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EXCERPT FROM HERMIONE GRANGER'S JOURNAL

October 10th

The omission of Merlin from the painting is the most glaring historical anomaly. I decided to ask the portrait directly. I waited until the corridor was empty and addressed the King. "Your Majesty," I started, feeling foolish, "forgive my impertinence, but historical records speak of your great Court Sorcerer, Merlin. Why is he not depicted here with his king?"

The portrait of King Arthur turned his gaze from the corridor to me. His painted eyes seemed incredibly real. He smiled, a confident, reassuring expression.

"The Court Sorcerer?" he said, and his voice held a mix of pride and exasperation. "A king does not keep his most powerful weapon shackled to a chair during a council of war. He is where he is needed most—on the ramparts, weaving wards into the very stones of the castle, likely complaining about the draft the entire time."

He glanced towards the edge of the frame, as if expecting to see a door. "He'll be here when the briefing is over. He always is."

It was the saddest thing I've ever heard. He's still waiting.

EXCERPT FROM A LECTURE TRANSCRIPT

(Recorded by Hermione Granger)

Subject: Muggle Monstrology - A Study in Cultural Fear

PROFESSOR AMBROSE: "Right. Monsters. Every Muggle culture has them. Great, scaly beasts; things with too many teeth; women who live in the woods and turn you into a newt. Now, the common wizarding assumption is that these are simply misremembered encounters with magical creatures. A Muggle sees a griffin, gets the details wrong, and three generations later the story is about a winged lion that breathes jam. This is, like most wizarding assumptions, lazy and arrogant.

The truth is that Muggles don't invent monsters because they've seen a dragon. They invent monsters because they've seen a plague. Or a famine. Or a war.

Consider the vampire. Is it a real creature? Yes. Are they common? No. But the idea of the vampire, the nobleman who drains the life from the peasantry to sustain his own unnatural existence... that's not about a man with fangs. That's about feudalism. It's a metaphor for a corrupt aristocracy.

Or the werewolf. A man who, through no fault of his own, becomes a danger to his community, a beast who destroys what he loves. That's not about lycanthropy; that's about the Muggle fear of madness, of disease, of the enemy within their own mind.

Muggles are masters of metaphor. They take the abstract horrors of their world—poverty, sickness, tyranny, grief—and they give them teeth. They give them claws. They put them in the dark woods so they can tell their children, 'Don't go in there.' It is a form of practical, communal magic. They are warding their society not against beasts, but against ideas."

(He paused here and looked out at us.)

PROFESSOR AMBROSE: "The greatest mistake a wizard can make is to assume a Muggle's monster is just a poorly remembered hippogriff. More often than not, the monster is real. It's just not the one you can see."

A SCENE OUTSIDE "TOMES AND SCROLLS"

As witnessed by Hermione Granger:

I saw Professor Ambrose standing outside the bookshop, looking at a display in the window. It wasn't a book he was looking at, but a beautiful, handcrafted wooden dragon, the kind that snaps its jaws and breathes little puffs of smoke when you tap it with your wand. It was clearly an expensive gift.

He watched it for a long time. Then he just shook his head, a small, sad smile on his face, and walked away towards the Three Broomsticks. It was strange. For a moment, it looked like he was about to buy a Christmas present for someone he knew would love it, and then he just… remembered he couldn't.

EXCERPT FROM A LECTURE TRANSCRIPT

(Recorded by Hermione Granger)

Professor Ambrose's first lesson of the new year was on the Muggle tradition of New Year's resolutions. He started by conjuring a long, scrolling parchment that cascaded down from the ceiling to the floor, covered in elegant, looping script.

"This," he began, his voice flat, "is a partial list of the resolutions made by a single Muggle nobleman, one Lord Harrington, between the years 1788 and 1812. Note the recurring themes."

He tapped the parchment. "'Item 1, 1788: To cease the consumption of excessive quantities of port.' Item 1, 1789: To definitively cease the consumption of excessive port.' Item 1, 1790: To reduce port consumption to a level considered merely 'robust' rather than 'scandalous.'"

A few students chuckled.

