I'm Just a Kid and Life Is a Nightmare
Quest taken care of. Now class, I guess? Could be worse. I could have an emergency quest...
DON'T YOU FUCKING DARE.
I have no idea what you could possibly be referring to. I don't just make up emergencies. That would imply some kind of cosmic control over the universe that you, of all people, should understand I don't have.
Bullshit. I clearly stated a desire to relax that one time when nothing was going on, and you surprised me with an emergency quest out of nowhere!
That had more to do with multiversal cosmic comedic timing than anything else. You used to work with law enforcement in your last life. You know better than to wish someone a quiet night. That's how you make enemies. Or the worst kind of friends.
...Whatever. Just don't. I've got enough on my plate already. In case I haven't freaked out about it enough, I am in HARRY FREAKING POTTER!!!!!
I stopped.
Excuse me.
As I was saying before the mini freak-out...
*Clears throat for the microphone inside my own mind.*
System. Show me my current status.
Joshua E. Myrddin
Level: 17EXP: 12,140 / 22,000
Title:The Anomaly
Secondary Title:Edge Runner
Class: None Assigned - Multiclass Eligible
Race: High Human (Modified)
Designation: OffScript
Fate Affinity: Null (immune to prophecy, anchoring, and divinatory magic)
Core Attributes:(Human average = 10)
Strength: 25
Dexterity: 27
Constitution: 25
Intelligence: 52
Wisdom: 30
Charisma: 15
Perception: 30
Luck: 42
Unassigned Stat Points: 85
(System Note: "Enhanced by questionable life choices and a very persistent death.")
(+10 to Strength, Dexterity, Constitution, and Perception from augmentations, now permanent due to post-jump integration.)
System Commentary:"You still have eighty-five unassigned stat points. At this point I'm starting to think you're saving them for retirement."
Internal Inventory & Gear
Wand - 14½", UnyieldingWood Blend: Rowan, Ebony, Elder, Snakewood, AshCore: Thunderbird Tail FeatherHandle: Basilisk skin with rare earth onyx inlayMetal Binding: Mithril & Goblin SilverMurder-happy soulmate energy. Pairs best with chaos and dramatic timing.
Custom Wand Holster - Basilisk leather, forearm-mounted, auto-sealing. Pairs with wand like it's out for blood.
Collapsible Battle Staff - Oak base, dark silver alloy core, limited-edition Ollivander's final battle-mage model. Currently wand-sized.
Collapsible Shield Watch - Round mithril and goblin silver shield, rune-inscribed. Compact and wrist-mounted. Tracks moon cycles and star paths. Reflects curses and spellfire. Still tells time.
Enchanted 3-Piece Suit - Sapphire-black-bronze weave. Armored, climate-adaptive, self-repairing, and self-cleaning.Charisma bonus when dramatic.
Uncharged Lightsaber Handle (Indigo Blade) - Bonds to destiny. Will refuse to activate if you try too hard.Can cut anything once charged.
Miniature Pensieve (Single-Memory Model) - Stores one memory externally.Use with caution around nosy people or exes.
Eye of Agamotto Replica (Mystically Inert) - Reads encrypted magical texts. May restore a lost memory if recharged.Also adds 20% more "wizard energy" to your outfits.
Black Family Grimoire - Unrestricted access copy of the accumulated practical magic of House Black.Apparently "Inherited Black Family Magic" meant homework.
Multiversal Inventory
Portal Gun (C-519b)
Uncorrupted Portal Fluid: 2.4 Liters
Rick C-137 Neural Archive: Decryption in Progress
Transfer Token: Fountain World
Multiversal ID Token
Cyberpunk Relics & Augmentations
Cyberdeck (Modified) - Integrated with System, Occlumency shields, and internal library. From 2077; currently 86 years ahead of local technology. Primary interface for programming magical routines and data processing.
Monowire (Modified) - Reinforced with magical filaments. Doubles as a wandless casting focus and ritual-circle tool. Moderately indestructible. Runes may be inscribed.
Malorian Arms 3516 - Johnny Silverhand's pistol. Heavy recoil. Sexy as hell.
Johnny Silverhand's Retro Sunglasses - Legendary tier. Boosts intimidation and style.
Johnny Silverhand's Jacket - High-resistance leather armor with anarchy passive.
Johnny Silverhand's Cigarette Lighter - Hidden flamethrower mode. Don't ask.
Augmentations - Naturalized
Secondary Heart
Lynx Legs - Double-jump capable
Kerenzikov Reflex Booster
Subdermal Armor
Neural Interface
Muscle Weave Reinforcement - Nanofiber threading; +10 Strength
Optical Suite - Night vision, zoom, HUD compatibility
Joint Stabilizers - Boost agility and dexterity under pressure
(System Note: "Please stop trying to parkour off buildings unless it's plot relevant.")
Quest Log
Recently Completed:"Black Veil, Blacker Cell"Reward Claimed: 5,000 EXP • Black Vault Priority Access • Inherited Black Family Magic
Active Optional Quests:
"Who Let the Time Lord In?"
"Recruitment? Abduction? Tomato, To-mah-to."
"Greyback Problem"
"Crouch and Cover"
"Cleanup: Horcrux Edition"
"Prophecy? Denied."
"Department of Misinformation"
"Bugged and Printed"
I stared at the screen.
Then I stared at the eighty-five.
Okay, in my defense, I've had a lot going on.
You have had eighty-five unassigned stat points since Sunday.
It is Thursday.
Correct. I see the education system hasn't failed you completely.
Four days.
Also correct.
Four very fucking busy days.
I wasn't criticizing. I was documenting.
Bullshit.
The System offered no response to that, which was about as close to an admission of guilt as I was ever going to get.
I went back over the sheet instead.
Level seventeen. Same attributes. Same ridiculous pile of unused points. Most of the equipment hadn't changed either, although seeing the Black grimoire sitting there among a portal gun, Johnny Silverhand's pistol, a lightsaber handle that still refused to be useful, and a magical knockoff of the Eye of Agamotto really drove home how badly the concept of a coherent loadout had gotten away from me.
Then there were the quests.
I stopped reading at Cleanup: Horcrux Edition.
Right.
Those.
The nice thing about getting Peter Pettigrew in hand was that I didn't have to worry about Peter Pettigrew over the next three years. Amelia would have someone here to collect him soon, and then the rat was officially somebody else's problem. The downside was Quirrellmort, Horcrux number one, and a basilisk under the school, all within the next two years if things stayed close enough to canon in this AU world I seemed to be...
I stopped myself at that thought.
No. Not an AU.
This is a real world. I'd spent three years living in it before any of those memories came back. I couldn't tell other people that every world was real and then start treating this one like somebody's alternate-universe story just because I happened to know another version of events. That's dangerous.
Worse, thinking that way reduced the last three years of my life to background material. Damn it.
