Chapter Text
Thanks for reading and reviewing.
I know I said that I wasn’t going to write any more Isobel fics, but this one isn’t part of that series. She just happens to be there.
This is a crossover with Merlin the TV show, kind of. I am borrowing the character without borrowing the show. I haven’t seen the show in too long to remember much of it, so…
Anyway, anything you recognize doesn’t belong to me, other than Isobel. She’s mine.
Hphphp
It was a dark and stormy night, and the Chamber of Secrets had just been closed. Well, kind of. Harry had just met Isobel, the basilisk, his new familiar and defeated the Dark Lord for the third time. As thunder rattled the castle’s ancient stones, Ginny had been hurried away to recover from her ordeal, and students whispered in anxious clusters beneath the flickering torchlight. The echo of footsteps hurried through the corridors as Professors secured the entrances, and the crisp winter air bit at the windows. Yule was approaching and the students were looking forward to going home. They were all happy the mystery was now solved.
Unknown to them, something new was unsettling Hogwarts. The Chamber held another secret, and it was stirring—Merlin was waking.
Emerging from the shadows of the Chamber, he strode purposefully into the Great Hall amidst the celebration feast, causing startled students to drop their cutlery and staff to rise from their seats in alarm. The torches flickered as if in response to his presence. Without hesitation, he crossed the hall, his boots echoing on the flagstones, and paused at the center of the gathering, eyes sweeping over the stunned assembly. For a heartbeat, silence reigned—before the stranger’s gaze settled on Harry.
Merlin straightened his cloak and stepped forward, the long sweep of his sleeve brushing a startled Hufflepuff’s plate to the floor. His eyes, bright with curiosity and old wisdom, scanned the enchanted ceiling as lightning flashed overhead. With purposeful strides, he approached the center of the room, boots ringing out on stone, and planted his staff firmly with a resonant thud. Then, tilting his head in wonder as if waking from a long sleep, he glanced about and asked, “What year is it?” His voice carried, clear and oddly youthful for the man’s ancient legend, while his attire—humble and timeworn—seemed to shimmer between centuries.
He appeared youthful, almost out of place among the ancient stones, with a shock of unruly black hair that seemed determined never to be tamed. His ears, endearingly prominent, gave him an air of approachable awkwardness, while his tall, slender frame moved with a surprising grace. Most striking of all were his dark green eyes—lively and inquisitive, shining with a depth that hinted at centuries of wisdom beneath their playful glint.
Dumbledore rose from his throne-like chair, robes swirling about him as he fixed a steady gaze on the stranger. Stepping down from the dais, he moved closer, staff in hand, his presence commanding the attention of every soul in the hall. “I am sorry, young man, but who are you? And how did you happen to come into the castle?” he asked, his voice echoing through the hushed chamber as whispers faded and all eyes turned to Merlin.
With a graceful sweep of his cloak, the stranger strode forward, eyes glinting with ancient mischief. He raised his staff and tapped it smartly against the stone floor, the sound echoing through the Great Hall. “I am Merlin, also known as Merlinus Ambrosius, or Emrys,” he declared, his voice carrying to every corner as startled gasps and whispers rippled across the room.
With a sharp intake of breath, Professor McGonagall rose from her seat and gripped her wand tightly, her eyes never leaving the stranger.
“That is impossible, Merlin has been dead these last fifteen hundred years,” the headmaster said, looking at the man in disbelief.
Hagrid’s mug slipped from his massive hand, hitting the table with a dull thud as the hall collectively drew closer, tension crackling in the air.
Merlin blinked as if waking from a centuries-long dream, brushing dust from his cloak with a slow, deliberate motion. “I was asleep?” he murmured, his gaze drifting to Isobel, who had coiled herself protectively around Harry’s shoulders. Stepping lightly yet purposefully across the flagstones, Merlin crouched beside Harry, reaching out with a hand that shimmered faintly with residual magic. He regarded the basilisk with a fond, knowing smile. “Hi, Isobel,” he hissed softly, extending a finger for her to nuzzle.
That caused many to start murmuring and a few to scream.
Harry just beamed that he was not the only parselmouth, and, emboldened by the commotion, Isobel lifted her head and gave a proud, theatrical coil, her emerald scales catching the enchanted light and shimmering throughout the hall. “Merlin,” she hissed back, bowing her head respectfully as she slithered a protective coil around Harry’s arm.
Everyone was sitting well away from Harry and his snake, nervously glancing between the two, until Harry cleared his throat and spoke up. He reached over to gently stroke Isobel’s scales, then met the stares around him and said, “She says he’s Merlin.”
