Chapter Text
Myrddin was perfectly aware that he was making a mess of things. It wasn’t, by any stretch of the imagination, an unusual predicament for him. Whatever magic had brought him to wherever this was, it was almost certainly his unfortunate doing, and he was most definitely going to be in a lot of trouble when he figured out how to get back home. Briefly, he wondered whether all teenaged sorcerers had to deal with this kind of nonsense on a regular basis, or whether he was just particularly clumsy as a person.
As he walked along the road behind his newfound companions, he tripped over a pebble and nearly ate dust, which was as effective an answer to that question as any. The old couple who had (quite literally) stumbled upon him that morning looked back at him with concern, but continued leading him along the strange smooth, black road. The woman asked him a question, but just as when they had first awoken him that morning in the middle of a field, far from the hearth beside which he had fallen asleep, he could not understand a word they said.
Now, falling asleep in one location and waking up somewhere else entirely had never been a source of very great alarm for Myrddin, given his propensity to accidentally cause things to occur when he had merely been daydreaming about them (or actually dreaming about them, as the case may be), but as far as he was aware, he had never travelled this far before. And waking up in the exact centre of a circle of charred grass with only hazy memories of the previous night was slightly irregular. The countryside around him looked familiar enough that he knew he could not have gone as far as the Perilous Lands or to the sea, but the people he had seen so far were all dressed strangely and speaking a language he could not identify. In addition to his own tongue, he knew a little Latin, and enough about neighbouring Celtic languages to get by, but this language sounded strange—almost Saxon, maybe. And he really hoped these weren’t Saxons.
It hadn’t taken his two companions long to convince Myrddin to accompany them back to whatever settlement they had come from. He had always had enough sense to rely on his intuition, and he sensed almost instantly that they were merely a friendly old couple out for a stroll and meant him no harm. Besides, what better way to find out where he was than to locate the nearest town or village? Perhaps, if he was lucky, he would find someone there that he could communicate with.
The place that they soon brought him to, though… it was like nothing he had ever seen. Myrddin had always assumed that his mother was exaggerating when she spoke of the wonders of the city, which must be what this was: obviously, he had been wrong to doubt her. The first thing he noticed was the road shifting to rows of neat cobblestones, becoming narrower as buildings cropped up alongside it. But he was soon distracted from that when the city itself came into view, a looming collection of tightly packed, brightly coloured structures, many of them with strange sets of Latin letters on them. The road was full of people—more people than he had ever seen in one place, he was fairly certain—and each and every building was practically covered in glass windows, through which he could see even more people. Some were milling about inside what were apparently shops, but up high, there were still more windows, and a few people leaned out to look down at the street or to shout at their neighbours.
Myrddin slowed absentmindedly as he observed the strangely dressed passers-by, some of whom wore fine robes whilst others, mostly younger people, wore brightly coloured trousers and jackets. A fair number of them were also carrying sticks. Not staffs or walking sticks, just… polished twigs. Before he could determine what they were for, he (unsurprisingly) bumped into someone.
“Sorry!” he said automatically, turning to see a tall, middle-aged gentleman exiting onto the street.
He gave him an odd look, but the couple who had found Myrddin quickly circled back to rectify the situation, speaking in friendly tones to the man he had run into. The man then made a gesture for all three of them to follow him back inside. Myrddin shrugged and complied, still looking around with wide, curious eyes.
The establishment they entered appeared to be an inn or a tavern, which was exactly the sort of place he needed to be right now. Nevertheless, he stopped dead in his tracks. For two reasons, it was clear that it was an inn. Firstly, people were sitting around tables, talking, eating, drinking; secondly, there were tankards of mead and other beverages floating across the room right in front of him. And now that he looked closer, the bar on the far end appeared to be cleaning itself. There was blatant magic going on here—what else could it be? Where was he?
Unfortunately, his companions had seemed to notice his look of alarm, and were now growing alarmed in turn. They were now gesticulating at Myrddin and talking more frantically, and one of them pulled out his stick. He didn’t know what that meant, but it probably wasn’t a good sign. Perhaps this was a settlement of sorcerers—if so, they might fear he was a spy for Uther. He had to find a way to defuse the situation before they attacked.
