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Morning mist condensed into delicate droplets on the stained glass, sliding down the pointed arch of the crimson Gothic arcade. Ian stood beneath the corridor's chandelier, watching the last shimmer of starlight fade from Merlin's robes.
"Wuuu~"
It wasn't crying.
Pinned flat against the cold floor, Merlin had the barrel of a Gatling gun shoved into his mouth. He couldn't speak, couldn't argue, only raise his hands in a silent gesture of surrender.
Ian, however, pretended not to notice. He pressed the barrel deeper with an unyielding expression on his face.
Dumbledore could no longer bear to watch. His face twitched, and he hurried forward, lifting a hand as if to shield the scene from his own eyes.
"Enough, Ian. Mr. Ambrosius has clearly yielded."
The old headmaster's tone carried both sternness and weary compassion. He hoped Ian would at least show a shred of dueling etiquette and remember who it was he now held at gunpoint.
After all, this was Merlin.
Whatever the reason behind his attack on Ian and Nicolas Flamel, one fact could not be erased: Merlin was no common wizard but a true sage. Without him, the wizarding world as they knew it would not even exist. That was no exaggeration.
Merlin had carved out foundations on which centuries of knowledge rested. He had shaped early charms that allowed generations of young wizards to wield power without tearing themselves apart.
Perhaps it wasn't only whimsy that had driven him to simplify magic; perhaps he had once glimpsed something, some precursor, akin to modern spellcraft.
Whatever the truth, his contributions to magic were undeniable.
Which only made Ian's current behavior all the more disturbing. Watching him attempt to forcibly "teach proper English manners" with a firearm jammed down Merlin's throat was… more than even Dumbledore could stomach.
"I understand, Headmaster," Ian said finally, his voice calm, almost cheerful. "If you're satisfied, then so am I."
His attitude toward Merlin was not one of real hatred. It was strategy, the simple art of showing effort under the leader's watchful eye. Since Dumbledore had spoken, Ian relented without hesitation. With an almost theatrical flourish, he withdrew the Gatling and even extended a hand.
Merlin's eyes narrowed.
For a heartbeat, he considered brushing the hand aside, reclaiming at least a sliver of his dignity. But then he caught Ian's faint smirk. If he refused now, Ian might just slam him back onto the floor and laugh at his stubbornness. Yes, this fellow absolutely would.
Grinding his teeth, Merlin accepted the hand.
'Merlin! The Archmage of legend! Reduced to this.'
'Good grief, was there no place left for dignity in this era?'
"I've beaten you once again, Archmage," Ian said with a sigh that sounded almost genuine.
In truth, he found it easier than fighting Voldemort. Somewhere in his heart, he longed for a system that could grant him titles, because nothing would please him more than walking around crowned as "Merlin's Nemesis."
"Mm. You've won again."
Merlin's voice was flat, lifeless. The fight had long since gone out of him; not even the ghost of an argument remained. Somewhere deep down, he already knew, Ian was his natural counter. It had been that way in the past, and now, when he could no longer summon the overwhelming complexity of his former magic, the suppression was even harsher.
Otherwise…
Would he, the great Merlin, ever have been reduced to lashing out with petty acts of revenge against mere school-level wizards? It was laughable. But the truth was cruel: in his current crippled state, combined with his opponent's Animagus form nullifying most spells, he stood no chance.
"Mr. Ambrosius, I think you still owe us an explanation."
Dumbledore's voice cut gently through the silence. Though he himself had been the target of Merlin's assault, his words carried the calm courtesy of a headmaster who still wished to grant a foe the dignity of being heard.
Beside him, Nicolas Flamel kept his head lowered, with his expression hidden, though the set of his shoulders suggested deep thought. Perhaps he was already turning over ideas in his mind, ways alchemy might yet teach Merlin a lesson.
After all, Nicolas Flamel was not a man with an endlessly forgiving heart. Love soured often enough into hate, and in bitterness, even geniuses could become cruel. Idolaters and betrayed fans in another world might have understood that feeling well.
At last, Merlin exhaled a weary breath before speaking. \
"Headmaster Dumbledore, I hold no malice toward you." His tone was heavy with fatigue and something like resignation.
"The truth is… the fewer people who know of my existence, the safer the world will be."
As if to prove his sincerity, he uncurled his fingers. The Elder Wand leapt from his palm, flying back into Dumbledore's grasp.
For a moment, the headmaster only gazed at the Deathly Hallow, with an unreadable expression on his face, shadows moving behind his half-moon spectacles. A flicker of conflict crossed his eyes, relief, perhaps, or old burdens resurfacing. Then he looked from the wand to Merlin, then sideways to Ian, as if weighing what to say. In the end, he merely gave the barest nod.
"And what danger is this?" he asked softly, tucking the wand away without flourish.
Merlin's lips twisted into a faint, bitter smile. "Trouble I once invited upon myself. That is all I can say." His head shook slowly, and a ghost of sorrow hollowed his gaze. For a heartbeat, he seemed impossibly old, as if drowning in memories no one else could share.
But Ian was far from moved. The light of suspicion glinted in his eyes. "You make it sound neat. But what if you're only stringing us along?"
Merlin fixed his gaze directly upon him. His voice dropped, low and deliberate.
"Anyone who knows I still walk this earth will be endangered. This is no exaggeration. My very existence is a poison, the closer one draws to it, the deeper it seeps."
The weight in his tone gave no room for jest. He was speaking past Dumbledore and Flamel, straight to Ian. He knew words alone would not sway the young intruder, and he could not risk attempting a Memory Charm on them, not on these three.
Ian's eyes narrowed. "There's such a thing?"
Merlin hesitated a breath, then closed his eyes. His aura shifted almost imperceptibly, like a sealed gate creaking open. A carefully contained fragment of his mind loosened and lay bare for intrusion.
"This is the best way to confirm it," he said firmly. "Look into me, see for yourselves if I lie."
He did not need to name what he was offering. Both Ian and Dumbledore were masters of Legilimency.
Under normal circumstances, not even the greatest of wizards could pierce Merlin's mind. But with that portion of his thoughts voluntarily unbarred, even Nicolas Flamel was able to brush against the depths of his consciousness.
And let it not be understated, this was something most could not do, even if Merlin wanted them to. Nicolas Flamel's attainments in magic were not to be underestimated. To be counted among Dumbledore's closest companions was proof enough of mastery.
"As for the dangers my existence brings…" Merlin's voice sank low, carrying weight like stone. "Yes. I conceal them, because even I cannot fully comprehend them. I know enough only to know the boundaries blur, and no line I draw can promise safety. Two Legendary Wizards have already fallen because of me. I will not let there be a third."
His words were raw. Earnest.
Dumbledore and Flamel exchanged silent glances, and in their shared gaze, they recognized it. They felt the truth. They felt his helplessness.
"Hmm?"
It was Ian this time, blinking in genuine surprise.
His senses cut sharper than most. And for all his suspicion, what he perceived rang undeniable. Merlin's mind lay smooth and still, like a deep lake at dawn. No ripples. No falsehoods. Nothing but conviction, as Merlin himself believed it.
(To Be Continued…)