Harry Potter was ten years old and currently living at Myrddin Manor because his childhood had somehow managed to be even more dangerous than it had been when I'd known it as words on a page. And then there was me, currently thirteen years old, sitting at Hogwarts with class coming up. I looked toward the Great Hall doors.
What's my age again?
Thirteen.
I wasn't actually asking.
Your Status screen is a factual information service.
You're an asshole.
And yet you keep renewing your subscription.
I dismissed the screen before it could come up with anything worse.
The Great Hall had filled considerably while I'd been occupied. Breakfast was properly underway now, the morning post mostly finished, and the usual noise of several hundred students eating, talking, arguing, and trying to remember whether they'd done their homework had swallowed whatever brief pocket of quiet I'd managed to find.
Normal Hogwarts. I could work with that. Probably. I hoped so, at any rate. Otherwise, this was going to be a rough month.
...
I don't wanna waste my time. Become another casualty of society.
Don't wanna FAAALLLL IN LINE..... yeah, that song sums you up alright.
Josh decided to ignore the system as he continued towards his first class of the day. Double Runes, first thing on a Thursday morning. Surprising that the doubles were happening for the electives this close to the end of the year, but he wasn't going to complain. Flitwick and McGonagall might be his favorite teachers, but that doesn't change the fact that he's been studying runes under a Time Lord this entire term. That man probably forgot more about runes than anyone else in this entire world ever learned, and somehow he was teaching Runes at Hogwarts.
If the new context meant anything, then there was a decent chance some kind of Bad Wolf situation was going on. How many times had Ten been the Doctor, anyway? I wouldn't have been surprised if the bastard had an army of himself scattered across the multiverse by now.
I reached the Ancient Runes classroom a few minutes before the bell and stepped inside. The Doctor was already at the front preparing the board, and the first completely unhelpful thought my brain supplied was, Oh shit, Barty Crouch Jr.!!
I mentally kicked myself almost immediately. No. Wrong David Tennant.
Excellent work. Eight days and you're already identifying people by actor rather than just keeping on treating them like normal. I'm impressed you didn't go looking for Snape to see if he walks like he's on a runway the way Rickman did.
Fuck off.
I started toward my usual seat, then slowed slightly as another thought caught up with me. Tennant wasn't actually the important part. I knew enough now to recognize what I hadn't understood before: the perception filter. I looked at the Doctor again, then around at the students settling into their seats. Nothing about him looked different to me. Same face I'd been looking at all term, same professor I'd sat across from for months without ever having the faintest idea why calling himself the Doctor was significant.
Except the filter had apparently never worked on me. Oh. That raised an interesting question. What the hell do they see?
I glanced at the student taking the desk beside mine, then back toward the front of the room. For all I knew, everyone else saw exactly what I did. Or an older man. A younger man. Someone completely forgettable. Maybe the filter didn't alter appearances at all and merely convinced people there was nothing particularly strange about a professor refusing to provide a surname. I had absolutely no idea, and asking someone, Hey, quick question, what does our professor's face look like to you? seemed like an excellent way to become the subject of an entirely different conversation.
...
You could draw him and compare notes.
I cannot draw.
Then yours would automatically be different. Science.
I ignored that and sat down.
The classroom filled steadily over the next few minutes, most students arriving with textbooks, parchment, ink, and varying degrees of enthusiasm for having a double elective first thing in the morning. Once the bell sounded and the last conversation died down, the Doctor turned toward the board and tapped it with his wand.
Several runes appeared in a neat row.
"Right, revision first. Examinations are approaching, and apparently I'm expected to make certain all of you know what these mean before I start explaining why half the books disagree with one another."
A few students laughed while others immediately reached for their quills. The Doctor pointed toward the first rune and asked for its meaning, taking answers around the room as he moved through the sequence. This was basic third-year material, individual meanings, common alternate translations, and the first steps toward understanding how two simple runes could affect one another when placed together.
Then someone asked why the rune in their textbook didn't quite match the one he'd drawn.
The Doctor stopped.
I smiled.
That was usually how it started.
"Excellent question."
Half the board disappeared. Within several minutes, one rune had become a sequence of historical variants accompanied by dates, regional differences, and enough additional notation that several students had stopped looking confident.
"This one is older, this one is newer, this one appears mainly in the north for a comparatively brief period, this one is technically the same rune despite looking as though someone dropped something heavy on it, and this one..."
Another symbol appeared beside the others.
"...is the result of somebody deciding the existing rune wasn't sufficiently complicated."
I was still following him. Most of the class, judging by the expressions around me, had ceased following him somewhere around the third historical variation.
The Doctor continued anyway, gesturing along the board as his explanation accelerated. "Runes, runes, older runes, regional runes, runes influenced by older runes, newer runes, and several more runes that will become important considerably later."
He finally turned around and found most of the class staring at him.
"Why aren't the majority of you writing this down?"
Quills immediately started moving.
I covered my smile with one hand and looked back at my parchment.
Yep. Definitely him.
The Doctor let the frantic scratching of quills continue for another minute before apparently remembering what lesson he'd originally intended to teach. "Right. That's enough history before I accidentally make your examination substantially harder than it needs to be." Several people immediately stopped writing, which prompted him to raise a finger. "Not because it isn't important. It is. Very important. Fascinating, actually. Entire magical traditions have been misunderstood because somebody decided two symbols looked close enough and nobody bothered checking the century."
A few quills cautiously started moving again, but the Doctor stared at their owners until they stopped. "No. Stop writing. You don't need this part for the exam." That seemed to reassure most of the room. I bit the inside of my cheek while he cleared the historical mess from the board and left three of the simpler runes behind. "What you're actually supposed to be learning today is considerably less exciting and considerably more useful. You already know what these mean individually. Now we're going to look at what happens when you put them together."
That brought us back into familiar territory. The first combination was simple enough that nearly every hand in the room went up. The Doctor chose a Hufflepuff girl near the windows and listened to her explanation before reversing the same two runes and asking the class what had changed. Considerably fewer hands went up the second time. The meaning hadn't completely changed, but the emphasis had. One combination described protection associated with a place, while reversing them pushed the idea closer to a place intended to provide protection. Same pieces, different relationship.
He worked through several more examples that way, sometimes reversing the order, sometimes introducing a third rune, and occasionally giving the class something that looked obvious until somebody tried to translate the combination as a whole instead of reading each rune separately. That caught several people, which wasn't surprising. Grandfather had introduced me to runic syntax with exercises that amounted to figure out why this is wrong before it damages something expensive, so I'd learned fairly early not to trust anything simply because the individual pieces looked familiar.
After drawing another pair on the board, the Doctor looked over the classroom until his attention landed on me. "Mr. Myrddin. Meaning?"
Apparently suspicion had a face. I studied the combination before answering, "Depends," which drew several groans from around the room and a pleased grin from the Doctor.
"Good answer," the Doctor said.