“Wait!” he said loudly over the din of the tavern, raising his hands to signify that he was unarmed and not hostile.
But of course, they couldn’t understand him, and while they were no longer arguing amongst themselves, the tall man was still pointing a stick in his direction. Myrddin hesitated. He needed their help, but Mother had made him swear never to let anyone know he had magic. But then again, magic might be allowed in whatever kingdom he found himself in—and even if it wasn’t, he could probably escape fairly easily if things went sideways. These were no knights, just a bunch of old sorcerers, and they had no idea who he was or where he lived.
All right, he thought, and took a deep breath. It’ll be safer to let them know that I’m a friend. Even if I’ll get a walloping for it later.
Something simple. Myrddin stretched one hand out toward the onlookers, palm up, as slowly as he dared. He scrunched his eyes shut, concentrating—and when he opened them, a small flame sat in his palm.
The others looked confused, and the old man asked him a question, but at least they seemed a great deal calmer. Myrddin shrugged in response and quickly let the flame go out, just in case. After a few more moments of discussion, the three strangers led him up the stairs and into a back room, beckoning to the barman to accompany them into some sort of office.
Oh, they were giving him paper now. And a quill. At least he knew what to do with these, in the abstract. The tall man said something and looked at him expectantly. Myrddin shrugged and wrote down the first thing that popped into his head.
Help.
The other four looked blankly at it, so he added some context.
I’m lost.
This was a pointless exercise. The others seemed to agree, as the barman was now writing something of his own on another paper. But instead of showing it to anyone, he rolled it up, called an owl down from the ceiling (unexpected), tied the scroll to its leg, and opened the window to let it out. Strangely enough, the window somehow moved up and down rather than outward, so Myrddin went over to investigate that while the others continued their increasingly heated discussion, which was at least no longer directed toward him. He opened and closed the window about a dozen times before anyone stopped him. It was remarkably transparent. He had seen glass a handful of times before, but it had always been much thicker and more distorted than this. It must have been made by magic too.
Someone tapped him on the shoulder. Evidently someone else had joined them while he was distracted, because there was now a very small, vaguely person-shaped creature with pointed ears, a long nose, and clothes even more worn and dirty than Myrddin’s, staring open-mouthed at him from the doorway of the office. Myrddin stared back, growing more confused by the minute. Ordinarily, he knew, it would be rude to stare, but he felt justified since the man—creature?—was still staring back at him, eyes wide. Myrddin couldn’t pinpoint the look on his face: surprise, maybe, or fear, or possibly even excitement.
“Hello,” said Myrddin wearily. “I don’t suppose you can understand me, can you?”
To his surprise, the creature nodded vigorously. He said something in a squeaky voice, but Myrddin couldn’t understand.
“You can?” said Myrddin hopefully. “But I don’t know what you’re saying. Where am I? Can you help me?”
The tiny person was practically vibrating with nervous energy, but at the last question, nodded again, large ears flapping, and took a few tentative steps forward.
“What is it?”
Still vibrating, he looked nervously at the adults in the room, who were watching their semi-conversation with bemusement. He spoke again, wringing his hands, clearly dissatisfied at the impossibility of making himself understood. Then he stretched out a tentative hand toward Myrddin, waving it vaguely in a gesture that Myrddin thought he recognised—it was the same fiddly gesture he used to allude to magic whenever he might be overheard, often when he was talking with Will.
“Wait…” Myrddin thought. “Can you use magic to talk to me?”
Another nod.
“Oh!” He knelt down in front of the tiny person, bringing them nearly to an equal height.
Oddly enough, the creature seemed to shrink down further, as if to make sure he was well below Myrddin’s eye level.
“Go ahead,” Myrddin said—as encouragingly as he could, given his lingering doubts about the whole affair. “Do what you need to do.” He was much more willing to trust a creature of magic than a bunch of adults who might or might not be sorcerers, anyway.
Bringing his hand a little closer to Myrddin’s forehead, the creature snapped his fingers, and Myrddin thought he felt a little surge of magic, just like the odd feeling he got whenever he entered the forest.
After a moment of waiting, Myrddin asked, “Did it work?”
“Oh, thank Merlin,” one of the adults blurted.
