AN: I'm sorry, people – a month is a ridiculous amount of time for me to make you wait. Well, my exams finished at last on last Wednesday, so I've been working on this since then when I've had the time. I think I can safely say that this chapter has been exceptionally stubborn. So, to try and make up for the wait, this chapter is a fair bit longer than the others…

The response to this has been amazing – more than twice the amount of reviews that I got for the first chapter! Thank you, and please keep reviewing! I love it when people add my story to their alerts or favourites, but reviews can help me improve my writing. I want to hear what you think!

So, without further ado, here's Chapter Two!

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter or Merlin. If you think I do, please get your head checked.

:::

- Chapter II -

:::

- Present day -

Merlin woke up, and then immediately regretted it. The sharp stab of pain as he opened his eyes made it very clear that either: 1) He'd been stupid enough to let Gwaine take him to the tavern, or; 2) Something had gone terribly wrong.

Merlin liked to think that he had enough intelligence not to be currently having a killer hangover. This meant that he was in very deep trouble.

He chanced another glimpse of his surroundings, pleased to see that the dull throbbing in his skull had receded somewhat since his last attempt. The bright light entering his eyes made it very difficult to see. He blinked slowly against the onslaught, and was rewarded by a slight dimming in the blinding brightness as his eyes gradually became used to the light.

He was distantly surprised to see a blurry face swimming into view before him.

Firm hands gripped him by the shoulders, gently raising his upper body into a sitting position as he suppressed a wince at the aches in his muscles. Whatever had happened, his body certainly felt like it had taken a battering. Merlin was still vaguely confused as to what actually had happened, but he was sure that, whatever it was, it could wait. He was more concerned with current events, which he felt was perfectly reasonable. After all, it definitely was not Arthur who was presently helping him to sit up. Unless the thing that had gone very wrong had somehow turned Arthur into a middle-aged woman.

His helper was a rather severe looking lady, with black hair scraped back into a tight bun and a pointed, wide-brimmed, rather worn looking hat perched on her head. Her emerald robes seemed far too expensive for her to be a physician, despite the fact that they were covered in dust. Merlin had never seen her before in his life.

And that was saying something. He knew nearly everyone in Camelot, through one thing or another…

It took him a couple to seconds to realize that she was talking to him, but the words were unintelligible. This nearly sent him into an outright panic – had he hit his head harder than he'd thought? – until his common sense kicked in. He couldn't be hearing things; his blurry eyesight was quickly improving, and her lips were definitely matching her words. No. She was speaking in another language.

Although Merlin was quite the linguist himself (he had managed to learn the Old Tongue very quickly, along with many other various languages - very few of Gaius's books were actually in his native tongue) , this was not any language that he'd learnt, or even heard before. Annoying, but not impossible to deal with. It took only a quiet murmur and a slow blink to conceal the flash of gold, and the babble slowly began to form into words.

"…ful, there. Are you hurt?" she questioned. Her voice, although brisk, held an undertone of worry.

"F-Fine, I think…" Merlin shook his head, trying to clear it. Wherever he was, this was not his room. He might be messy, but he had never yet destroyed half of his wall. Even the guards would notice that. "Where am I?"

The lady didn't answer. Her eyes were fixed on something lying next to him on the floor. Through the layers of dust and rubble, Merlin could just make out the straw-blond hair.

Oh, damn it. Arthur had been in his room too.

He sat frozen for a second, eyes wide in horror, and then tried to launch himself towards his friend, but was swiftly pinioned by two strong arms. He almost didn't notice, fighting unconsciously to break free. He couldn't have killed Arthur! Not now he'd made it to being a King! They'd even got him past the point of marrying Gwen, which took long enough! He had not just killed a man he had spent seven years protecting. No way.

And then he saw Arthur's chest rise and fall, and Merlin sagged in relief.

"Well, really!" his impromptu captor snarled, "You're battered enough without trying to throw yourself onto the floor. I would have thought that one crash landing would be enough for anyone!"