I gestured toward the board with my quill. "It isn't an answer."
"No, but it's the beginning of one," the Doctor replied, still grinning.
I gave the combination another look before explaining, "If we're using the forms you taught us at the start of term, probably safe passage. If we're using the older form you just spent ten minutes talking about, it's closer to protected movement, which isn't quite the same thing."
The Doctor's grin widened as he pointed toward the second rune. "And if the person carving it learned from the eastern tradition?"
I looked at him. That hadn't been part of today's lesson, and judging by the expressions around the room, everybody else knew it too. The Doctor waited anyway, so I thought back through the variants he'd just shown us and the way the modifier shifted according to whether the movement was literal or symbolic. "Protected transition?"
"Better," the Doctor said.
A Hufflepuff boy sitting behind me muttered, "How was anyone supposed to know that?"
The Doctor looked entirely too pleased with himself as he turned back toward the board. "You weren't. Yet." The resulting groans followed him across the front of the classroom, but he ignored them and tapped the two symbols with his wand. "Which is why recognizing the individual runes does not necessarily mean you understand the inscription. Context matters. Order matters. Period matters. Region matters. And sometimes the person who carved it was simply terrible."
He produced a crooked imitation beside the proper rune, waited until everyone had gotten a good look at what not to do, then erased it. "Which brings us neatly to carving."
The reaction around the room was mixed. Mine was apparently noticeable, because I sat a little straighter while the Doctor collected several stacks of pale wooden blanks from his desk and sent them down the rows. "Before anyone gets ambitious, these are practice blanks. You are not activating anything today." He immediately swept his gaze across the students who looked disappointed, and when his eyes settled on me for just a fraction too long, I raised my eyebrows.
"I didn't say anything," I told him.
"You didn't need to," the Doctor replied before moving on.
I accepted the blank being passed down the row and examined the grain while the Doctor explained the assignment. We were to choose one of the combinations covered during the lesson and carve it clearly enough that he could identify both runes, their order, and their intended relationship without having to ask what we'd meant. A student near the front asked if magic was allowed, but the Doctor refused immediately and explained that we were learning the shapes themselves. If our wands did all the work, our hands learned nothing. Anyone without a knife, stylus, or proper carving tool could borrow one from him.
That made sense. Knowing what a rune looked like and being able to reproduce it accurately were two different skills, something Grandfather had demonstrated rather thoroughly the first time he'd handed me a carving knife and rejected six attempts in a row because my angles were wrong.
I pulled a small carving stylus from my bag. The Doctor noticed it as he passed my desk and glanced from the tool to me. "Nothing clever, Myrddin."
"I haven't done anything," I protested.
The Doctor kept walking but looked back over his shoulder. "Preventative teaching."
"You wound me."
His gaze dropped pointedly to my hand. "Not with that grip, I don't."
I looked down, realized what he meant, and adjusted two fingers while the Doctor continued along the aisle.
Bastard.
He's right.
I know.
That was worse.
The classroom gradually settled into the quieter rhythm of practical work. Metal scraped against wood, pages turned whenever somebody checked a reference diagram, and every few minutes the Doctor stopped beside a desk to correct an angle, answer a question, or explain that no, carving the line deeper would not somehow make the rune more correct. One unfortunate student asked why a particular stroke curved instead of remaining straight and sent the Doctor into another historical tangent, but this time he caught himself before half the class disappeared behind another wall of notes.
I finished the first rune, brushed the shavings aside, and started on the second. The exercise was basic for me, but there was no reason to get lazy with it. Grandfather would have been considerably more annoyed by sloppy beginner work from somebody who knew better than by a genuine mistake from somebody still learning.
The Doctor passed behind me while I was finishing the last stroke and slowed enough to inspect the blank over my shoulder. "Clean work, Myrddin. Almost suspiciously clean."
I looked up at him. "You told me to carve it properly."
"I did," the Doctor agreed, although his expression suggested that somehow this was still evidence against me.
"Then why do I feel like I'm being accused of something?"
"Experience," the Doctor answered, already continuing toward the next desk.
I watched him go for a moment before looking back at the wooden blank.
Oh, fuck you.
Petty thoughts detected.
Shut up.
The assignment was finished exactly as requested. Both runes were clean, properly proportioned, and painfully respectable. The blank, however, had another side, and after the Doctor's repeated commentary I found myself staring at it with increasingly poor intentions.
I turned it over beneath the edge of the desk.
How much Gallifreyan do I actually remember?
Enough to embarrass yourself in at least two languages.
Good enough.
I studied the empty wood for a few seconds. I remembered enough of the circular Gallifreyan designs to recognize them and enough of the general structure to make a decent attempt. Whether anything I produced would actually say something coherent was an entirely different question, but I wasn't trying to compose an interplanetary treaty. I just wanted the Doctor to recognize what I'd done.
Carefully, I set the stylus against the wood and began carving. One circle became two, followed by smaller curves, intersecting marks, and connecting lines patterned after what I remembered. If I was going to put questionable extraterrestrial writing on the back of a Runes assignment out of pure spite, I was at least going to make it look deliberate.
Very mature.
He started it.
By teaching you?
By repeatedly calling me out.
Ah. A capital offense. Carry on.
I had almost finished another curved section when the Doctor returned to my desk. This time I noticed the edge of his robes before he spoke, but not early enough to turn the blank over without making it painfully obvious that I was hiding something. His attention dropped to the circular design and stayed there.
The easy classroom amusement on the Doctor's face faded slightly as he leaned closer to inspect the carving. "That's not on the syllabus."
I looked up at him. "Neither was the eastern tradition."
The corner of his mouth twitched. For a moment the Doctor said nothing, while the student beside me glanced over, noticed what had caught our professor's attention, and promptly decided his own piece of wood deserved his complete and undivided concentration.
The Doctor tapped one finger beside the carving. "Where did you learn this?"
I considered the available answers and settled on the one least likely to explain anything. "Extra reading."
"Really?" the Doctor asked, clearly unconvinced.
I shrugged. "Ravenclaw."
He gave me a look. "That is not a universal explanation."
"It covers a surprising amount."
The Doctor's attention returned to the carving. Whatever he saw there apparently raised more questions than it answered, because he studied it for another few seconds before asking, "Do you actually know what you've written?"
I looked down at the design.
System?
Not even slightly.
Excellent.
"Conceptually," I answered.
The Doctor looked at me for several seconds, and I managed to keep my expression straight for almost three of them before he sighed through his nose. "You have no idea."
"I have some idea," I argued. "Enough to recognize it, at least."
"That's not what I asked."
"No, but it's the beginning of an answer."
That got him. The Doctor opened his mouth as though he intended to reply, stopped, then finally broke into a grin despite himself. "Oh, very funny."
I nodded graciously. "Thank you."
"I wasn't complimenting you," the Doctor said.
"I choose to interpret it generously."
