Chapter Text
December 12th, 1988
Ms Lei looks mad.
It makes Harry a little nervous, and he makes sure to be really quiet while eating breakfast. He’s never seen her mad before, so he doesn’t really know what to do when it happens, but Cho hasn’t said anything yet so he doesn’t feel like asking either.
“Harry,” he almost chokes on a sip of apple juice when Ms Lei calls his name, and looks up at her while putting his cup back down. “The ministry,” she says the word with a face like she just smelled something bad, “sent a letter this morning. We need to show up for a custody hearing.”
“But-” he frowns, remembering what the aurors said the day before.
“I suppose they changed their minds,” she explains before he can even ask, sounding as upset as she looks. “I’ll have to remind them of their own law once again,” her face turns softer and she gives him a small smile, “I’m sorry you’ll have to go back there so soon, I’ll try to make things quick.”
“‘S alright,” Harry mumbles, also a bit annoyed at the ministry.
The aurors had just grabbed him from the street and put him in a room, the only almost nice one was Ms Bones who explained why and then called Ms Lei for him, but the rest of them either stared at him or ignored him. He didn’t like it much.
“Well then, finish up breakfast and we’ll find something for you to wear,” Ms Lei tells him and he gets back to it with a nod.
“They won't get to keep Harry, right?” Cho asks with a frown, making his stomach flip and any appetite he had go away at the thought of being stuck at the ministry.
“Of course not,” Ms Lei assures, but Harry can't make himself eat another bite.
He cleans up, getting into the black robes Ms Lei gives him and waiting next to the floo. She meets him just a minute later and they head out to the ministry. He doesn't pay a lot of attention, clinging to Ms Lei's hand and following along as she leads the way to the elevator, down a hallway and stops in front of a closed door.
“Remember, you don't have to say anything,” She reminds him.
Harry nods, and Ms Lei opens the door.
The room is big and round, with tall dark walls made of stone. Torches hang on the walls, but they don’t light everything. Floating lights near the ceiling help a little, but there are still shadows. In the middle is a small chair with a red cushion, far from the size of the other chairs he can see up high, rows of wooden chairs with witches and wizards sitting on them. They wear purple robes with a shiny silver ‘W’ on the front.
One of them has long, pale hair and holds a cane with a silver tip, and Harry’s eyes widen, recognizing Draco's dad, who also sees him but only gives a small nod that doesn't do much to calm the nervousness at the pit of his stomach. Harry spots another familiar face, a tall woman in a big feathered hat who sits very straight and watches everything closely, and also the lady who'd been dressed in robes like melted silver during the will reading but now is also wearing the stranger purple robes. Near her, a man with deep lines on his face and dark eyes keeps tapping his fingers on the arm of his seat like he’s in a hurry. Some of the others are writing with long feather pens. Others just watch. It’s very quiet, and every little sound echoes through the whole room.
High up on a big platform at the back of the room, there are three chairs. The one in the middle is the tallest. An old man with a long silver beard and half-moon glasses sits there — Mr Dumbledore, Harry recognizes — his robes are full of clashing colors that don’t seem to match, and his face doesn’t show much — just still and quiet, like he’s waiting — until he seems to notice their entrance.
“Harry, Madam Chang, right on time!” He exclaims, sounding happy to see them. Harry doesn't feel the same, and would rather be anywhere else, preferably with his dad.
“I ask you not to address my client with such familiarity, Chief Warlock.” Ms Lei tells the man as she pulls him forward, directing him to the chair in the center of everything.
He really doesn't want to sit there, with everyone's eyes on him — there's so many people in the room! He's counted more than thirty so far — but it doesn’t seem like he has a choice.
“Of course, forgive an old man for a spot of fondness, his parents were close friends of mine,” Mr Dumbledore says, loud enough that it feels like he's talking more at the other people in the room than them.
To his right, the woman sitting in a slightly smaller chair purses her lips. She wears the same purple robes as everyone but the old man and has short, neat curls. Her face is calm and serious, and she watches everything without saying a word. On the other side, a quiet blond-haired girl with ink-stained fingers writes in a big book, her feather pen scratching quickly on the page.
The serious lady stands, making everyone in the room — who had started to whisper quietly as soon as they came in — quiet down. “Mr Potter, Madam Chang, thank you for your prompt appearance,” Ms Lei offers a bow but Harry just nods, since he’s sitting down already and was told to be quiet. “This emergency Wizengamot meeting was called to decide the matter of Mr Potter's custody…”
Harry starts to drift off when the woman's monotone doesn't change as she speaks, and he really tries to pay attention when Ms Lei starts arguing with Mr Dumbledore and some of the people in the high circle of chairs who just keep looking at him, making him feel a bit like a zoo animal, which makes him feel bad for the animals.