"Muggles," he continued, vanishing the scroll, "are obsessed with the idea of the 'new.' A new year, a new start. So they engage in an annual exercise in ritualized self-disappointment. They make a list of promises to themselves, promises they have almost no statistical probability of keeping."

He turned to the class. "But what is a promise? A promise is not a hope. A promise is a debt. And a promise made to yourself is the most difficult one to repay, because you are both the debtor and the creditor. Every year, you carry the ghosts of the promises you broke the year before, and the weight gets heavier."

Parvati Patil raised her hand. "But isn't it good to try to be better, Professor? Even if you fail?"

Professor Ambrose gave her a smile that was impossibly sad, but his voice was gentle. "Trying is essential, Miss Patil. It is the very engine of growth. But what we are discussing is the act of declaring a promise. A grand, public statement of intent. And declaring a promise you know you cannot keep is just a form of noble-sounding self-deception. It is a way to feel good about the intent, without having to do the hard, painful, day-by-day work of actually changing."

He looked pointedly at Gilderoy Lockhart's portrait, which was hanging temporarily in the corner for "remedial observation." Lockhart's resolution had been to "write twelve more best-selling memoirs."

Then Ron, in a moment of bravery, asked the question we were all thinking. "So what's your New Year's resolution, Professor?"

The entire room went silent. The faint sound of Lockhart's portrait preening was the only noise. Professor Ambrose didn't move for a long time. He just stood there, looking out the window at the snow-covered grounds. When he finally spoke, his voice was very quiet, but it filled the entire room.

"I have only one resolution," he said. "It is the same one I have had every year for a very, very long time." He turned back to face us, and his eyes seemed to hold the weight of centuries.

"To try and keep a promise I made to a dying friend."

The air in the room grew heavy. You could feel the unspoken "but" hanging at the end of that sentence.

He continued, his voice a near-whisper. "A promise to live in the world he saved, and to see the good in it, even when I can't feel it myself."

He didn't explain what the promise was, or who the friend was. He didn't have to. The feeling in the room was so profound, no one dared to even breathe. He just picked up a piece of chalk and wrote our assignment on the board:

Three feet on a single promise you have kept, and why it was worth the cost.

MUGGLE STUDIES LECTURE: "A STUDY IN BURIED THINGS"

(From the Transcript, Recorded by Hermione Granger)

Professor Ambrose's lesson today was about Muggle archeology. He brought in a collection of dusty, broken artifacts: a pottery shard, a rusty buckle, and a chipped arrowhead.

"An archeologist," he began, his voice unusually quiet, "is a person who makes a career out of digging up things that were buried for a reason. They are a detective who arrives at the crime scene a thousand years too late. Their only witnesses are silent, broken things. They are a professional disturber of the peace."

He held up the rusty buckle. "Muggles find this and they see history. A belt from a fallen soldier, perhaps. They catalogue it. They put it in a museum. They tell a neat, tidy story about the past. It is rarely ever so simple."

He placed it back on the desk with a heavy thud. "What they don't see is the man who wore it. The fear in his last moments. The family he left behind. The ghost that still clings to the object."

Then he looked at all of us. "History is not a collection of objects. It is an act of interpretation. And interpretation can be a lie. A conqueror buries the bones of his enemies and builds a temple on top. A thousand years later, an archeologist finds a holy site. Never trust the surface story. Always dig deeper. The most interesting truths are the ones someone tried to bury."

He looked around the room, and his eyes seemed to be looking right through the walls, into the very dirt under the castle. "Some things," he said, his voice dropping to a near-whisper, "are buried for a reason. Old sorrows. Old mistakes. Old bones. They are meant to be left in the dark. But the past is a stubborn thing. It does not like to stay buried. It has a way of working its way back to the surface, usually when you least expect it."

He didn't give us an assignment. He just picked up the pottery shard and began turning it over and over in his hand, as if trying to piece together a story he wished he could forget. We all just sat there in silence until the bell rang.

MUGGLE STUDIES LECTURE: "THE KING'S DILEMMA"

(From the Transcript, Recorded by Padma Patil)

PROFESSOR AMBROSE: (Looks around the room, a tired, knowing expression on his face) "I understand the castle's historical dialogues have become required reading. You are debating romance versus politics. Let us, for a moment, treat it as a proper lesson. This will be on your exams."