"Crash what?" he asked.

"I do have eyes. The damage around here suggests that there was quite a bang, if not a small bomb; and it is quite obvious that you two had something to do with it. I would be a fool to think it coincidence that two boys mysteriously appear at the exact same spot. Now," she straightened her silver glasses, which had been nearly falling off the end of her nose, "What happened?"

The lady's eyes were flashing dangerously. Merlin could only gape at her, until a groan from Arthur made them both spin round. He was stirring feebly on the floor, eyes blinking open and squinting at the ceiling, or lack of. There was a tightness in his face which told Merlin that Arthur was feeling just as battered as he himself had done only moments before. He looked simultaneously shocked and extremely confused, which gave him a somewhat constipated expression.

And suddenly Merlin knew exactly what was going to happen next.

King Arthur Pendragon sprang to his feet, legs braced, back straight, hand flying towards the place on his belt where he usually kept his sword… and grasped only thin air. He looked down in astonishment, tried to step back, promptly tripped over a conveniently placed bit of stone and was sent crashing back down to the ground.

Merlin swiftly stifled a snigger as the prat staggered back onto his feet. Arthur obviously had forgotten that he'd left Excalibur in his chambers. No doubt he'd thought that the sword would not be needed when he was only going to the physician's rooms – that, or he'd only just woken up, and been in such a rage over Merlin's perceived lateness that he had completely forgotten. It had become habit for the fighting men of Camelot to always carry a weapon of some kind since Morgana's attack, after half of them had been caught out during the feast of Beltane. Some of those present not of the Round Table had only been wearing flimsy dress swords.

Idiots.

"What on earth are you doing?" the stranger exclaimed, sounding rather exasperated, "Could you both just stay still?"

A myriad of expressions crossed Arthur's face. Merlin always had found him very easy to read. One thing was clear: Arthur did not like being told what to do, not the least by a woman who he had never met.

Perhaps it wasn't such a good thing that his translation spell affected the entire room…

"And who exactly are you?" Arthur demanded, looking peeved, "What is this place?"

Merlin noticed with no small amount of alarm that two spots of red had appeared ominously on the lady's cheeks. He quickly intervened, "Oh, shut up, Arthur. Can't you see she's trying to help?"

"Quiet, both of you!" the lady snapped, as Arthur opened his mouth indignantly, "No, I don't know what happened here. No, I have no idea just how you got here - here, of all places - but I do know that someone here might just be able to explain all of this, and if you will allow me to take you to him, we all might just get some answers. So. Be. Quiet."

Arthur could only stare at her, his mouth open slightly in surprise, as the stranger climbed stiffly to her feet and strode off down the remains of what appeared to be a stone corridor.

Well.

Eyes wide, the two young men glanced at each other, an echo of bewilderment passing between them. Arthur's eyebrows were raised, his face contorted in a scowl of mixed disbelief and apprehension. Merlin merely shrugged. At this tentative sign of approval, Arthur recovered, standing up rather more carefully than the last time, and started after the woman.

The lady's commanding presence was impressive. Even Gaius had trouble getting the prat to listen sometimes.

Merlin sighed, and started to clamber to his feet, but suddenly hesitated, as though something had caught his eye. He glanced around jerkily. Nothing except the rock and rubble and the disappearing shadows of Arthur and the stranger… except…

Except for that something, for that itch he couldn't scratch, for the familiar tingling in the back of his head…

He paused when he noticed a glint of gold shining within the rubble, and nudged a bit of broken rock aside with his foot.

The sand glass glimmered innocently at him from the floor.

:::

"I'm sorry, Albus, but there's nothing I can do."

Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore sighed heavily as he studied his colleague. There really had been little chance of it, but he had hoped, all the same. He had found himself doing that with an alarming frequency of late. It was a habit he had yet to break.