Dumbledore descended the dais, robes whispering across the flagstones, and fixed Merlin with a probing gaze. He set his staff down with a decisive thud that echoed off the walls. “That does not explain how you came to be in the castle,” he said, his voice both gentle and commanding as he moved to stand directly before the legendary wizard.
Merlin brushed a stray lock of black hair from his brow and, with a surprisingly nimble swing of his long cloak, made his way to the Gryffindor table. He settled beside Harry, his presence drawing the curious gazes of nearby students. Gently, Merlin reached out and patted Isobel’s scaly head, the basilisk responding with a low, contented hiss. “I have always been here,” he said, glancing around the room as if reacquainting himself with the ancient stones. Leaning forward, he addressed Isobel in a soft hiss, “How have you been, Isobel?” Then, turning to Harry with genuine curiosity shining in his eyes, he asked, “Who are you?”
“Better than you, you lazy arsehole,” Isobel hissed at him, then dismissed him as unimportant.
Harry straightened his shoulders and offered a tentative smile, reaching out to gently stroke Isobel’s head as he introduced himself. “I’m Harry,” he said, looking around at those who had shunned him since he brought Isobel up from the Chamber.
Hermione and Ron blushed red, exchanging uneasy glances across the table. With a determined breath, Hermione picked up her plate and her bookbag, mustering her courage, slid down the bench to sit resolutely beside Harry. She offered him a small, encouraging smile before placing a gentle hand on his arm. Ron hesitated, fidgeting with his fork, his ears turning a deeper shade of crimson. Though he couldn’t yet bring himself to join them, he cast several guilty, lingering glances in Harry’s direction, shifting awkwardly in his seat. Plates clattered and chairs scraped as a few other students subtly inched closer, curiosity overcoming fear as the great hall's tension gradually eased.
“It’s nice to meet you, Harry,” Merlin stated, shaking Harry’s hand and petting Isobel, only to snatch his hand away when she snapped at him.
Dumbledore stood and strode purposefully from the Staff Table, his deep robes flowing behind him as he made his way toward Merlin. With a measured gesture, he raised his staff and tapped it lightly on the stone floor, commanding attention once more. “Young man, I think we need to speak about why you are here,” Dumbledore stated, his gaze never leaving Merlin’s face.
Merlin’s stomach gave a theatrical rumble, echoing in the sudden quiet. “After I eat,” he said, reaching across the table and deftly snagging a thick slice of roast beef. He tore into it with obvious relish, pausing only to close his eyes and hum in appreciation. “I have not eaten in over a thousand years,” he declared, licking his fingers as he reached for a goblet of pumpkin juice and downed it in one long draught.
Hermione set down her fork, curiosity gleaming in her eyes as she leaned forward over the table. “How is it you speak our language? English wasn’t spoken in this form a thousand years ago,” she asked, her fingers tracing idle patterns against her plate. Around her, students straightened in their seats, anticipation rippling through the hall as all eyes fixed once more on Merlin.
With a flick of his wrist, Merlin conjured a tiny arc of golden light that danced between his fingers. “Magic,” Merlin said, his eyes glowing gold as the light whirled and fizzed in the air before vanishing with a gentle pop.
Hermione tucked a stray curl behind her ear, her excitement barely contained as she leaned forward. “Oh bother,” she said, smiling at the man. “Can you teach me?” she asked, perking up some.
“I’m not sure. I would have to see what type of magic is taught nowadays,” Merlin replied, his gaze sweeping the hall with a twinkle of mischief. With a deft flick of his fingers, he summoned a miniature, shimmering phoenix that soared above the students’ heads, scattering sparks that faded harmlessly as they floated down. “I was drawn here by a shift in the castle’s memory, but I don’t know why I’m here,” he continued as the phoenix circled once and vanished in a puff of golden light. “Until I know why I’m here, I think I’ll keep my teaching on the low side.”
“Oh bother,” Hermione said again.
Harry shifted nervously in his seat, glancing from Merlin to Isobel before finally clearing his throat. “So, how do you know Isobel?” he asked Merlin, his hand unconsciously tracing soothing circles along the basilisk’s scaly head.
Merlin leaned back, folding his hands behind his head in apparent contentment. “We go way back,” he answered, grinning at Harry. “I knew Salazar and gifted her to him when I first came to Hogwarts, ages ago.” With a theatrical flourish, Merlin tapped Isobel playfully on the nose, earning a quiet, pleased rumble from the basilisk as her golden eyes blinked in slow delight.