(He turns to the blackboard and writes a single heading: THE KING'S DILEMMA.)

AMBROSE: "Imagine a kingdom, newly born from the ashes of a tyrant's reign. The new king is young, idealistic. He wishes to unite three warring factions: a fearful populace, a resentful old guard of nobles, and a persecuted magical community. His choice of queen will be the cornerstone of his entire reign. You are his council. You will advise him."

(He points to a proud-looking Gryffindor.)

AMBROSE: "You. The nobles are the immediate threat. He makes a strategic marriage to the daughter of a powerful lord. What is the outcome?"

GRYFFINDOR STUDENT: "He secures his border! He shows strength and brings the old families into the fold!"

AMBROSE: "And in doing so, he signals to the common people that nothing has changed. It's Uther's Camelot with a friendlier face. His revolution dies in its cradle. A failure."

(He turns to a thoughtful Ravenclaw.)

AMBROSE: "You. The king's greatest asset is his new alliance with magic. He embraces this, marrying a powerful magical ally. The outcome?"

RAVENCLAW STUDENT: "Logically, it would signal a true paradigm shift. He would secure a powerful magical alliance and prove his commitment to the new age."

AMBROSE: "A logical conclusion. And a politically disastrous one. The nobles, who fear magic, immediately revolt. The common people, who have been taught for a generation to fear magic, panic. The kingdom collapses into civil war. A failure."

(His gaze softens slightly as he points to an earnest Hufflepuff.)

AMBROSE: "You. The king should ignore politics. He should follow his heart, marry for true love, and the people will admire his honesty and integrity."

HUFFLEPUFF STUDENT: (Nodding eagerly) "Yes! Because the people will see that he is good and fair, and they will love him for it!"

AMBROSE: (He lets the hopeful, naive answer hang in the air for a moment, a ghost of a sad smile on his lips) "A noble sentiment. One I'm sure the king himself shared. But what is the practical reality of that choice? Mister Malfoy?"

DRACO: (Scoffs, but there's a flicker of genuine analysis in his eyes) "It's sentimental drivel. He's seen as a weak, indulgent fool who puts his own feelings before his duty. His reign is unstable. He's probably assassinated within a year by someone who understands that power isn't a fairytale."

AMBROSE: (A rare, genuine nod of approval) "A surprisingly astute, if cynical, analysis, Mister Malfoy. Correct. A failure."

(He stops pacing and looks at the class, letting the weight of their own failed solutions settle.)

AMBROSE: "Sometimes, in the service of what you perceive to be the greater good—or the protection of one you love—you are faced with a choice that has no honorable outcome. You must simply choose which ghost you are willing to live with."

AMBROSE: "To call such a pact a 'lie' is the luxury of a spectator. From inside the arena, it was the only path forward... It was a promise made by honorable people to shoulder an impossible burden together, for the hope of a better world."

(His voice takes on a familiar, bitter edge.)

AMBROSE: "History and folklore love to paint these stories in simple colors. Villains and heroes. Betrayal and righteousness. The truth is almost always a messier, sadder thing... It is about good people trying, and failing, to navigate an impossible choice."

(He lets the silence settle, heavy and profound.)

AMBROSE: "The tragedy is not that they had to make the choice. The tragedy... is that in the end, it wasn't enough."

(He didn't give us an assignment. He just looked at us, his eyes full of a sorrow so ancient it felt like it could swallow the room.)

AMBROSE: "Remember that," he said. "When you hear the old stories. The truth is never the part that gets written down."

MUGGLE STUDIES LECTURE: THE MYTH OF PHAETHON

(From the Transcript, Recorded by a very disturbed Hermione Granger)

Professor Ambrose was grim today. The echoes of the "Whispered Truths" prank seemed to still hang in the air. He walked to the front of the class, and instead of our usual topic, he just looked at us, his eyes dark and heavy.

"Today," he began, his voice quiet but intense, "we will discuss the Muggle myth of Phaethon. He was a boy, the son of the Sun God, Helios. And like many sons of powerful fathers, he was consumed by a desperate, gnawing need to prove that he was worthy of his bloodline."