Darkness was rapidly falling outside of the castle, deep shadows shrouding the grounds and rendering them impossible to perceive from the window of the Headmaster's office. The room itself was dimly lit, the golden flickering glows of torchlight throwing the shadows of his visitor's face into deep contrast with the quavering highlights on his weathered skin. It was almost hopeless to attempt to read anything there, but the solid certainty was clear in blue eyes, along with regret.

He laced his fingers together as he leaned back in his chair, unheeding of the momentary aches reminiscent of a long life, and contemplated Filius Flitwick.

It was no secret to any who had walked through the halls of Hogwarts that the Charms Master had been one of the most successful duellists of his generation. Five times a winner of the International Duelling Championships! He could well have been one of the most successful Aurors of the century, had he felt so inclined; but his heart had always belonged to the study of Charms.

However, that was not to say that his years spent competing had not brought Filius into contact with many of his contemporaries in the circuits, and indeed, he had continued correspondence with many of his old friends during his foray into education. Amelia Bones, once a dab hand with an extensive array of hexes (Albus's left arm gave a sharp twinge as if in remembrance); now currently the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement at the Ministry. Hippocrates Smethwyck, particularly proficient with Shield Charms; now the healer-in-charge of the 'Dangerous' Dai Llewellyn Ward at St Mungo's.

Both unfortunately unavailable to fill the post of Defence Against the Dark Arts Professor.

Albus coerced a resigned twist of a smile from his lips, gazing in reassurance at Filius, who was clearly troubled by his inability to provide assistance. "No matter. It was a long shot in any case. I can only thank you for trying."

Filius released a huff of frustration. "The others are all abroad, of course – gone to seek competition elsewhere. Well," he ran a hand through his white feathery hair, "It will keep them safe for now, at least. You-Know-Who will likely be restricting his attentions to the UK at the present time."

"Voldemort," Albus prompted gently.

"Yes, him. I wish I could be of more help, Albus- "

"You have done all you can. I will just have to look elsewhere."

Filius's mask of composure was shaky at best – he had never been the best at hiding his emotions, and dissatisfaction at his own efforts was peeking through. A Hatstall between Ravenclaw and Gryffindor or not, he had never liked to fail, and always threw his full force behind anything he attempted. A strange mix of Hufflepuff and Slytherin traits. Yet more credence to Albus's theory that the Sorting Hat's job was by no means simple. People were too complex to be categorised.

Nevertheless, it was clear to the both of them that the meeting was ended, and Filius's departure was announced by the gentle click of the door swinging shut. The many portraits lining the walls of the room, having previously been implementing their custom of feigning sleep, burst into chatter at once.

With a practiced ignorance of the sudden din, Albus pushed back his chair and slid open one of the drawers in his desk. The scrape of the wood was lost amongst the surrounding noise, but a quick pointed glance upwards caused the portraits to fall respectfully silent.

He shifted various sheets of parchment aside, stacking them temporarily beside his desk, until he uncovered a large leather-bound tome and pulled it out to be placed on his desk. Once all of the papers were replaced within the draw, Albus pushed it back into the desk and turned to the book, allowing it to fall open with a thud. He leafed through the many pages, absent-mindedly recognising various names, until he came to the right place.

Despite his many worries concerning the coming year, it gave Albus a certain grim satisfaction to scratch a thick black line through the name of Dolores Umbridge.

He straightened, his gaze flickering over the pages before him. And so – what to do now?

There was very little chance of acquiring any new blood into the ranks. The last year alone had proved that, when he had been forced to employ a Ministry stooge as a Professor. There had simply been no one else available to take the position, and Albus had certainly looked. Anyone short of another Death Eater would have been preferable to the toad-like woman.

The bald truth of the matter was that few sane people would be brave enough to take a job commonly thought to be cursed. They would have good reason. He eyed a long list of signatures embossed upon the worn parchment. Quirinus Quirrell - dead after being possessed by none other than Lord Voldemort. Gilderoy Lockhart - memory wiped after a backfired Memory Charm. Remus Lupin – resigned after being exposed as a werewolf. Alastor Moody – locked in his own trunk for a year.

