Ian felt it at once. A familiar pressure, faint but undeniable, like divinity itself trailing its fingers across his senses.
"You can even simulate things like this in memory?" His tongue clicked in disbelief. "Two thousand years really did sharpen your tricks beyond what you had in your 'younger' days."
Merlin straightened, pride flashing once more. "Whether you admit it or not, I am still the pinnacle of magic."
Ian's sidelong glance cut him down instantly; Merlin's chest deflated, pride punctured but not extinguished.
"Where is this?" Ian asked sharply. He turned, scanning the scene. The forest was alive in ways no mundane woodland could be; each tree breathed, each leaf seemed awake. Looking down, he felt the grass give under him, softer than clouds, like walking on memory itself.
The dreamlike forest stretched into eternity.
Ancient giants of trees towered above, their trunks so broad that half a dozen men could not have encircled them. Branches braided together high overhead, forming a canopy so dense that the sky itself was hidden, only broken where sunlight pierced through in golden shafts, striking the mossy earth below.
The air was heavy with the scents of green life: damp leaves, wild grass, and the faint perfume of unseen blossoms. Everything pulsed with vitality.
Ian's wandering gaze halted on a familiar figure, a small boy darting between the trees.
"That's me, when I was a child," Merlin said softly, his voice touched with an emotion Ian rarely heard from him.
The boy Merlin laughed as he ran, bare-foot and full of joy. In his hands he carried several walnuts, which he carefully presented to a squirrel. The tiny creature accepted the gift eagerly, nibbling with bright eyes before nudging the boy's palm affectionately.
Ian snorted. "You as a kid… really were adorable." His words carried a smirk, teasing but not without a flicker of genuine amusement.
Merlin said nothing. His eyes lingered on the vision of his younger self, his expression warmed by memory and gentled by longing. A faint smile drifted across his lips, fragile as the morning mist.
More shapes stirred in the undergrowth. A cluster of rabbits hopped into the clearing, twitching their ears. The young Merlin crouched down, whispered something to them, words Ian could not catch.
He froze as the rabbits perked up, listening in uncanny focus, before responding with their own soft rustles and movements as if answering back.
"What in the world?" Ian muttered, eyebrows arching. "You were a druid?"
Merlin's voice was quiet, still watching the memory unfold. "Yes. Since I was a child, I could speak to animals. That gift belonged to the druids."
The simplicity of the statement did not soften the weight of wonder.
Ian let out a low hiss between his teeth. "You really are a freak of talent."
The words held both mockery and envy. Ian had spent years clawing through grammar, speech, and incantations just to converse with magical creatures, and most wizards were no different. But this boy, born with a gift that let him commune directly with every heartbeat of nature? It was a gift enough to stir both admiration and resentment.
Even Salazar Slytherin himself had been bound to serpents alone. Merlin, by contrast, had been able to hear the voices of all living things.
The difference between them was vast, like an abyss that no study could bridge.
Merlin chuckled faintly at Ian's jab, though he shook his head. "A 'talent freak'? Hardly." His gaze grew distant, drifting away, following the unfolding memory.
The vision of young Merlin did the same, lifting his head suddenly, his expression caught by something above.
There, perched on the high branch of a great oak, was a raven.
Its feathers gleamed black as satin, tipped with a metallic sheen. In the shafts of forest light, it looked like obsidian polished to mirror-glass. Its eyes, golden and sharp, fixed on the boy with unblinking brilliance, twin gemstones burning in shadow.
Ian frowned, startled. "Not red?"
Merlin gave no reply. His whole focus was on the bird.
The young Merlin took a careful step forward, curiosity blossoming across his innocent face.
"You're beautiful!" he whispered, awe struck from every syllable. Holding out a piece of bread, he edged closer to the raven.
The forest, moments ago alive with rabbits and squirrels and laughter, seemed to still around him, waiting.
"Hello there, little one. Do you want something to eat?"
The child spoke with soft eagerness, holding out his bread. It was the same gesture he had always used with squirrels, rabbits, and other woodland creatures, the same trust that had never failed him before.
But the raven only tilted its head, golden eyes glinting with scorn.
Instead of diving for the food, it gave a sharp, mocking laugh. "Sorry. I don't eat raw scraps. I prefer mine cooked, without cilantro."
The words, clear and biting, cut through the quiet of the forest.
Merlin inhaled sharply. The sound wasn't the rustle of animal-thought that he was used to; it was human speech. Real, unmistakable. Even the older Merlin standing beside Ian still couldn't fathom the full meaning, but the child in the memory was struck with unfiltered wonder.
"You… you can talk?" the boy cried, his eyes wide. "You can speak human language?"
The astonishment lasted only a heartbeat before it burst into joy. Grinning ear-to-ear, the little Merlin bounced on his feet.
"Wow, amazing! I finally met a real magical creature!"
But the raven's feathers bristled in open fury.
"If you don't know how to talk, then shut your mouth!" it shrieked. "You're the magical creature! Your entire family's magical creatures! Your father could hold a proper conversation, how in the nine hells did he end up with something like you?!"
Before the boy could react, the raven launched itself from the branch, wings thrashing the air in a whirlwind.
It landed directly atop Merlin's head. Beak flashing, it struck again and again. Each peck found its mark with vicious precision. The child cried out in pain, clutching his head with both hands, but the raven was relentless. In moments, his scalp was battered with lumps, tears streaking his young face.
"Ah, stop! I was wrong! Stop pecking!" he shouted, stumbling through the trees, sobbing as he ran. But the bird would not relent, chasing him with merciless tempo.
Ian, standing in the woven memory, couldn't help the twitch of his lips. His mind flashed back to his own first Animagus transformation, into a raven, and that fateful day when he, too, had pecked Merlin senseless.
"…Coincidence. All just coincidence…" Ian muttered, though even he didn't sound fully convinced.
Merlin gave him a sideways look, long-suffering. His tone was weary, steady, as if echoing across centuries.
"This was the first time I met you. And also… the easiest time I ever had with you."
His sigh was faint, but it carried the weight of someone worn down by endless torment. To him, there was no doubt, Ian was that raven.
"And then? What happened after?" Ian asked despite himself, curiosity sparking in his voice.
Merlin's expression darkened. With a wave of his hand, the forest dissolved, the scene shifting again.
Voices came first. Sharp. Merciless.
"Hurry! Use magic to open this can for me! My beak just had maintenance today!"
"Alchemy's simple, isn't it? You're Merlin! Don't just sit there, copy me a hundred, no, ten thousand, Deathly Hallows!"
"This? This is your magic? This pathetic? Take out your book, see? Right there, it says wizards are gods! What? It doesn't? Wait, let me dip my beak in ink. There. Fixed. Now it does. If you still can't master Falling Stars today, stop calling yourself Merlin!"
"You might as well rename yourself Merlin Luncheon Meat! You don't deserve the name at all!"
The memory had not even fully manifested, but already the raven's mocking voice pierced through it, louder and sharper than anything else.
Ian stood silent, bemused. But beside him, Merlin's face flickered with an old, raw ache.
It was plain. The Raven's voice had seared itself into his very soul.
This was not just a memory. This was scar.
(End of Chapter)
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