"His friends mocked him. They did not believe his claim. So, in an act of profound, youthful arrogance, Phaethon went to his father's celestial palace and made a demand. He wanted proof. He wanted to drive the Sun Chariot for a single day."

(He began to pace, the way he does when a story has truly taken hold of him.)

"His father, a wise but tired god, begged him not to. He explained, with the desperate patience of a parent who sees a catastrophe on the horizon, that the power of the chariot was not a toy. It was not a status symbol. It was a cosmic responsibility. The path through the heavens was narrow, treacherous, marked by celestial beasts. The horses were not mere animals; they were creatures of pure, unbridled fire, and it took all of a god's strength and wisdom just to hold them to their course."

(He stopped and looked directly at the Weasley twins, his gaze so intense it felt like a physical weight.)

"But the boy was arrogant. He saw only the spectacle. The glory. The applause. He did not hear the warning. He only heard the promise of power. He had bound his father with an oath, and the god had no choice but to relent. 'At least,' the father pleaded, 'heed my advice. Do not fly too high, or you will freeze the heavens. Do not fly too low, or you will burn the earth. Hold fast to the middle path.'"

"And the moment the boy took the reins, he was lost. The fire of the horses sensed the weakness in his hands. The sheer, intoxicating power of the chariot overwhelmed him. He forgot every warning. He was a god, for a moment. And it was beautiful."

(The classroom was completely silent.)

AMBROSE: "From the ground, I am sure it was the most beautiful, spectacular, and terrifying sunrise the world had ever seen. The sun, free of its leash, careening wildly across the sky. A true bonfire."

"But the boy, in his ecstasy, did not see the consequences of his beautiful spectacle. He flew too low. The heat of the chariot boiled the rivers and turned the fertile plains of Libya into a desert of sand. He burned the skin of the people of Aethiopia, marking them forever. He flew too high, and the world was plunged into a sudden, unnatural winter."

"He threw the entire world into chaos, not out of malice, but out of sheer, breathtaking incompetence. He was so enchanted by the spectacle, so in love with the bright, hot flame of his own flight, that he never stopped to consider that he was burning people alive."

(His voice dropped, a quiet and terribly personal warning that seemed aimed at the entire room, and yet only at two people within it.)

AMBROSE: "The story of Phaethon is a lesson on the immense, terrifying responsibility that comes with great magical talent. The most dangerous magic is not the kind that is loud and ugly. It is the kind that is so beautiful, so intoxicating, that it convinces you that you have the right to wield it, no matter the hidden cost. You can learn the spell to summon a bonfire. But you must also learn the discipline to ask if anyone else is going to get burned. Because once the fire is out of your control, it does not matter if your intentions were good. The ashes are all the same."

MUGGLE STUDIES LECTURE: "THE TYRANNY OF THE NARRATIVE"

(From the Transcript, Recorded by a very concerned Hermione Granger, March 13th)

Professor Ambrose looks exhausted today. The jaunty tune of that horrible anthem can still be faintly heard from the corridor. He stands before us, not with a Muggle artifact, but with only a piece of chalk in his hand.

"Today," he begins, his voice heavy, "we will discuss the oldest and most powerful form of magic Muggles have ever conceived. A form of magic so potent it has built and broken empires. We will discuss the story."

"Specifically," he says, turning to the board, "the Greek Tragedies. They are stories about good people being crushed by a destiny they can neither understand nor escape."

He tells us the story of Oedipus. A good and noble king who is told a prophecy at birth that he will kill his father and marry his mother. He describes, with a chilling intimacy, how Oedipus's parents tried to avert this fate by leaving their son to die on a mountainside. How he was rescued and raised by another king, never knowing his true heritage. How he, as a young man, heard the same prophecy and, in an act of love for the parents he thought were his own, fled his home to protect them.

"He spent his entire life running away from this fate," Ambrose says, his voice a low growl. "Every single choice he made—to flee his home, to answer the Sphinx's riddle, to become the heroic king of a new city—was a choice made with the noblest of intentions. And every single one of those choices was a precise, necessary step that led him directly to fulfilling the prophecy. He did not stumble into his fate. He walked into it, step by heroic, well-intentioned step."

