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Snip
I ignored things I was supposed to do (like, you know, study) and watched the last few episodes of House, so I'm all caught up now! I'll talk about it later, brain a little fried at the moment. Meanwhile, have a snippet of the Merlin-HP fusion AU I have been threatening to write for a while now, just to remind myself that I can still write and should get back to it again. With my sincerest apologies to JKR.
*
Morgana is a lot calmer and very comfortably perched on Arthur's new sofa—huge, ugly, Gryffindor-red, exactly like his old sofa—when Arthur finally emerges from his bedroom, dramatically pointing his wand at Morgana's general direction. His hair is wet; skin red-tinged from the shower he had undoubtedly been taking when Morgana dropped by and made herself at home.
'There's no need for violence,' Morgana informs him, calm. Arthur has always had a flair for dramatic entrances.
'I heard noises,' Arthur says, lowering his wand. He does not, however, possess the grace to appear even remotely apologetic—does, in fact, look rather put upon as he demands, 'Why are you in my living room?' How typical.
'I'm eating cupcakes,' Morgana tells him. 'These are very good.'
'Yes, Merlin made them,' Arthur says. 'He's learning to—' He stops short of finishing his sentence and scowls at Morgana. 'Didn't we have a conversation about prior appointment? I could've been here with someone!'
'Didn't we have a conversation about you not seeing anyone for the time being?' Morgana reaches for the last cupcake on the tray. They are excellent cupcakes.
'Yes, I— That's not the point, Morgana,' Arthur says, stepping closer. 'I have a door. Use it.' He snatches the half-eaten cupcake from her hand and finishes it in one greedy bite. 'One of these days I'll just stop renewing my Floo Network subscription,' he says, making a show of licking his fingers.
'No you won't,' Morgana snaps, 'because then you'd have to Apparate all the time, and we both know how that goes.'
'I just find it a suffocating experience,' Arthur says stiffly. There's a bit of frosting on his chin. It makes him look even more ridiculous than usual. 'Which is why I prefer other means of travel. It's a valid lifestyle choice.'
'The last time you tried you lost three fingernails,' Morgana presses on mercilessly. 'I wonder how much The Blibbering Humdinger would pay for that bit of information.'
'You wouldn't,' Arthur hisses.
'Try me,' Morgana smiles. He did, after all, steal the last cupcake.
After a moment's silence, Arthur says, 'You want to go flying?'
'Sure,' Morgana shrugs.
*
'You—You—'
'Yes?' Morgana says sweetly, watching Arthur make a pathetic display of himself as he gulps like an overlarge goldfish on his father's favourite chair—the one where Uther spends most of his evenings with paperwork and a glass of the finest Firewhisky, plotting, Morgana likes to think, dominion over the entire Quidditch fraternity. 'You were saying?'
'You,' Arthur gasps, pointing an accusing finger.
It was perhaps somewhat unkind on her part to grab his wrist and Apparate without warning when they could have Floo'd in just as easily. Morgana chooses not to dwell on it.
'Master Arthur should not be Apparating,' says a very disapproving Binky. 'Master Arthur has always been a delicate boy.'
'Don't call me that,' Arthur wheezes. The tip of his nose has grown a dull shade of red. It's extremely unattractive. 'I'm not—'
'Master Arthur mustn't speak,' Binky insists. 'Binky will fetch Master Arthur a glass of water.'
'You can stop laughing now,' Arthur tells her after a while. Morgana merely clutches the cushion to her chest and laughs some more.
*
Camelot's grounds are the same as ever, dotted with familiar scents—fresh air, leaves and wet grass—and images from her childhood: that tree she fell from and broke her leg; the bush where Arthur, age ten, attempted to breed Acromantula; Arthur's mother's rose garden, immaculate, perfectly maintained.
Morgana hovers, just above surface, drinking it in until Arthur swooshes past her, rising higher, higher, magnificent even on his old Firebolt Five. Morgana watches him turn and dive, feinting in a way that can only be termed showing off.
Her own broom is equally rusty, the handle worn and unfamiliar after so many years. She flies slowly at first, studiously ignoring Arthur's ridiculous stunts and relearning the broom's quirks, allowing it to do the same. Its balance—once perfect—is a little off, its speed no match for her beloved Whirlwind.
Still, she won a Quidditch Cup on this broom. It's a great broom.
With that thought, she flies higher, past the giant oak tree—planted, according to Uther, by his great-great-great-grandfather Pendragon—and Arthur, who is now hanging upside down off his broom.
'You feet were incorrectly positioned,' she tells him when he flies to her side, face red from exertion.
'I was perfect,' Arthur says. 'I am perfect,' he corrects himself. 'As you know.'
Morgana snorts. They fly side by side in silence for a while, watching the sun set over the lake until Morgana says, 'Race you to the other end,' and takes off in a burst of speed, suddenly light-hearted. The Firebolt Five is pliant under her touch, bending, almost, to her thought, like it would before.
It only takes Arthur a moment to catch up. 'That was cheating,' he huffs.
'Afraid you'll lose?'