The Doctor gave the carving one more look before straightening. "Finish your actual assignment, Mr. Myrddin."
"Already did." I turned the blank over and showed him the perfectly ordinary runic combination completed on the other side.
His eyes moved over the proper assignment before returning to me. "Of course you did."
"Preventative studying."
The Doctor frowned. "That doesn't even make sense."
"Neither did the grip comment."
"The grip comment made perfect sense," he insisted.
"It was still rude."
The Doctor shook his head as he moved on to the next desk, although the grin hadn't entirely disappeared.
I waited until he was several students away before looking down at the carving again.
Petty victory achieved.
Damn right.
You still don't know what it says.
I turned the blank slightly, examining the circles from another angle.
Maybe it's profound.
Maybe you wrote "turnip."
Then it's a profound turnip.
I flipped the blank back over before anyone else became curious and returned my attention to the class. For the remainder of the practical, the Doctor mostly left me alone, although every so often I caught him glancing back toward my desk.
That made the whole thing worth it.
The remainder of the practical passed without anything else particularly interesting happening. The Doctor continued making his rounds, correcting carving mistakes and occasionally taking a tool away from somebody who had apparently decided that practice blank meant see how deep I can cut before this thing splits in half. By the time the bell finally rang, most of the class had produced something recognizable, while a handful of wooden blocks looked like they'd been attacked by very small, extremely determined beavers.
As everyone began packing away their tools, the Doctor returned to the front and told us to leave the blanks on his desk before we went. He wanted to look them over before the next lesson and, according to him, reserved the right to name any entirely new rune accidentally created through poor penmanship after the student responsible.
That earned a few laughs while people started filing toward the front. I slipped my stylus back into my bag, gathered my parchment, and joined them with the practice blank in hand. The actual assignment was facing upward. The Gallifreyan remained safely underneath, which was probably pointless considering the Doctor had already seen it, but there was no reason to advertise my questionable extracurricular work to the rest of the class.
When I reached the desk, the Doctor accepted the blank without comment. His eyes passed over the two runes I'd been assigned to carve before lifting toward me, and for several seconds neither of us said anything. Then one of his eyebrows rose.
Mine followed.
The Doctor turned the blank over, gave the Gallifreyan another look, and deliberately placed my work in a separate pile beside his notes.
I pointed at it. "That's discriminatory grading."
"Out," the Doctor replied without looking up as he reached for the next student's work.
"I want that noted for the record."
That finally made him look at me. "Myrddin."
"Leaving," I assured him, stepping out of the way while the Hufflepuff behind me started laughing.
I had almost reached the door when the Doctor called after me, warning me not to start inventing extraterrestrial alphabets for the examination. I looked back long enough to tell him there were no promises, which earned me the exact expression I had been hoping for.
I left before he could invent homework specifically designed to punish me.
The corridor outside Ancient Runes was already filling with students changing classes, and it took less than thirty seconds for Hogwarts to remind me what everyone had received with breakfast that morning.
The Daily Prophet.
More specifically, Sirius Black.
His name was everywhere. Students had copies of the paper folded beneath their arms, tucked into bags, or still open in their hands as they moved through the corridor. Nobody needed to invent anything to make this year interesting. The actual events had managed that all by themselves.
A pair of older Ravenclaws near the stairs were arguing over the part about Sirius spending nearly ten years in Azkaban without ever receiving a trial. One of them seemed convinced she had misunderstood the article until the other opened his copy of the Prophet and pointed directly at the paragraph. Farther along, a group of Hufflepuffs had reached the same question from another direction and were trying to work out how somebody could be publicly treated as one of Voldemort's most infamous supporters for nearly a decade without anyone apparently noticing that the Ministry had skipped the part where they proved it.
The Peter Pettigrew section was drawing just as much attention. He had been dead for almost ten years as far as most of magical Britain was concerned, complete with an Order of Merlin awarded after his supposed murder. Now the morning paper was reporting that evidence presented before the Wizengamot had overturned the accepted account of the Potters' betrayal and that Pettigrew was wanted for questioning in connection with Halloween of 1981 even including an arrest warrant for the alleged dead hero.
Most of the conversation I passed wasn't really rumor mill quality yet. It was hundreds of students reading the same article and reaching the obvious conclusion that something they had been taught as settled fact their entire lives was suddenly not settled at all.
I could understand that.
One younger Ravenclaw was walking beside a friend with the paper open between them, rereading the same section as they argued over whether the new evidence meant Pettigrew might actually be alive. His friend pointed out that issuing a warrant for a dead man would be fairly pointless.
The first Ravenclaw considered that. "Unless they aren't sure."
"That's why it says wanted for questioning," his friend replied, tapping the article as they disappeared around the corner. "They want to find out."
That was probably the most sensible summary I'd heard so far.
Give them until lunch.
Before what?
Someone decides Pettigrew has been living in the Forbidden Forest for ten years and married a centaur.
I nearly missed a step.
Why would you even put that into the universe?
Multiversal cosmic comedic timing.
Fuck you.
Still not cosmic control.
You are never letting that go, are you?
Absolutely not.
I was still resisting the urge to laugh when I made it down the next flight of stairs and heard somebody call my name.
Penelope Clearwater was coming toward me through the corridor with two books tucked against her chest. One was a Hogwarts text I recognized. The other definitely wasn't. Its cover had the worn, ordinary look of a mundane hardcover that had spent a few years being carried between shelves, bags, and bedside tables without the benefit of self-repairing charms.
"Morning, Penny," I said as she reached me.
"Morning." Penelope fell into step beside me rather than making both of us obstacles in the middle of the corridor. She glanced toward a couple of students passing with the Prophet open between them before looking back at me. "Before you ask, no, this isn't about Sirius Black."
I raised an eyebrow. "Wasn't going to ask."
"You were thinking about it."
"That's becoming an alarming accusation around here."
Penelope smiled but didn't take the bait. Instead, she shifted the books in her arms until the mundane one was on top. "My mum sent me this a few weeks ago. I'd mentioned something in a letter about how much of British history looks completely different once you know magic is real, and she thought I'd enjoy going back through some of the books I used to read at home."
That made considerably more sense than most reasons people approached me holding books.
I looked down at the cover. "And?"
"And I finally started reading it again last night." Penelope opened the book around the middle, revealing several scraps of parchment marking different pages. "There's a section on early Welsh legends and the people who may have ended up underneath them. It spends quite a lot of time complaining that later writers changed names, combined people who may not have been the same person, and turned whatever actually happened into something considerably more dramatic."
"Sounds like history."
"Exactly." Penelope flipped back a few pages as we walked, then held the book where I could see a marked passage. "Except I recognized one of the names."
There it was.
Myrddin.
I looked at the page a little longer than I probably should have.
Penelope noticed.
Of course she did.