His voice grows colder. "But there is another kind of prophetic trap. Consider the story of a Scottish king, Macbeth. He is a good man, a loyal general. Then, three witches tell him a prophecy: that he will be king."

"Unlike Oedipus, Macbeth does not run from his fate. He runs towards it. The prophecy becomes a license, a justification for the ambition and darkness that was already sleeping in his heart. He murders his king, his friends, he slaughters women and children—he becomes a monster, all in the service of making the prophecy come true. He seizes the destiny he was promised."

(He stops and looks around the room, his eyes dark and intense.)

"Two men, two prophecies. One tried to defy his fate and was destroyed. The other tried to embrace his fate and was destroyed. The central question is the same: Were they victims, or were they agents? Was Oedipus a helpless pawn, or was a man whose own flaws—his pride, his anger—made him complicit? Was Macbeth a victim of a dark suggestion, or a man who simply needed an excuse to unleash the monster that was already inside him?"

(A Ravenclaw student bravely asks, "But sir, if they both knew the prophecy, couldn't they have just... chosen differently? Couldn't they have refused to play the game?")

Professor Ambrose goes very still. He looks at the student, but his eyes are a thousand years away.

"That is the terror of it," he whispers, almost to himself. "To be standing at a crossroads, holding a prophecy in your hand. One path is the one you are told will lead to ruin. The other... the other is a leap into the unknown. Do you trust the narrative you have been given? Or do you trust in the choices of a single, flawed person?"

(He seems to shake himself, coming back to the present.)

"The poet's answer," he says, a deep, resonant bitterness in his voice, "is that it does not matter. The ultimate tyranny is not a king or a dictator. It is the narrative. The suffocating certainty that your life is not your own. That you are just a character playing a part, and the author is a cruel, indifferent god who has already decided how your tragedy will end."

(He turns away from them, looking out the window.)

"And deep down," he adds, his voice so quiet it is almost lost, "you will spend the rest of eternity... wondering if you should have chosen differently."

THE UNRELIABLE NARRATOR, PART I: A CONFESSION

(From the Transcript of Professor Ambrose's Muggle Studies Lecture, recorded by Padma Patil, March 24th)

This did not feel like a lesson. It felt like a confession.

Professor Ambrose entered the classroom, and a hush fell. He has been a ghost in his own classroom for weeks, a quiet, hollowed-out version of himself. But today was different. The exhaustion was a tangible presence, a shroud around his shoulders, but beneath it was a new, raw, and desperate energy. He bypassed the lectern entirely. He didn't use a book or an artifact. He just stood before us in the center of the room, looking thin and pale, like a ghost in tweed.

"I have taught you about history," he began, his voice a low, hollow whisper that seemed to absorb all the sound in the room. "About Muggles. About myths. For what I believe will be my final lesson, I will teach you about mistakes. And I will tell you a true story. About a boy, and a servant, and a king."

He began to pace, not with a teacher's energy, but like a caged, wounded animal re-tracing the steps of its own confinement.

"There was a king," he said, his eyes looking through us, at a ghost only he could see. "And he was not a legend. Not yet. He was just a man. A stubborn, prat-falling, ridiculously noble man who tried every single day to be better than he was the day before. He couldn't cook without nearly burning down the kitchens, his singing could curdle milk, and his idea of a romantic gesture was to send a note via a notoriously ill-tempered falcon."

A few nervous, watery chuckles rippled through the class. They died instantly under the weight of his unblinking stare.

"And he had a servant," he continued, the words rougher now. "A foolish, clumsy boy who was a terrible liar. This servant was born with a great and terrible gift, a power he was told was his destiny. And a prophecy came with it. A prophecy that said his king would die at the hands of another—a boy with magic just like his own."

He stopped pacing, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides.

"So the servant made a choice. He chose to protect his king. At all costs. He wrapped himself in a cloak of secrets and lies, believing it was a shield to protect his friend. It was not. It was a wall, built brick by brick, that left him alone on one side, and his king on the other. He became a man who was so consumed with protecting the King that he often forgot how to just be a friend to the man."