“Huh?” said Myrddin, unsure whether that was his name they had said—and if so, how they knew it—but before he could ask, the small creature spoke again.
“Thank you, my lord,” he squeaked.
“Thank you,” Myrddin replied quickly, feeling more relieved than he had anticipated. “I thought I’d never be able to find someone who could help me. And I’m not a noble or anything—I’m just Myrddin. What’s your name?”
The creature was vibrating again as he stammered out, “B—Blinky, I is called Blinky, my lord.”
“Oh…” said Myrddin, unsure why he kept calling him a lord, but he didn’t push it. “Well, thanks, Blinky. Can you tell me where I am?”
For some reason, the barman answered instead. “You’re in Elder Lane,” he said, “a wizarding settlement near Birmingham. You are a wizard, aren’t you, son?”
“Erm,” he hedged. “I… have magic, sort of. But I haven’t studied it!” He glanced at Blinky, hoping to be able to read on his face whether this was a good response or not, but he was just staring down at his bare feet. It made Myrddin a little uneasy.
“Ah,” said the old woman. “You’re only eleven, then?”
Myrddin had no idea what this had to do with anything, but despite the fact that he was thirteen—nearly grown, not a child—he thought it best to agree with them.
“Y—yes, ma’am, around there.” He stood up to face them. “I don’t know how I got here, but I have to get back before Mother starts to worry. I live in Ealdor—do you know where that is?”
Blinky shot him a strange look, but his eyes were once more locked on the floor before Myrddin had the chance to interpret it.
“I’m afraid not,” the woman replied kindly. “But we have a friend at the Ministry who could help you get back home. He helped my husband and I out of a pickle a few years back. That’s why we brought you here—we can Floo directly to London and get you all sorted.”
Myrddin, despite being newly granted the ability to understand their language, was completely unable to make sense of anything she had just said. He stared blankly at her for a moment, then decided he had best keep his ignorance to himself.
“Er, how long will that take?” was the question he decided to ask.
“Oh, an hour, at most,” the old man reassured him. “Our acquaintance works with Muggle artefacts—we thought you might be from a Muggle-majority village, based on your clothes.”
Myrddin squinted, wondering whether ‘Muggle’ was a euphemism for poor, but before he could find a tactful way to ask, the old man added, “You know—Muggles. Non-magical people.”
“Oh!” Myrddin nodded, latching onto the explanation. “Yes, I am. I’m not used to seeing magic used so openly like this.”
The old woman nodded sagely. “Of course, dear, not to worry. He wasn’t really going to Obliviate you.”
That sounded ominous. Myrddin was going to have to watch out for those sticks.
“You may go, Blinky,” said the barman curtly; in an instant—with one final glance toward Myrddin—his new friend disappeared into thin air.
At his look of surprise, the old woman asked, “Have you never seen a house-elf before?”
Assuming that meant Blinky, Myrddin shook his head.
“Must be a Half-blood, then,” the barman murmured. This time, Myrddin covered his ignorance by merely pretending not to hear him, and therefore not responding.
“Well,” said the woman, “let’s get on then, shall we, Charles?”
In response, her husband gave a huff of agreement.
“Come this way, then,” said the barman, already leading them back to the main room. “The Floo’s up front.”
Of course, it took a great deal of explaining before Myrddin had fully grasped the concept of Floo travel, and he was still half-convinced it was some sort of prank when he stepped into the fire (unscathed, fortunately), cast the supposed ‘Floo powder’ and said loudly, “Ministry of Magic!”
But then, after an ordeal that could be most aptly compared to the time he had been dragged downriver all the way out of the village and nearly drowned, he was spit out the other side, covered in soot, and looked up to see an enormous, magnificent room of polished stone, gold fixtures, and a dark blue dome overhead. Directly in front of him was a statue depicting two humans and a number of magical creatures—no, not a statue, but a fountain, with running water that poured down into a clear pool.
Myrddin realized he was still sitting on the floor when the old couple emerged from the fireplace behind him and nearly tripped over him. Again.
“Good heavens!” the woman said, helping him up and brushing some of the soot off his shoulders for him. “Come on then, let’s get going. We’ll find our friend and he’ll be able to take care of you from there.”