"I've known your surname for three years," she continued, watching my face now instead of the book. "But I never thought much about it beyond it being unusual. Then I'm reading a completely mundane book from home and suddenly it's talking about older Welsh forms behind the name Merlin, and Myrddin keeps appearing."
I looked from the page to her. "You spent last night researching my surname."
"I spent part of last night checking whether the book was talking nonsense," Penelope corrected. "Then I made the mistake of checking the magical library."
"There's your first problem," Josh's grin making it into his voice.
"It did not make things clearer." She agreed as she closed the book around the scraps of parchment and tucked it back against the Hogwarts text. "The mundane sources treat half of it as legend, the magical sources treat Merlin as obviously real but disagree on practically everything else, and neither side seems particularly interested in explaining why I have a friend walking around Hogwarts with the same family name."
I had a feeling I knew exactly where this was going now.
Penelope studied me for another few steps before finally asking, "Josh, is your family actually related to Merlin?"
And there it was. Out in the world at last. The thing I'd known for some time, finally being asked to my face by the first real friend I'd made in this world.
You could just tell her.
I know.
Then why are you standing there like she asked you to explain quantum mechanics with a crayon?
Because this is Penny.
Yes. I noticed. She has been standing directly in front of you for several seconds.
Fuck off.
Tell your friend the truth before she goes back to the library, notices that magical and mundane history stop agreeing with each other, and becomes a magical conspiracy theorist.
Penny is not going to become a conspiracy theorist.
You say that now. Give her three contradictory biographies of Merlin and a weekend. She'll be wearing a mithril-lined tinfoil hat to stop the aliens from changing history into herstory.
...That doesn't even make sense.
Neither will the conspiracy. That's how you know it's working.
I looked at Penelope again. This was Penny. My first real friend in this world, my best friend, and somehow I'd gone nearly three years without telling her that the family name she'd known me by traced directly back to fucking Merlin. It wasn't exactly a secret, which somehow made the fact that I'd never told her feel worse now that she was standing there asking me directly.
Maybe we're all fucked. Fuck it. Let's roll the dice.
"Yeah, I'm related to Merlin, Penny. Direct descendant, in fact," I said, leaning back against the castle wall. "The whole thing was a surprise for me too, and it wasn't until I'd been here for a bit that I realized most of magical Britain doesn't even know. Hell, they swear by my great-to-the-nth-degree grandfather's beard and testicles. It doesn't get much weirder than that unless you're about to tell me you're descended from Morgan le Fay."
Penelope stared at me for several seconds, apparently waiting for the punchline to show itself. When none arrived, her expression slowly shifted from disbelief into something considerably more pointed. "Direct descendant," she repeated. "As in Merlin Merlin."
I assured her that unless magical Britain had another Merlin everybody swore by, that was exactly who I meant. That answer only seemed to remind Penelope of something worse. On the first day we'd met, while we were still aboard the Hogwarts Express, I'd told her House Myrddin could trace itself all the way back to its founder. She remembered the conversation perfectly and pointed out that I'd been very specific about the age of my family while somehow neglecting to identify that founder as Merlin.
"When you phrase it like that, it sounds intentional," I admitted, only to get a raised eyebrow in response. "Okay, yeah. A little intentional."
Penelope let out a breath halfway between a laugh and an exasperated sigh before reminding me that she'd known me for nearly three years. When she asked how long I'd known, there wasn't really an answer that made me look better, so I told her the truth: most of the time she'd known me. That earned a closed-eye "Of course," followed by exactly the expression I deserved when I tried claiming it had simply never come up.
Some of her irritation finally gave way to amusement when she conceded that having an entire culture casually swear by one of my ancestors did make the situation considerably stranger than she'd expected. Then, without missing a beat, Penelope added, "Morgana's left tit, Josh. Nearly three years?"
I stared at her until the corner of her mouth twitched. "You did that on purpose."
Penelope denied knowing what I was talking about with such obvious innocence that I called bullshit, and that finally broke whatever remained of her indignation. She started laughing hard enough to tighten her grip on the books, and I couldn't help joining her. By the time she recovered, she was still annoyed with me, but at least she was laughing about it. I told her that was fair.
Once the laughter faded, the curiosity came right back. Penelope looked down at the mundane history book and asked whether that meant the sources were at least correct about the name. Myrddin really was Merlin.
"Yeah. The history around him gets messy, but that part's real."
Her attention stayed on the book a little longer than necessary. I could practically see Ravenclaw taking over again. She'd spent part of the previous night comparing mundane history with magical records because she'd recognized my surname, and I'd just confirmed that at least one of the things she'd been reading as legend was historical fact.
That was probably dangerous.
We made it several more steps before I noticed Penelope had gone unusually quiet. When I asked what was wrong, she ran her thumb along the spine of the mundane book and reminded me that I'd just joked about her being descended from Morgan le Fay.
"Yeah?"
Penelope hesitated before admitting that her family actually did have one of those stories. Not Morgan specifically, but the sort of old family claim everyone heard from a grandparent and usually assumed had acquired a little extra grandeur over the centuries. Her grandmother had always insisted that one branch of the family could be traced back to a knight from Arthur's court. Penny's mother apparently treated it as one of Gran's stories, and until about thirty seconds ago, Penny hadn't had much reason to think differently.
I stared at her.
She caught me doing it almost immediately. "Don't."
"Penny, you just told Merlin's descendant that you might be descended from one of the Knights of the Round Table. I feel like I'm entitled to at least one look."
Penelope considered that before reluctantly allowing me one.
I immediately started running through names in my head. Arthur would have been too obvious. Lancelot would have meant the universe was deliberately being an asshole. Galahad would have been almost aggressively on theme. Eventually I stopped guessing and simply asked which knight her grandmother had named.
Penelope's hesitation lasted just long enough to make me suspicious. "Percival."
I stopped walking.
She made it another couple of steps before realizing I was no longer beside her and turned around to find me staring at her from the middle of the corridor.
Oh, that is fucking beautiful.
Don't.
Your best friend may be descended from Sir Percival.
I heard her.
While your great-grandfather is named Percival.
I am painfully aware of that.
And you're Merlin's descendant.
System.
I'm just appreciating the craftsmanship.
By the time I started moving again, Penelope had gone from amused to mildly concerned. I caught up with her and rubbed a hand over my face before explaining, "My great-grandfather's name is Percival."
That stopped her just as effectively as her answer had stopped me. Penelope looked at me for several seconds before asking whether I was serious, and when I assured her that I unfortunately was, she glanced down at the mundane book, back at me, and finally lost whatever remained of her composure.
"Oh, Morgana's fucking left tit."
I started laughing before she even finished.
Penelope eventually pointed out that she still had no proof her grandmother's story was true. A family legend did not magically become genealogy simply because my ridiculous family history had turned out to be real, although I suggested confirming that before anyone started calling her Lady of the Grail. The look she gave me when she warned me not to start made it obvious I'd be saving that one for later.