"His choices were not born of malice. They were born of love. A great, terrible, and suffocating love. A love so fierce it became a form of tyranny. And it led, as all such choices do, to ruin."

The air in the room was thick, hard to breathe. No one knew what to make of the story. It felt intensely personal, a confession wrapped in the guise of a fairytale. The shift in his demeanor was unnerving. He was no longer speaking of a hypothetical "servant." The pain in his voice was too real, too immediate. It felt as though he was no longer telling a story, but reliving one.

"He learned the final, cruelest lesson," he whispered, looking down at his own trembling hands as if they were foreign objects. "That a victory that costs you your soul is not a victory at all. It is just a different, quieter kind of defeat."

He fell silent. He could not, or would not, say any more about the story. He just stood there, looking at us, at his students, his one fragile, final hope. His eyes were burning with a desperate, terrible sincerity.

"There will come a time in your life," he said, his voice regaining a fraction of its strength, "when you are faced with an impossible choice. Between what is right, and what is safe. And you will be afraid. And your fear, or your love, will be a very loud and very convincing liar. It will tell you that a small, quiet act of cowardice—a word not spoken, a truth not told—is the pragmatic choice. That it is a necessary sacrifice for the greater good."

"You will be wrong."

His voice dropped, becoming a low growl of pure, self-loathing conviction. "There is no such thing as a small silence. Every truth you swallow becomes a ghost. And it will follow you. It will sit at your table when you eat and lie beside you when you try to sleep. It will poison your victories and hollow you out from the inside until you are nothing but a monument to your own fear."

He took a shaky breath, the sound unnaturally loud in the silent room. "The greatest lesson I can teach you," he said, his voice finally breaking on the last words, "is this. Be kind. Be brave. But above all... be better than me."

(Padma Patil's personal diary entry for the same day, processing the bizarre events.)

The lesson just... ended there. He didn't dismiss us. He just stood in the middle of the room, breathing heavily, as if he had just run a great distance. He was looking out at us, but his eyes were unfocused. It was the strangest thing. For weeks, he has been this quiet, hollowed-out presence, but today it was as if he had filled back up with... something.

His gaze swept across the classroom, not looking at anyone in particular. And then his expression just... changed. His eyes went wide. The desperate sadness on his face was replaced by a look of sheer panic.

He actually took a step backward, recoiling from us, as if someone in the class had suddenly drawn a wand on him. He made this small, sharp gasping sound, like he'd been punched.

We were all just sitting there, frozen, utterly bewildered. One moment he was giving this incredibly intense, emotional speech about a servant from an old story, and the next he looked like he was staring at a Basilisk.

He didn't say another word. He just turned, almost stumbling over his own feet, and fled from the room. Not like a professor leaving a classroom. Like a man escaping a burning building.

We sat there in the most profound and terrible silence I have ever experienced for a full minute before anyone dared to move. I have no idea what that story was about. But I think... I think it might have been about him. And I think, by the end, he had forgotten we were in the room at all.

FROM THE PERSONAL JOURNAL OF HERMIONE GRANGER

April 1st

Subject: The Boggart Event: Catastrophic psychic and metaphysical failure.

I must record what happened. The sequence of events. While I still can. My hands are shaking. The Calming Draught Madam Pomfrey gave us isn't working.

The Boggart became a conduit for him. It stopped projecting a thousand small sorrows and latched onto the single, great one that dwarfed them all. The manifestation was not an illusion; it was a physical event. I felt the temperature in the Hall drop. The air tasted of rain and blood.

We saw it. The execution of a boy named Mordred. The fury of Morgana le Fay. And the death of King Arthur. All the legends, all the books—they're all wrong. It wasn't a noble, fated duel. It was a chaotic, brutal ambush, and the King died taking a blade meant for his sorcerer. For Merlin. Because it is him. The names, the magic, the ancient, bottomless grief—it's him. Professor Ambrose is Merlin. It is the only possible explanation.

The climax of the vision was the worst part. We were all forced to watch as he held his dying king. The final moments were so quiet, so intimate, it felt like a desecration of something sacred.