Dumbledore’s eyes narrowed in curiosity as he stepped closer, his hand absently tracing the runes carved into the top of his staff. “How did you come to be at Hogwarts five hundred years after you were reported to be dead?” he asked, his voice gentle but edged with unmistakable authority.
Merlin gave a lazy shrug, his lips curving into a mischievous grin as he conjured a glowing rune in the air with a flick of his fingers. “I am immortal, duh,” he stated, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
“That is impossible,” the headmaster stated, crossing his arms and fixing Merlin with a skeptical gaze.
With a twinkle in his eye, Merlin leaned forward and tapped his own chest with theatrical exaggeration. “You keep using that word, I do not think it means what you think it means. I am here to tell you it is not impossible, or I would not be here,” he declared, then gave Dumbledore an elaborate wink and conjured a tiny, spinning hourglass that danced above his palm for emphasis.
Dumbledore took a decisive step forward, his cloak swirling around his ankles as he gestured firmly toward the doors of the Great Hall. “I think we should take this to my office,” he said once again, his staff gently tapping the stone floor for emphasis.
With a leisurely stretch, Merlin reached for another pastry and popped it into his mouth. “I’m not done eating,” he stated, crumbs dusting his chin as he spoke. He was quite a messy eater. Arthur always said he was a clumsy sod.
With a deft wave of his wand, the old man made the plate hover in midair, gently guiding it toward Merlin. “You can bring it with you,” he stated.
Merlin flicked his fingers, and the plate promptly floated back to the table, the pastries settling before him with a gentle clink. “You use wands,” he observed, his eyes glimmering with gold as he reached for another treat. “I will finish my conversation with my new friends.”
The old man blinked in astonishment, his staff pausing mid-tap as he stared at Merlin. “You would prefer conversing with children?” he asked, flabbergasted, his eyebrows raising as he unconsciously clutched his cloak a little tighter. He wanted to know how the man did magic without a wand. Then again this was supposed to be Merlin, the ultimate wizard.
“They are so refreshing,” Merlin said, giving the kids a brilliant smile. He reached over and plucked a tart from the plate, offering it with a conspiratorial wink to Harry, as if sharing the world’s best secret.
“Very well, we will talk when dinner is concluded.” Dumbledore inclined his head in reluctant agreement, his robes settled as he turned to stride back toward his chair, the tip of his staff tapping along the flagstones.
Merlin leaned back in his chair, folding his hands behind his head in exaggerated relaxation, and asked Harry, “Is he always so domineering?”
Hermione straightened in her seat as she replied, “He’s the headmaster.”
Merlin arched an eyebrow and drummed his fingers on the table as he asked, “Does that give him the right to be so superior?” He hated those that thought they were above others. Sure, some had the right to think that, but this guy just rubbed him wrong.
Hermione straightened her stack of books and glanced at Merlin with a matter-of-fact expression. “Of course,” she said like it was the right answer.
Merlin leaned forward, balancing his chair on two legs as he grinned slyly. “You worship authority too much,” he said, nodding with an air of authority, then tossed the tart lightly into the air before catching it with a flourish.
Hermione’s fingers tightened on the spine of her book as she glanced back at Merlin, her lips pressed together in a thin line. “He’s the headmaster,” she said again, but this time she shifted her chair a little closer to Harry, as if seeking the reassurance of a familiar ally against the unpredictable wizard at the table.
Harry glanced between Merlin and Hermione, then shrugged and reached for a pastry himself. “She’s got a point,” he said, hoping that the man would stop picking on his friend.
Merlin tilted back further in his chair, balancing precariously on two legs as he spoke. “Some people deserve your respect because of their position,” he said, nodding his agreement. “I however am an adult; I don’t have to bow to authority just because he is the headmaster.” He gestured airily with the tart still in his hand. “I am not a student at this school, therefore he holds no authority over me,” he tried to explain, flicking a crumb from his robe with a casual flick of his wrist.
Hermione squared her shoulders and pressed her palms flat on the table, meeting Merlin’s gaze with a stubborn glint in her eye. “He still deserves your respect,” she stated.
Merlin leaned forward, leveling a thoughtful gaze at Hermione as he turned the tart over in his hand. “Respect is earned, not freely given,” he stated, looking at her sternly.
Hermione lifted her chin defiantly, her hand moving to rest protectively atop her stack of books. “We respect you because of who you are,” she stated, as if it were the simplest truth.