Then Penelope tucked the mundane book more securely beneath her arm and announced that she was going back to the library.
Of course she was.
Tinfoil hat by Saturday.
Shut the fuck up.
I'm just saying, the trajectory is concerning.
She's researching her family history.
After discovering that the legendary wizard in her mundane history book is your great-to-the-nth-degree grandfather and remembering that Gran may have casually mentioned descent from the Round Table.
I considered that.
...Fine. Mildly concerning.
Thank you.
Penelope caught whatever amusement was showing on my face and asked what I was smiling about. I told her it was nothing worth worrying about, which naturally earned me a suspicious look, but she let it go in favor of informing me that if her grandmother's story contained even a grain of truth, I was helping her sort through the genealogy.
When I questioned how I'd gotten volunteered, Penelope gave me a pointed look and reminded me that I was the one who had just confirmed that several things she'd thought were legends might actually have happened. I couldn't argue with that, so I accepted the assignment. She softened slightly before adding that I still wasn't forgiven for failing to mention Merlin for nearly three years.
"Also fair."
That seemed to satisfy her for the moment, and we started down the corridor again.
Saturday.
Fuck off.
.....
Omake: I Cast Bullshit
There were rules to magic.
Bo knew that because she'd spent an unreasonable amount of time learning them. Kenzi knew it because Conceptual Merlin had personally forced enough magical theory into her head that she could now explain why waving a wand and shouting random nonsense was not spellcasting.
William "Penny" Adiyodi certainly knew there were rules.
Gandalf was old enough that he might have personally witnessed several of those rules being invented.
None of that explained what was happening.
The four of them stood around a battered stone courtyard that had already acquired several scorch marks despite nobody remembering casting anything involving fire. Bo had her wand in hand. Kenzi had hers pointed toward Penny with the sort of confidence that usually preceded either brilliance or a misdemeanor. Penny looked deeply irritated with existence, while Gandalf leaned against his staff as though three younger supernatural idiots were merely providing entertainment between pipe breaks.
Penny had just finished insisting that everyone stop for thirty seconds and establish which magical framework they were actually using when Kenzi decided to answer the question.
She snapped her wand toward him. "I CAST ALWAYS WARM PILLOW!"
Nothing visible happened.
Penny stared at her.
Kenzi stared back.
After several seconds, Penny informed her that those were certainly words but absolutely not a spell.
"Worked, though," Kenzi said.
"You don't know that."
Kenzi smiled. "Go to sleep tonight."
Penny's expression changed.
Bo tried not to laugh.
He caught her anyway.
Penny pointed accusingly at Kenzi while demanding that she undo it, only for Kenzi to explain that she hadn't the slightest idea how. That caused Penny to become considerably more animated, because unlike a random idiot making noises with a wand, Kenzi had been trained. She knew damn well that magic required structure, intent, technique, and about sixteen other things that did not include screaming household inconveniences at people.
Kenzi gave Bo a thoughtful look. "Did Merlin ever teach us Always Warm Pillow?"
"No."
"Maybe I missed that lesson."
"You absolutely did not."
"Independent study?"
Bo shook her head.
Penny looked vindicated for approximately two seconds before Kenzi pointed her wand at his feet.
"I CAST ONE LEGO IN EVERY SHOE!"
Penny immediately froze.
Nobody spoke.
Very carefully, Penny looked down at his boots.
Then back at Kenzi.
"You wouldn't."
Kenzi's grin became vicious. "Take a step."
Penny did not take a step.
Gandalf stroked his beard thoughtfully. "A subtle curse."
"Thank you, beard daddy."
Gandalf's hand stopped.
Bo covered her face.
Penny looked delighted that somebody besides him was suffering.
Gandalf slowly straightened, and something about the movement immediately killed Kenzi's smile. The old wizard planted his staff against the stone and regarded her with all the terrible dignity of the Grey Pilgrim.
"Very well."
Kenzi took one cautious step backward.
Gandalf raised his staff.
"I CAST MAJESTIC BEARD FOR EVERYONE!"
Golden light detonated through the courtyard.
When Bo could see again, something heavy was hanging from her chin.
She touched it.
Hair.
A lot of hair.
Bo found herself staring at a magnificent dark beard reaching almost to her chest, thick enough that some Viking king would have murdered his own brother for it.
Kenzi looked at her.
Bo looked at Kenzi.
Kenzi's eyes moved slowly down the beard.
"Bo-Bo."
"No."
"This is doing something for me."
"Don't."
"You're weirdly sexy with a beard."
Bo found a reflective piece of metal lying nearby and inspected herself.
There was a short silence.
"...I don't hate it."
"I fucking knew it."
Kenzi's own beard was considerably smaller. It was soft, fluffy, and absurdly neat, somehow transforming her into the world's most adorable Slavic garden gnome.
Bo immediately smiled.
Kenzi pointed her wand at her. "Don't you fucking dare."
"You're adorable."
"I have a Lego spell and no ethical standards."
"Point taken."
Penny was less fortunate.
His beard extended almost to his knees.
He grabbed fistfuls of it, stared at Gandalf in horror, and demanded to know how the spell had worked.
That was apparently the wrong question.
Gandalf looked pleased with himself.
Penny insisted that "Majestic Beard for Everyone" wasn't an incantation, had no discernible magical construction, and should have accomplished absolutely nothing according to every magical law he understood.
Bo reluctantly agreed. She couldn't identify it as Transfiguration, a glamour, or any charm structure Merlin had taught her.
Kenzi gave Bo's beard an experimental tug.
Bo slapped her hand away.
"Definitely real," Kenzi reported.
"Stop helping."
Gandalf merely smiled. "Perhaps your education has been too narrow."
Penny's expression became offended on an almost spiritual level.
"Oh yeah, old man?"
Gandalf raised an eyebrow.
Penny pointed at him.
"I CAST PIPE-LEAF DOESN'T EXIST!"
There was a quiet pop.
Gandalf stopped smiling.
One hand entered his robes.
Then another pocket.
Then a pouch.
Then another pouch.
Nothing.
The color slowly drained from Gandalf's expression.
Penny stared at his own hand.
"I... actually didn't do anything."
Gandalf looked up.
Penny took a step backward, immediately remembered the Lego curse, and stopped before putting his foot down.
"No, seriously. That was complete bullshit. I just said it."
The sky darkened.
Gandalf's voice dropped several octaves as he asked Penny what he had done.
Penny grabbed his enormous beard defensively. "You started it!"
"I gave you majesty."
"You gave me a fucking rug attached to my face!"
"You have taken pipe-weed from Middle-earth."
Thunder rolled overhead.
Kenzi leaned toward Bo. "Is pipe-weed weed?"
"Apparently it's more like tobacco."
Kenzi looked horrified. "Oh. That's way worse."
Gandalf's attention returned to Penny, and his expression became contemplative in the way that suggested someone was about to regret having irritated a wizard.