Being stared at isn't fun.
Some words in the middle of all the arguing make sense to him, but not a lot. Something about illegal appointments — how can setting the time of a meeting be illegal? — and what his parents would have wanted — he knows what they want, they told him they like Merlin just fine, even if he was Mr Wright at the time — and other stuff about blood and family lines that goes right over his head even after Mr Prewett's lessons.
He focuses back in with a start when the doors suddenly bang open, making everyone look over that way.
A man walks in, wearing a long, black robe that stays closed all the way down. Silvery swirls are stitched along the edges of the outer part, like the curling vines that tried to go up Aunt Petunia's fence and he always had to rip them off. The collar sticks up high, and there’s a shiny clasp near the top instead of buttons. It looks heavy and a lot prettier than the purple robes everyone else is using.
When Harry looks up at the man's face, he immediately rises from the chair and runs in his direction, not caring about the noise from the rest of the room. Because he's got longer, slightly darker and wavy hair, and there's a short beard covering his face, which also looks a bit older, but his eyes are still the same, which means- “Dad!”
Merlin catches him in his arms as soon as he launches himself at him, his own tightening around his dad's neck while he buries his face in between his shoulder and the high collar. “I'm here, it's alright, I'm back,” His dad assures in hushed tones.
‘My name’s Ash now, okay? Ash Slytherin. I'll explain later,’ He also hears, but it’s coming from inside his head. Harry just nods, glad to have Merlin back.
His dad is here now, so everything will be fine.
Merlin wasn't entirely sold on the plan, not to start with, since the whole thing hinged on the magical world simply accepting things as they are told and not thinking about the whole incident hard enough to spot any cracks in the narrative. Then he remembered why he’d been attacked in the first place, and reminded himself not to underestimate anyone's stupidity, nor an entire society's well known need to remain in their favored comfort zone. So he goes for it, because it’s a better alternative than trying to convince them that yes, he is that Merlin, and definitely involves less dueling challenges and potential idolatry.
When he bursts into the Wizengamot meeting, he isn't quite ready for Harry to immediately call him dad and run into his arms, but he's nothing if not adaptable and, while reassuring the child that he is fine and projecting into his mind the name he is currently operating under, simply sends a glare over his son's shoulders at the auror guard who starts making a move to approach them.
“What is the meaning of this?” Minister Bagnold asks, standing from her seat next to the Chief Warlock — whom he would bet his vault is the one responsible for this entire sham of a hearing — while motioning for the auror to stand down. “Who are you?”
“I would like to know that as well,” Dumbledore adds, that prevalent twinkle in his eyes nowhere to be seen. “You have barged into a closed Wizengamot meeting.”
Adjusting his hold on Harry slightly to the side so the boy is settled on his hip — he had missed the extra strength his magic could afford him — he looks at both of the highest authorities in the room as if they've just asked something that should have been obvious.
“Didn't you hear him?” He infuses his tone with confusion. “I'm Harry's father.”
The commotion following his declaration is glorious, since every wix in the room sees it as their due to voice some kind of opinion in a disorganized cacophony, and he makes use of the time it takes for the Minister and Chief Warlock to wrangle the room back into silence to meet Lei's eyes.
‘Trust me, Madam Chang, I can provide proof. And as you can see, Harry knows who I am.’ He projects into her mind, watching her eyes widen slightly before her expression closes and she watches him for a moment before offering a minute nod.
Thank magic, he thinks to himself with a measure of relief. The Wizengmot he can handle, but if Lei got in the way things would start to get trickier.
When the Chief Warlock's call for silence is finally heeded, Merlin speaks before anyone else has the chance. “I had no plans to reveal myself, but you've given me no choice, having killed my descendant,” he scoffs at their visible outrage at his words, “The spell may not have left any of your wands,” as far as he knows, at least. “But you killed Michael Wright with your prejudice and hatred, for the nonexistent crime of being a squib raising a wizarding child!” He feels a tinge of guilt when Harry flinches slightly, and soothingly runs a hand through his hair as his son continues to hide his face in the crook of his neck.
“And who might you be, my boy?” Dumbledore cuts in with an affable enough tone that doesn’t quite match the intense look in his eyes.
“Not that familiar with you, Chief Warlock, or young enough to be called a boy,” He pointedly notes before answering properly. “The name is Ash Slytherin,” before they can start on another commotion due to his last name, Merlin continues. “And I present myself before the Wizengamot and claim recognition as holder of the Slytherin seat. Let blood and magic bear witness.”
For a heartbeat, nothing happens.