Not precisely the best track record, and fears would be higher than ever after Riddle's return being made public. No. There would be no help from the general public. Albus lingered momentarily upon the possibility of one of the Order – no, they were needed where they were. Their jobs were vital. None of them could afford to isolate themselves from potentially vital information whilst teaching.

Albus rose from his chair and began to pace across the floor. So, no one from the public, and no one from the Order. He would not accept Ministry help again. That had been a disaster from start to finish. Education should not be caught up in politics.

His eyes fell on the cracked silver instruments resting on the recently repaired wooden table, some stirring feebly. And, just for a moment, he fancied he could hear a little whisper in his ear… hypocrite.

The memory of pain-filled green eyes flashing accusingly.

Not now.

He cast a hopeful look towards the corner, but Fawkes' perch was empty, the phoenix currently exploring the grounds.

The Order and the public were out, as were the Ministry. That would only leave someone who was already teaching. Filius Flitwick passed across his train of thought, as did Minerva McGonagall, only to be immediately discounted. They would do it, he was sure; but unhappily. Their subjects, too, were vital. Pomona Sprout? Perhaps, but her speciality had never been with wands. That left only one other whom he could trust completely. Perhaps the only one who he could trust completely.

He would have to stick to the original plan. There was no other choice.

A frown marred the face of Albus Dumbledore as he sank back into his chair. Of the many signatures littered amongst the pages of the book before him, it was the one scrawled in a spidery hand which drew his attention.

Perhaps this was for the best. It gave him a very good excuse. Fishing out a piece of parchment from his cluttered desk and leaning forward, Albus began to pen a letter to Horace Slughorn.

The quiet scratches of the quill sounded within the office. Most of the portraits had fallen asleep, no longer a façade. The gentle whirring of the few remaining instruments were the only accompaniment, along with Albus' own almost soundless breathing. He kept his eyes fixed upon the letter.

The whirring grew almost imperceptibly faster. Albus raised his head. His eyebrows rose in slight surprise as he witnessed the steadily increasing speed of the silver flashes.

He had a visitor.

The letter was quickly covered by a sheet of runic translations, the quill placed on his desk, mindless of the residual ink staining the polished wood black; the enormous tome was dropped back into its draw. A sharp, quick, familiar knock rapped against the door.

"Enter!"

:::

It was without a doubt one of the most fascinating rooms Merlin had ever seen.

The chambers were circular in shape, walls lined with dozens of sleeping portraits. Torch brackets cast a warm golden tone over the room, brightly reflected by a gleaming empty perch standing in the corner. The dim light glistened off a selection of very-interesting-looking silver objects which were piled atop a very spindly-looking table.

The room, however, was nothing compared to the man sat behind the desk.

Merlin's eyes were drawn to him as soon as he set foot over the threshold, the door silently closing behind him as he followed Arthur and the mysterious lady into the room. Was it really possible for people to get that old? Gaius was the only person Merlin knew who could possibly compare, and yet even he was almost certainly younger. Perhaps it was a trait only shared by people who read a lot of books, he reflected, eyeing the extensive bookshelves, Gaius and Geoffrey of Monmouth springing to mind; but then again, it was probably only that old people just had more time to collect reading material.

What both Gaius and Geoffrey lacked, however, was the air of contained power which this man carried. In physical appearance, he seemed quite harmless, even kindly. But Merlin could sense the magic around the man. He had met many powerful sorcerers in his time at Camelot, and one thing was instantly apparent – this man wore power like a cloak.

It was enough to put him on his guard. He'd been spending far too much time on constant alert for magical threats to relax just yet.

"Ah, Minerva," the bearded man said, nodding to the lady. "And I see you have brought guests?"

His eyes seemed to pierce the two of them down to the core. Arthur looked uncomfortable.

"I found them in the sixth floor corridor. The whole place is a mess, Albus! I would swear that a bomb had gone off, if Muggle technology worked in Hogwarts – half of the ceiling has been blown to bits!"

