The Gathering: The New Order of Merlin Book 1

33. What's under your scarf, Merlin?

       It was hard for Merlin to believe that he had been at Hogwarts for eight weeks already. Days passed by quickly, and he got used to the student routine, taking advantage of the freedom that came from acting like a child. So he didn't stop himself from "accidentally" using his magic to make Draco Malfoy spill his drink on himself after he'd heard the boy call someone a Mudblood.

The hurtful derogatory slur was what blood purists called Muggleborns to imply their inferior status. Some believed that Muggleborns didn't deserve to be admitted to Hogwarts. Merlin wasn't surprised that the arrogant Malfoy kid belonged to that group.

He was starting to see a reason to do this act more often and attend a wizarding school every couple of centuries. A few years with the young generation was a great way to catch up on what the world had been up to. But if he did it again, he would start a little older. Eleven was too young.

Another weekend meant another opportunity to bump into Harry. Down in the common room, the trio was sitting in their usual spot by the fireplace, doing homework. It was a prime opportunity for some Harry-bonding.

"Hey, Hermione. Do you have some time right now?" Merlin asked from the stairs.

"Sure, Merlin. I'm helping Harry and Ron. I could tutor you at the same time."

Ron gave him a narrowed-eyed glare as he walked up. Merlin wasn't sure what the ginger had against him.

As luck had it, someone placed a rug on the floor like a trap, making Merlin trip and land on his face. Rugs were the biggest enemy of looking cool. He promptly got up and tried to act like nothing had happened. Harry got back to his parchment but was suppressing a smile.

Hermione made notes on the parchment she was working on and gave it to Ron. Almost every sentence on it was crossed out.

Ron grouched. "If it's this bad, why won't you just write it for me?"

"But how will you learn? You need to make an effort. I won't be taking your O.W.L.s for you, you know."

"I hate History of Magic," he grumbled and took out a new parchment.

"Alright," Hermione clapped her hands on her knees. "Merlin, what did you need help with? Last time we worked on the match spell. Have you made any progress on it?"

"Not much," he complained. "It's embarrassing that I'm so bad at it."

"We all had to start somewhere. Do you have your match with you?"

Merlin put his hand in his pocket and conjured a box of matches, which he put on the table.

"Great. As we tried before, picture a needle in your head and say the spell."

"Right." He got ready and pictured a match with a fluffy ending. "Acufor."

The match sprouted a fluffy tip,

Hermione made a "tsk" sound. "You said it wrong. It's Acufors, not Acufor."

"You're right." He took out another match and wondered what he should transfigure it into. He imagined a match with no red tip. "Acufors."

The match turned smooth as he wanted it to, and Hermione nodded in approval. "That's better, Merlin. Keep trying."

He wished he had come up with a different subject to be tutored in. There was a limit of how many shapes you can turn one object into before you start looking stupid. He had crossed the "stupid" line about twenty matches ago.