We all saw it. We all heard it. The King's final words, whispered as a gift to the man he was leaving behind. A reason to keep going. "It was worth it."

For a single, eternal second after the King's eyes closed, the vision just hung there in the silent, horrified Hall. And Professor Ambrose, the real one, the one at the back of the room, just stared at it. At the memory of his friend dying in his arms.

He was on his knees at the back of the hall, his whole body trembling with a grief so violent it was a physical force. It felt like the very stones of the castle were vibrating with it. He threw his head back, his face a mask of absolute, agonized denial, and he screamed.

It was a single word, aimed not at us, not at the memory, but at the ghost of the man who had just died. A rebuttal. A 1500-year-old argument against his own survival.

"LIAR!"

The Boggart's vision of Camlann didn't just disintegrate; it exploded, blown apart like shrapnel. Every single window in the Great Hall, from the great arched panes to the small transoms near the ceiling, shattered outwards into the night. Every goblet, every plate, every silver pitcher on every single table cracked and then burst into a cloud of glittering dust. High above, the enchanted ceiling cracked, splintering into a spiderweb of lightning before dissolving into nothing, plunging the entire Hall into a sudden, shocking darkness, lit only by the faint, indifferent light of the stars. It was the most terrifying and destructive piece of magic I have ever witnessed, and it wasn't even a spell. It was just a feeling, given a voice.

The sudden silence was absolute, broken only by the sound of a hundred terrified gasps and the distant tinkling of the last few shards of glass raining down from the window frames. He was still kneeling at the back of the ruined hall, a silhouette in the gloom. He was looking at the empty air where the ghost of his king had been. And he whispered into the wreckage, his voice broken, hollow, and utterly certain.

"It wasn't. It was never worth it."

And then, with a sound like the rushing of a great wind, he was simply gone. Vanished.

The Great Hall was a ruin of darkness and broken glass, filled with sobbing students and stunned professors.

We didn't just see a sad memory today. We saw a myth bleed. We saw our teacher's soul fall apart.

And we finally learned his name.

A RAVENCLAW STUDY GROUP: EMERGENCY SESSION

(As transcribed by a Prefect, April 4th, Evening)

Penelope Clearwater: "So, the established text, Bathilda Bagshot's A History of Magic, states clearly: 'The Battle of Camlann concluded when Mordred, Arthur's traitorous nephew, struck the King a mortal blow, before being slain in turn.' What we witnessed directly contradicts this account on at least three fundamental points."

Roger Davies: "Four points. The texts never mention the Court Sorcerer, Merlin, being the central figure in the entire engagement. Or that Mordred was slain before the King. Or that Morgana was the agent of the King's fall. Or that the King's death was an act of shielding the sorcerer."

Marietta Edgecombe: "So, what are we saying? That A History of Magic, the foundational text of our entire curriculum for a thousand years... is a complete fabrication?"

Penelope: (After a long, horrified silence) "Yes. I believe that is precisely what we are saying. And that our Muggle Studies professor is the most significant primary source in recorded history."

A CLASH OF CANONS

(As observed by a highly stressed Madam Pince, April 5th...)

Penelope stood before her now-famous chart, which had taken over an entire wall of the library. Four columns, each filled with dense notes. Around her, the other Ravenclaws were in a state of high agitation.

PENELOPE CLEARWATER:"Okay, we've hit a wall. Let's try a direct source comparison. Terry, you represent the Muggle-centric view. Anthony, the Wizarding-centric. Present your primary evidence for Merlin's core identity."

TERRY BOOT: (Slamming open a heavily illustrated copy of Le Morte d'Arthur) "It's all here! The entire story! Merlin discovers the boy-king, he guides him, he raises him to power with the Sword in the Stone, he helps him build the Round Table! The entire point of Merlin was to create King Arthur! His story is a part of Arthur's!"

ANTHONY GOLDSTEIN: (Lets out a long, suffering sigh, as if trying to explain a complex theorem to a garden gnome) “Terry, you are reading a Muggle book. Muggles write Muggle-centric histories. Of course they make the Muggle king the hero. It is fundamentally biased and irrelevant to any serious scholar."