She had to nudge him to keep him on track as they manoeuvred through yet another crowd of people; he was hardly watching where he was going, there was so much to look at. He had never seen a building so opulent in all his life, and as he stared up at the ornate ceiling, he saw that strangely folded, purple scraps of paper were flying in all directions overhead in a remarkably orderly fashion. Was this what sorcerers could build when they were allowed to practice magic freely?
Before he knew it, they were standing in front of a desk labelled “Security”—Myrddin was relieved to see that he was now able to read this language everyone was speaking as well, even if he didn’t quite understand how that was possible.
“We’re escorting a visitor,” said the old man, Charles, to the brightly dressed man behind the desk.
“Step over here,” the guard replied in a bored voice.
Myrddin complied, and the guard picked up a long, thin golden rod, which he waved around Myrddin for a bit before putting it down, seemingly satisfied.
“Wand,” he then grunted.
“Er,” he said. “I don’t have one.”
The guard eyed him for a moment, then said, “Name.”
“Myrddin.”
They stared at each other blankly for a moment. Then, with a beleaguered sigh, the guard said, “Surname?”
Confused, Myrddin glanced at his companions.
“Your last name,” said the old woman.
That did not clarify matters.
“What are your parents’ names, son?” asked her husband.
“…Hunith?” he replied, uncertain whether this was the answer they wanted.
But the guard seemed placated, saying aloud, “Myrddin Hunith, accompanied minor,” noting something on a slip of paper, and allowed them to continue on their way.
They followed the crowd toward a set of strange, empty alcoves along one wall, past a set of golden gates, and the old couple ushered him into one of them, alongside a myriad of other odd characters who all squashed up against them. With a clatter, a gate closed in front of them, and then the floor of the alcove started to sink down, pulling them all down into a tunnel. Myrddin let out an audible gasp, but no one else seemed alarmed by this development.
Without warning, a disembodied voice declared, “Level seven, Department of Magical Games and Sports, incorporating the British and Irish Quidditch League Headquarters, Official Gobstones Club, and Ludicrous Patents Office.” The gates re-opened; some people disembarked from the contraption, and others took their place.
After five more levels, Myrddin was just beginning to get used to the sensation, although he did feel a little queasy. At “Level two, Department of Magical Law Enforcement, including the Improper Use of Magic Office, Auror Headquarters, and Wizengamot Administration Services,” his companions finally ushered him out of the cramped space and led him down the hall to an office whose door read “Misuse of Muggle Artefacts.”
Through the open door, Myrddin could see an incredibly small room that still somehow managed to fit two desks and a great deal of clutter inside.
“Morning, Bryant,” said the red-haired man who was the room’s sole occupant. “Is this the might-or-might-not-be-a-Muggle boy you owled me about?”
“Well,” said the old man, “it turns out he’s a Half-blood with no wand. Brady, the innkeeper, he got his house-elf to help, so now Myrddin here speaks English.”
Myrddin made note of the word ‘English,’ but didn’t recognize it as belonging to any region he knew of. East Anglia, maybe? What did they speak there, again?
“That’s good news!” said the kindly-looking man, negotiating around his desk and turning his attention to Myrddin. “So, Myrddin, where do you live? I’ll see if I can contact your parents for you, and they can come and collect you.”
Myrddin privately doubted that his mother had a way to access a ‘Floo’ of any kind, but he answered, “In Ealdor,” and then, because it had seemed important earlier, “My mother’s name is Hunith.”
“I’m Arthur Weasley,” said the man kindly. “Those are interesting names—Gaelic, are they?”
Myrddin jolted forward—finally, something he recognized! “Yes!” he said quickly. “Yes, we both speak Western Gaelic. Can you find her? She’s got to be really worried by now. I don’t know how I got to Elder Lane, but it happened when I slept.”
“Not to worry,” said Mr. Weasley with a patient smile. “Things like this can happen sometimes with underage wizards. If you’ll come with me, we can consult with my colleague…”
“We’ll leave you, then,” said Mr. Bryant. “Edie’s going to need to open the shop soon.” To Myrddin, he added, “You’re in good hands, son. Don’t worry about a thing.”
“Thank you, sir, ma'am,” said Myrddin, “for everything.” They smiled back at him.
“This way,” said Mr. Weasley, beckoning him down the hall.