, but no sound carried. Only the shape of words.
And at once, Merlin's eyes twitched violently.
"Not good!"
The blood drained from his face. Cold dread clawed his spine as he spun around, only to have the yawning barrel of a Gatling gun shoved straight into his mouth.
"Sorry, classmate Lirem," Ian grinned, pressing the weapon harder, "but this is all for our House! Saving the Headmaster in a crisis like this, can you imagine how many points Ravenclaw will rake in?"
The magical Gatling roared with ominous hums as Ian drove Merlin to the stone floor, pinning him like a nailed insect.
Merlin gagged, staggered, struggled, but Ian's eyes were alight with manic glee. He gleefully bashed the gun's steel barrel against Merlin's head again and again, all while calling out toward the distant Dumbledore with the breathless thrill of a prankster who had bested an elder.
"You really figured out how to grow to a full meter ninety without magic? Come on, old fossil, spill it, spill it! "
It was only then that the truth clicked; those silent words from Dumbledore had not been a spell at all, but orders… to Ian.
In that moment, amidst the chaos, the shrewdest reality shone through.
Faced with an opponent he could not overwhelm by raw might, the Headmaster of Hogwarts had chosen the path of a true leader. He had found the one thing Merlin would never resist, and set his wildest student loose upon it.
That, perhaps, is what separates the wisdom of a Gryffindor… from the recklessness of its brutes.
(End of Chapter)
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