"Dear me." The old man raised his voice. "Kibby!"

A loud crack. Arthur yelled in shock. Merlin stumbled back.

A short creature had appeared out of nowhere right in front of them. Its appearance alone would have been startling, even without its manner of entrance. Its eyes were big and bulbous; its ears seemed too floppy to be of any practical use whatsoever. The strange creature was almost jigging from one foot to another as it bowed quickly to the man. "Master Dumblydore sir?"

The bearded man didn't even blink. "There is apparently quite the mess in the sixth floor corridor. Could you and your brethren take care of it for me?"

"Yes, Master Dumblydore sir! Right away, sir!" the creature squeaked in excitement, and disappeared instantly with another deafening crack. Merlin could only stand there, gaping.

"What the hell was that?" Arthur seemed to have recovered from his temporary speechlessness, and was now glaring heatedly at the two strangers. "For crying out loud – swinging staircases? Moving, talking pictures? And now a bloody bat-eared midget? When is anyone going to tell us what the hell is going on?"

"I'd quite like to know that as well," Merlin said.

"Oh, just shut up, Merlin – and you! We were in your chambers! Your. Chambers. And now here – will someone just explain -"

"Perhaps," the man spoke quite calmly, "If you allow me to speak, we may be able to gain some understanding of what has happened here."

His words held a kind of iron strength which cut Arthur off in mid-flow. For a moment, there was an embarrassed silence.

'Master Dumblydore' leaned back in his chair, completely relaxed. "Thank you," he said. "And now, to business. How did you find yourselves at Hogwarts?"

"Hogwarts?" Merlin said blankly. He looked sideways at Arthur, who appeared none the wiser. The woman frowned, and seemed to be about to speak, but stopped at a quelling look from the bearded man.

"Hmm." He removed his half-moon spectacles and began to polish them. "Could you tell me, perhaps, what happened to bring you here?"

Merlin's stomach dropped as Arthur shook his head.

It had been him, his magic, that had caused this. His own invention. They were stuck here, in a completely unknown area, because of him. The King had left his kingdom ungoverned, because of him. Camelot was unprotected, because of him.

But, well, there was simply no way of telling if the sand glass had done its job completely; they could have just been transported to a different place, couldn't they? It had only been an experiment, after all. Unverified. Not necessarily catastrophic. It could well have been worse. They could have been disintegrated, pulled apart and scattered to the four winds. Transportation spells were notorious for that, especially for those unpractised at the art. At least they were still alive.

This thought soothed him momentarily, until another struck him – even if they had only moved physically, where were they? They could be more than a month away from Camelot on foot, maybe even further. They could be in any of the five kingdoms. This place might not be in Albion at all.

Or… it had worked.

Panic took over as Merlin stared unseeingly at the wall in front of him. It couldn't have worked! It was an experiment! A first attempt! It had to have failed; there could be absolutely no chance at all of it succeeding!

It had to have failed. But it could have worked. And if it had…

There was no choice.

Merlin's head lifted. He felt strangely disconnected, as though not quite present. No one in the room appeared to have seen his inner struggle. Arthur was immersed in a fervent dispute with the lady, whilst the bearded man watched impassively. The portraits seemed to have woken at some point – all were unashamedly eavesdropping on the conversation, eyes fixed on the two opposing sides.

His foot moved forward almost without direction. The old man had apparently been immersed in the verbal battle, but he quickly registered the approaching footsteps, and his eyes locked with Merlin's. Blue on blue. There was something oddly captivating in the old man's gaze. Something almost familiar.

Merlin was aware of a sudden silence behind him; all arguments, all voices cut short. He did not turn around. He merely reached into the right-hand pocket of his tattered leather jacket, and pulled out a white-knuckled, clenched fist, lifted his arm, and let the sand glass clatter down onto the old man's ink-stained desk, uncracked, unbroken, still glowing a faint golden glow in the darkened room.

:::

To be continued.