Then Gandalf smiled.
Penny immediately looked worried.
The Grey Wizard slammed his staff against the ground. "I CAST YE-YE HAIRCUT BEGONE! MAY YOU GET SOME WENCHES ON YOUR STAFF!"
Light flashed.
Penny's hair immediately transformed into an absolutely magnificent mane of wizard hair.
At the same time, a polished wooden staff appeared in his hand.
Three tiny enchanted women were sitting on it.
One waved.
Penny stared at them.
The tiny blonde nearest the top of the staff looked him over and gave an approving nod.
Penny slowly turned toward Gandalf.
"What the fuck?"
Gandalf spread his arms. "Wizard swag."
"That isn't magic!"
"You are holding the evidence."
Penny looked down at the tiny women again.
One of them blew him a kiss.
He looked back at Gandalf.
"I hate you."
"Your hair has improved."
"Fuck you."
Kenzi had been watching the exchange with growing inspiration.
That was bad.
She raised her wand.
"I CAST SLEEVE FALLS DOWN EVERY TIME YOU WASH YOUR HANDS!"
Penny recoiled. "You bitch."
Kenzi swung toward Gandalf. "I CAST FITTED SHEET CORNER POPS OFF EVERY NIGHT!"
Gandalf's eyes widened.
Bo stared at Kenzi. "Kenz."
"I CAST USB WRONG WAY THREE TIMES!"
Penny pointed furiously at her. "THAT ALREADY FUCKING HAPPENS!"
"Now it's guaranteed!"
"You're evil!"
Kenzi spun dramatically toward Bo.
Bo raised a warning finger. "Think very carefully."
Kenzi lowered her wand.
"Yeah, okay. You've got succubus powers. We're cool."
Penny finally decided he'd had enough of being the primary victim and lifted both hands toward Kenzi.
"I CAST YOUR FAVORITE SNACK IS ALWAYS SLIGHTLY STALE!"
Kenzi gasped.
Bo winced.
"That was personal."
"She put Legos in my shoes."
Kenzi looked genuinely betrayed. "Food, Penny? Really?"
"You started this."
"Oh, we're doing petty?"
Kenzi's eyes narrowed.
Penny's did too.
Bo recognized an arms race when she saw one.
Penny struck first. "I CAST EVERY DOOR YOU PUSH SAYS PULL!"
Kenzi immediately retaliated. "I CAST THE ITCH MOVES WHEN YOU SCRATCH IT!"
Penny's hand flew toward his shoulder.
Then his back.
Then his side.
His expression became murderous.
"I CAST YOUR PHONE DIES AT TWENTY PERCENT!"
"I CAST YOUR SOCKS ARE ALWAYS SLIGHTLY DAMP!"
"YOU MONSTER."
"I CAST YOUR SNEEZE NEVER COMES!"
Penny's face immediately contorted.
He inhaled.
Paused.
His expression collapsed.
"Oh, fuck you."
Kenzi laughed so hard she nearly dropped her wand.
Gandalf watched them for a moment before apparently deciding wizard dignity required participation.
He raised his staff. "I CAST ROBES WITH POCKETS!"
Everyone stopped.
Bo looked at him.
Kenzi slowly lowered her wand.
Penny stared.
Gandalf's robes shimmered.
Then Bo's did.
Then Kenzi's clothing.
Then Penny's.
Bo cautiously put one hand into a pocket that had not existed five seconds earlier.
Her arm went in nearly to the shoulder.
Bo's eyes widened. "Oh my God."
Kenzi immediately began checking hers. "Bo-Bo. BO-BO. They have fucking dimensional storage."
Penny shoved both hands into his new pockets.
His anger vanished.
"Okay. That one's actually good."
Gandalf looked unbearably smug.
Kenzi nodded respectfully. "Wizard swag."
"Precisely."
For approximately eight seconds, peace existed.
Then Penny remembered his permanently warm pillow.
His expression hardened.
"I CAST EVERY DRINK YOU HAVE IS ONE DEGREE AWAY FROM THE PERFECT TEMPERATURE."
Gandalf recoiled as though he'd been struck.
Kenzi whispered, "Petty."
"That's the point."
Bo had finally had enough.
She looked at Gandalf.
Then Penny.
Then Kenzi.
All three were preparing their next attacks.
Bo sighed.
"Fine."
Nobody paid attention.
That was their mistake.
Bo raised her wand.
"I CAST BLUE BALLS."
The courtyard went silent.
Completely silent.
Penny stopped moving.
Gandalf's staff slowly lowered.
Kenzi's eyes widened.
Several seconds passed.
Penny looked at Bo.
"Did you just..."
"Yes."
Kenzi shifted uncomfortably. "Bo-Bo."
"Yes?"
"What exactly did you cast?"
Bo smiled pleasantly. "Everyone is now incredibly horny."
Penny waited.
Bo's smile widened.
"And there is absolutely nothing you can do about it."
Penny's face went blank.
Kenzi stared at her best friend in horror.
Gandalf looked toward the heavens as though appealing directly to Eru Ilúvatar for intervention.
None arrived.
Penny finally found his voice. "That's not blue balls."
"Conceptually it is."
Kenzi pointed accusingly at Bo. "You weaponized conceptual horny!"
"Apparently."
"Merlin did not fucking teach us that."
"I improvised."
Penny made a strangled noise. "UNDO IT."
Bo folded her arms.
"No."
Gandalf's beard seemed to bristle.
"Woman."
Bo raised an eyebrow.
Gandalf reconsidered his approach.
"Please."
Bo smiled.
Then Kenzi's expression changed.
Bo recognized that expression immediately.
"Oh no."
Kenzi slowly raised her wand.
"Kenzi."
"I CAST RANDOM BONER DURING IMPORTANT SPEECH!"
Penny screamed.
Gandalf shouted something in Sindarin.
Bo doubled over laughing.
And somewhere beyond time, space, death, and every established magical framework represented in the courtyard, Conceptual Merlin abruptly stopped what he was doing.
He stared into the distance.
A terrible feeling had come over him.
Someone, somewhere, was using magic incorrectly.
Very, very incorrectly.
He approved.
Back in the courtyard, Gandalf had apparently decided that asking politely had been a mistake.
The Grey Wizard straightened.
His staff struck the ground once.
"I CAST MAJESTIC COMPOSURE!"
Silver light rolled outward.
Gandalf's robes snapped in a wind that hadn't existed a second earlier. His beard somehow became even fuller, several tasteful braids appeared near the ends, and his hat settled at precisely the angle required to make an ancient wizard look like he had personally invented swagger.
More importantly, the expression of restrained suffering caused by Bo's spell disappeared from his face.
Bo's smile vanished.
Penny pointed at Gandalf. "No. Absolutely fucking not."
Kenzi stared between them. "Did he just swagger his way out of blue balls?"