Then, high in the left arc of the chamber, wood groans.
Heads turn as one of the empty chairs shifts forward, dragging itself out of the shadow. It’s darker than the others, nearly black with age, and the serpent carved along its backrest lifts its head as if waking from a very long sleep. Two pinpricks of green light open where its eyes should be and a thin line of silver runs over the arms of the chair, tracing old runes Merlin knows far too well.
He was the one to carve them after all.
The room finally seems to finish taking in the Ministry wards’ acceptance of his claim, since it once again descends into a cacophony of voices trying to speak over each other, most of which seemed directed at him.
“Loud,” he hears Harry complain against his neck.
Merlin lightly rests his hand at the back of the boy's head and casts a sound muffling charm over his ears, while looking entirely unimpressed at the continued chaos around them.
Finally, after what feels like more than a full minute, Dumbledore manages to quieten the masses.
“It seems you are who you claim to be,” the Chief Warlock declares — he would be hard pressed to deny it given the undeniable evidence — and Merlin can't help but appreciate the irony of it all. “But that gives you no claim over Harry. His father was James Potter.”
“I never stated otherwise,” Merlin assures, to their visible confusion. “My claim is that of blood adoption,” he clarifies, watching as confusion bleeds into surprise and even outrage, depending on which side of the room he glances at. Malfoy, he notes, looks particularly flummoxed. “Given our shared kinship in the Slytherin line, I was well within my rights to take custody of an orphaned member of my House.”
Of course, none of those are the real reasons why he chose to adopt Harry, but the Wizengamot hardly needs to know that.
“You have no right-” A pointy-nosed witch starts loudly from one of the left-side seats, but Merlin promptly cuts her off.
“No, you had no right. A child’s custody is not a Wizengamot matter, unless there’s been some change in the charter in the past hundred years,” he reminds them sharply. “Everything regarding my son’s living arrangements has been properly filed. There is absolutely no reason for this whole spectacle, which you would know if you’d taken the time to look into it instead of deciding a little boy’s fate was yours to dictate solely due to his misplaced popularity.” He focuses his gaze on Lei, who seems to be expertly hiding her bewilderment at this turn of events under an unimpressed mask. “Madam Cheng, thank you for your service. Would you mind seeing us out?”
“Lord Slytherin,” Minister Bagnold seems to finally find her voice. “While I understand your position, this hearing has not been concluded.”
“Has it not?” He levels her with an unimpressed look, “Then, should it proceed, I would like to request a copy of the transcript for when I sue the petitioner for attempted line theft.”
“I’m sure that is not necessary,” the Chief Warlock cuts in placatingly. “It’s clear that the boy is in very protective hands,” he adds almost jokingly, clearly trying to ease the room. “We will work on reviewing the appropriate paperwork. Should anything be amiss, this council will reconvene."
Merlin holds back a frown at the implication that Harry’s custody will continue to be a Wizengamot matter, but between arguing his point and getting his son home, the choice is fairly straightforward.
“It won’t be,” he assures, gives Lei a final nod towards the door, and turns on the balls of his feet, promptly exiting the chamber.
Goddess, these people are exhausting.
He’s halfway to the elevator when he realizes that Harry had apparently fallen asleep sometime after he cast the sound muffling spell — he doesn’t blame him, the child has probably been under a lot of stress since Merlin’s latest untimely demise —and hears the hurried click of heels at his back.
Slowing down his pace, it takes only a moment for Lei to catch up to his side.
“Explain,” She demands in as close to hissing a human can get.
“Not here,” he tells her. “Your office, or Michael’s.”
She takes a moment to think about it — probably debating the chances of his presence endangering her family against the chances of him doing something to her if she follows him on her own — before nodding.
“Michael’s,” she decides just as they get into the elevator.
The path to the floo is made in complete silence, though they walk past enough staring employees for him to figure gossip still flies as fast as department memos, and Merlin only pauses to adjust his hold on Harry before dropping the floo powder and enunciating The Tree House clearly enough not to leave Lei any doubt as to where he was headed.
He steps out into the living room, lightly shushing his son as he grunts in his sleep from the use of the floo, and Lei is barely a second behind.
“Here should be fine,” he tells her, very aware of his brother’s painting in his office which she shouldn’t be introduced to without previous warning.
“Who are you?” She immediately demands, looking like she is torn between hexing him and grabbing Harry and running.
“So. Funny story,” he starts, suddenly remembering what he’s about to do and feeling a little wrongfooted. Still, needs must, and he does value her as a friend even if the sort-of-mentor angle of their relationship will likely change after this. “Ash Slytherin is Michael Wright.”
Merlin waits in anticipation as his words lift the magical veil from her sight.