'Not a chance,' he says. 'Wearing yourself out the day before the match is probably not the best idea,' he adds after a beat. His tone is careless.
'I'll keep that in mind,' Morgana says.
*
*
Morgana is a lot calmer and very comfortably perched on Arthur's new sofa—huge, ugly, Gryffindor-red, exactly like his old sofa—when Arthur finally emerges from his bedroom, dramatically pointing his wand at Morgana's general direction. His hair is wet; skin red-tinged from the shower he had undoubtedly been taking when Morgana dropped by and made herself at home.
'There's no need for violence,' Morgana informs him, calm. Arthur has always had a flair for dramatic entrances.
'I heard noises,' Arthur says, lowering his wand. He does not, however, possess the grace to appear even remotely apologetic—does, in fact, look rather put upon as he demands, 'Why are you in my living room?' How typical.
'I'm eating cupcakes,' Morgana tells him. 'These are very good.'
'Yes, Merlin made them,' Arthur says. 'He's learning to—' He stops short of finishing his sentence and scowls at Morgana. 'Didn't we have a conversation about prior appointment? I could've been here with someone!'
'Didn't we have a conversation about you not seeing anyone for the time being?' Morgana reaches for the last cupcake on the tray. They are excellent cupcakes.
'Yes, I— That's not the point, Morgana,' Arthur says, stepping closer. 'I have a door. Use it.' He snatches the half-eaten cupcake from her hand and finishes it in one greedy bite. 'One of these days I'll just stop renewing my Floo Network subscription,' he says, making a show of licking his fingers.
'No you won't,' Morgana snaps, 'because then you'd have to Apparate all the time, and we both know how that goes.'
'I just find it a suffocating experience,' Arthur says stiffly. There's a bit of frosting on his chin. It makes him look even more ridiculous than usual. 'Which is why I prefer other means of travel. It's a valid lifestyle choice.'
'The last time you tried you lost three fingernails,' Morgana presses on mercilessly. 'I wonder how much The Blibbering Humdinger would pay for that bit of information.'
'You wouldn't,' Arthur hisses.
'Try me,' Morgana smiles. He did, after all, steal the last cupcake.
After a moment's silence, Arthur says, 'You want to go flying?'
'Sure,' Morgana shrugs.
*
'You—You—'
'Yes?' Morgana says sweetly, watching Arthur make a pathetic display of himself as he gulps like an overlarge goldfish on his father's favourite chair—the one where Uther spends most of his evenings with paperwork and a glass of the finest Firewhisky, plotting, Morgana likes to think, dominion over the entire Quidditch fraternity. 'You were saying?'
'You,' Arthur gasps, pointing an accusing finger.
It was perhaps somewhat unkind on her part to grab his wrist and Apparate without warning when they could have Floo'd in just as easily. Morgana chooses not to dwell on it.
'Master Arthur should not be Apparating,' says a very disapproving Binky. 'Master Arthur has always been a delicate boy.'
'Don't call me that,' Arthur wheezes. The tip of his nose has grown a dull shade of red. It's extremely unattractive. 'I'm not—'
'Master Arthur mustn't speak,' Binky insists. 'Binky will fetch Master Arthur a glass of water.'
'You can stop laughing now,' Arthur tells her after a while. Morgana merely clutches the cushion to her chest and laughs some more.
*
Camelot's grounds are the same as ever, dotted with familiar scents—fresh air, leaves and wet grass—and images from her childhood: that tree she fell from and broke her leg; the bush where Arthur, age ten, attempted to breed Acromantula; Arthur's mother's rose garden, immaculate, perfectly maintained.
Morgana hovers, just above surface, drinking it in until Arthur swooshes past her, rising higher, higher, magnificent even on his old Firebolt Five. Morgana watches him turn and dive, feinting in a way that can only be termed showing off.
Her own broom is equally rusty, the handle worn and unfamiliar after so many years. She flies slowly at first, studiously ignoring Arthur's ridiculous stunts and relearning the broom's quirks, allowing it to do the same. Its balance—once perfect—is a little off, its speed no match for her beloved Whirlwind.
Still, she won a Quidditch Cup on this broom. It's a great broom.
With that thought, she flies higher, past the giant oak tree—planted, according to Uther, by his great-great-great-grandfather Pendragon—and Arthur, who is now hanging upside down off his broom.
'You feet were incorrectly positioned,' she tells him when he flies to her side, face red from exertion.
'I was perfect,' Arthur says. 'I am perfect,' he corrects himself. 'As you know.'
Morgana snorts. They fly side by side in silence for a while, watching the sun set over the lake until Morgana says, 'Race you to the other end,' and takes off in a burst of speed, suddenly light-hearted. The Firebolt Five is pliant under her touch, bending, almost, to her thought, like it would before.
It only takes Arthur a moment to catch up. 'That was cheating,' he huffs.
'Afraid you'll lose?'
'Not a chance,' he says. 'Wearing yourself out the day before the match is probably not the best idea,' he adds after a beat. His tone is careless.
'I'll keep that in mind,' Morgana says.
*