"Apparently," Bo said.
Gandalf stroked his beard.
Bo narrowed her eyes.
"Don't."
He stroked it again.
Somehow it was worse the second time.
"Oh, fuck you."
Gandalf's eyebrows rose. "I believe that was precisely the difficulty you imposed upon us."
Penny made a strangled noise.
Kenzi slapped both hands over her mouth.
Bo stared at Gandalf.
Gandalf looked extremely pleased with himself.
"Okay," Bo said. "Old man wants to play."
She raised her wand.
Penny immediately backed away as far as the theoretical Lego in his shoe allowed. "Why do I feel like we're all about to suffer for something Gandalf did?"
"Pattern recognition," Kenzi told him.
Bo flicked her wand toward Gandalf.
"I CAST SILVER FOX APPRECIATION!"
Nothing happened.
For nearly three seconds.
Then Gandalf's hair caught the nonexistent breeze.
His robes billowed.
The light across the courtyard shifted just enough to catch the silver in his beard.
Bo stared.
Kenzi stared.
Penny stared.
Gandalf slowly smiled.
Kenzi whispered, "Oh no."
Bo's eyes narrowed further. "That was supposed to make this worse for you."
Penny looked at her. "You made Gandalf hot."
"Gandalf was already kinda hot," Kenzi admitted.
Everybody looked at her.
Kenzi shrugged. "What? You all saw the beard spell."
Gandalf planted both hands atop his staff with the unmistakable confidence of a man who had just discovered an entirely new battlefield.
"Very well."
Bo's expression changed.
"Gandalf."
"I CAST OLD MAN GAME!"
His staff flashed.
Nothing about Gandalf physically changed.
He simply looked at Bo.
That was enough.
Bo's mouth opened.
Closed.
Opened again.
Kenzi screamed.
"BO-BO IS BLUSHING!"
"I am not."
"YOUR EARS ARE RED!"
"Kenzi."
Penny looked from Bo to Gandalf and started laughing so hard his enormous beard bounced against his knees.
Bo pointed her wand at Gandalf. "You take that off right now."
Gandalf's eyes twinkled. "I thought you appreciated silver foxes."
"I made a tactical error."
"A grave one."
"You are enjoying this way too much."
"Immensely."
Bo inhaled slowly through her nose.
"Fine."
Kenzi immediately stopped laughing.
Penny noticed.
"Why did you stop?"
"Because that's Bo's murder face."
"She has a murder face?"
"Dude, everybody has a murder face. Hers just usually gets laid afterward."
Bo ignored them both and raised her wand.
Gandalf's smile faded slightly.
"I CAST UNREASONABLE SEXUAL TENSION!"
The spell hit the entire courtyard.
Everyone froze.
Bo looked at Gandalf.
Gandalf looked at Bo.
Penny looked at Kenzi.
Kenzi looked at Penny.
Both of them immediately looked somewhere else.
Gandalf cleared his throat.
Bo crossed her arms.
"Majestic composure helping?"
Gandalf's jaw tightened.
"Considerably."
"Bullshit."
"A wizard does not reveal all his secrets."
Kenzi suddenly pointed between them. "Oh my God. You two have hate-flirting now."
"We do not," Bo and Gandalf said together.
Penny winced. "That made it worse."
Bo and Gandalf looked at one another again.
Kenzi made an excited noise.
"Kenzi," Bo warned.
Kenzi pantomimed zipping her mouth shut.
Gandalf recovered first. He straightened his hat, tightened his grip on his staff, and drew himself up with enough dignity to remind everyone that beneath all the bullshit stood an immortal being who had faced horrors older than human civilization.
Then he pointed his staff directly at Bo.
"I CAST BEARD STROKE CRITICAL HIT!"
Gandalf slowly ran one hand down his magnificent beard.
Bo physically took a step backward.
"Oh, you motherfucker."
Kenzi collapsed against a wall.
Penny was openly crying.
Gandalf smiled.
Bo stared at him for several long seconds before something almost peaceful settled over her expression.
Penny noticed first.
"Oh no."
Gandalf's smile faltered.
Bo raised her wand.
"I CAST EVERYONE THINKS GANDALF SAID THEIR NAME IN THAT VOICE!"
The courtyard went silent.
Gandalf blinked.
Penny's eyes widened.
Kenzi slowly grabbed Bo's arm.
"Bo-Bo."
"Yes?"
"What voice?"
Bo smiled.
Then Gandalf said, very quietly, "Kenzi."
Kenzi's knees buckled.
"FUCK."
Penny immediately pointed at Bo. "UNDO THAT."
"Why?"
Gandalf looked at Penny.
"Penny."
Penny recoiled. "NOPE."
Bo started laughing.
Gandalf stared at her.
Bo's laughter slowed.
"Bo."
She froze.
Gandalf smiled.
"Oh, that's bullshit."
"Apparently magic did not get the memo."
Kenzi, still clinging to Bo for structural support, stared at Gandalf with newfound respect.
"Okay. Wizard daddy officially wins something."
Gandalf inclined his head. "At last, recognition."
Penny dragged both hands down his face. "Can we please stop before somebody casts something we can't undo?"
Kenzi looked toward him.
Penny immediately pointed at her.
"Do not."
Kenzi's mouth opened.
"I mean it."
She closed it.
Bo lowered her wand. Gandalf lowered his staff.
For one miraculous moment, everyone appeared willing to accept a ceasefire.
Then Gandalf glanced at the staff Penny was still holding, complete with the three tiny enchanted wenches sitting comfortably along its length.
One of them waved at him.
Gandalf frowned.
"Those were supposed to be taller."
Penny stared at him.
Bo snorted.
Kenzi fell over laughing.
Gandalf considered his work, lifted one hand, and spoke with the solemnity of a wizard correcting an ancient enchantment.
"I CAST FULL-SIZED WENCHES."
Penny's eyes widened.
"Wait, wha—"
POP.
Three full-grown women appeared around him.
One immediately took his staff.
Another grabbed him by the front of his shirt.
The third looked Penny up and down and smiled.
Gandalf nodded approvingly.
"Much better."
Penny looked at Gandalf in horror.
Bo doubled over.
Kenzi slapped the ground.
"WIZARD SWAG!"
Gandalf raised his staff triumphantly.
"Wizard swag."
And that was how the battle ended.
Not with victory.
Not with defeat.
But with Penny being carried away by three magically generated wenches, Kenzi still refusing to take a step because of the theoretical Lego in her shoe, Bo discovering several deeply inconvenient things about her taste in older men, and Gandalf standing alone in the ruined courtyard with a magnificent beard, immaculate robes, and absolutely no pipe-weed.
His smile slowly disappeared.
"...Penny."
Somewhere in the distance, Penny screamed, "I'M NOT PUTTING IT BACK!"
Gandalf's eyes narrowed.
The staff began to glow.
The battle resumed.