Merlin shrugged, popping the tart into his mouth with a careless flourish. “You should not. You have no idea what type of person I am,” he stated as a fact, crumbs dotting his chin. “I don’t know what history says about me, but I’m a bit of a prat,” he added good-naturedly, brushing away the remains of the pastry with a wry smile.
Isobel coiled herself a little tighter around Harry’s wrist, flicking her tongue toward Merlin with disdain. “He’s right, he’s a fucking prat,” she hissed, looking at Merlin like he was a slob. “He’s a half-baked prophecy in a bathrobe,” she added, like that made sense.
“What?” Harry asked, looking at her like she was crazy.
“He brings fucking trouble wherever he goes,” she reiterated, thumping her tail on the bench next to her, and glaring at Merlin.
“History rarely tells the truth,” Merlin said, derailing the conversation between Harry and Isobel.
“He has a point,” Harry said, knowing well enough that gossip never was reality. Look at what the school said about him. “Isobel says he’s a prat, among other things,” he added, reaching down to gently stroke the dark scales of his newly founded familiar as she looped another coil around his wrist. He was still getting used to having a cussing snake.
Hermione drew in a steadying breath, her fingers tracing a familiar pattern along the spine of her book before she took one from her pile and opened it, effectively ending the discussion as she began to read.
Harry leaned closer to Merlin, lowering his voice as he hissed in parseltongue, “Don’t mind Hermione, she’s got a bit of hero worship with the headmaster.” He fiddled absently with the edge of his napkin, careful not to let Hermione overhear.
“I see,” Merlin said, also in the snake language. “That could be a problem if she doesn’t get over it later down the line. I have a bad feeling about him,” he stated, looking at the old man, who was still watching him with twinkling eyes. He reached for more roast beef and started eating with gusto.
Harry scratched the back of his neck, glancing sideways at Hermione before replying in parseltongue, “I like the headmaster as well.”
Merlin gave Harry a conspiratorial wink, nudging a bowl of roasted potatoes toward him as he spoke. “Just keep an open mind,” he said with a mischievous glint in his eye.
The preteen shrugged, reaching for more vegetables as he spoke. “Oh, okay.”
Isobel flicked her tongue again and, with a determined twine, looped herself protectively around Harry’s arm. “Don’t worry, Merlin, I will protect him,” she declared, making the legend feel much better.
They spent the rest of the meal regaling Merlin with stories of modern Hogwarts, Harry and Hermione eagerly describing each subject while Merlin listened, brow furrowed in alternately amused and horrified disbelief. At one point, Merlin dropped his fork with a clatter when he learned that swordplay was no longer on the curriculum. “Outrageous!” he declared, rising halfway from his seat, only to be gently urged back down by Harry’s quick hand.
When Hermione explained that Divination was now an extracurricular subject, Merlin let out a dramatic sigh and pressed the back of his hand to his forehead. “A thousand years and you abandon arithmetic for the seeing arts?” he moaned, earning a soft giggle from Hermione despite herself.
Throughout the meal, he punctuated the conversation by reaching for food with theatrical flourishes—spearing roast potatoes with gusto, brandishing a drumstick like a tiny scepter as he expressed his disappointment at the dwindling number of teachers.
All the while, Isobel kept a wary gaze on anyone who came too close to Harry, her coils tightening protectively whenever a particularly excitable student passed their table.
By the end, Merlin slumped back, arms crossed, shaking his head in dramatic resignation at the state of magical education, but with a conspiratorial glint in his eye that suggested he’d rather enjoyed the spectacle. He pushed his chair back with a flourish, brushing imaginary crumbs from his robe as he stood. “I’d better go and see what the headmaster wants with me,” he said, when the dessert plates disappeared.
Harry grinned and gave Merlin a playful salute, his fork raised like a wand. “It was fun talking to you, Merlin,” he said, genuinely meaning it, while those around him nodded their agreement.
Hermione tucked a loose curl behind her ear and offered Merlin a sincere smile. “I might not agree with you on everything, but I enjoyed our conversation,” she said, reaching across the table to gently squeeze his hand in farewell.
“You kids take care,” Merlin said, sweeping his hat from the back of his chair and planting it atop his unruly hair with a flourish. He paused to straighten his robes, then offered the group a grand, theatrical bow. Turning smartly on his heel, he strode toward the towering doors of the Great Hall, his robes swirling behind him. As he passed through the archway, he gave an extravagant wave over his shoulder before marching off in the direction of the Headmaster’s Office, determination in his stride—even if he wasn’t quite sure what awaited him.