TERRY BOOT: "Irrelevant? He was King of Britain! That seems fairly relevant!"

ANTHONY GOLDSTEIN: "He was a regional warlord. A historically significant one, yes, but he is a footnote. Merlin," (he says, tapping a copy of The Great Reconcilers: A Wizarding Political History) "is the actual story. Arthur wasn't the project; the Golden Age was the project. Merlin, the first great wizard-statesman, brought an end to the Age of Warlords and founded the first unified magical society. Arthur was his chosen Muggle partner in that endeavor. He was a necessary and important component, but he was not the protagonist."

(The two are at a complete impasse. They have presented two entirely different, mutually exclusive protagonists for the same historical event.)

TERRY BOOT: "Right. So in your version, Arthur's just... the sidekick?"

ANTHONY GOLDSTEIN: "He was the respected temporal authority. Merlin was the architect and the true power. That is the accepted historical framework. Honestly, did you not read Bagshot?"

TERRY BOOT: (Getting furious, now pulling out a different Muggle text) "And did you ever read a real book? What about this? The 'trapped in a crystal cave by Nimue' story? It's the most famous part of his legend! A cautionary tale!"

(Goldstein physically recoils, a look of pure, unadulterated disgust on his face.)

ANTHONY GOLDSTEIN: "Are you serious? You're citing that insulting piece of fiction? That is a slanderous Muggle fabrication, designed to emasculate our greatest historical figure by portraying him as a doddering old fool bested by a manipulative woman. It is the most offensive story ever written about him."

TERRY BOOT: (Completely exasperated) "So let me get this straight. According to you, the most famous parts of his story—the Sword in the Stone, being trapped by Nimue—are just insulting Muggle lies. And the most famous part of your story—him being some great politician—is completely missing from our history! And neither of us has an explanation for the Boggart vision of him executing a boy and then sobbing over Arthur's body! That wasn't a politician sobbing over a 'Muggle associate'! That was a man watching his entire world die!""

ANTHONY GOLDSTEIN: "...The data is anomalous. We require a new paradigm."

PENELOPE CLEARWATER: "You're both wrong. Or rather, you're both incomplete. Look."

(On the parchment is her first attempt at a chart.)

1. The Muggle Legend - the wise old advisor from your stories, Terry. The one who got trapped in a cave by a woman.
2. The Wizarding Architect - the political founder from your books, Goldstein. The great statesman who built our Golden Age.
3. The Tragic Warlock - the battlefield executioner from the Boggart. The one who killed a boy and watched his king die.
4. The Sardonic Professor - the man who teaches us Muggle Studies and hates toasters.

PENELOPE: These aren't different aspects of one person. They're mutually exclusive biographies! A political mastermind doesn't act like a clumsy fool. A battlefield executioner doesn't match the wise old advisor. Our professor shows elements of all of them, but they can't possibly co-exist in one coherent timeline!"

THE WAR COUNCIL UNDER SIEGE

(From the journal of a frustrated Gryffindor prefect, April 8th)

Interrogating the War Council portrait is like trying to interview a group of very brave, very handsome, and very, very dense rocks. They are utterly useless. The cognitive dissonance is giving me a migraine. A sample of our failed interrogations:

Question (from a Ravenclaw): "King Arthur, we're trying to understand the source of Merlin's magical power. The legends are contradictory. The incubus theory is widespread—"
Arthur's Portrait: (Cuts her off with a sharp, incredulous laugh) "An incubus? Is that what your books say? Gods, no. The source of his power was cheese. And an almost psychopathic devotion to my morning routine."
(A beat of stunned silence from the students.)
Gwaine's Portrait: "He's not wrong. The man was a fiend for a good goat's cheese. And he was the only person in the five kingdoms who could tame Arthur's hair in the morning. That, my friends, is a feat of magic more impressive than slaying a dragon."
Arthur's Portrait: "My hair was not that bad. And Merlin was a menace with cheese. He was a menace in general."

Question (from me, trying to get things back on track): "Sir Leon, let's focus on the war. The Boggart showed Emrys as a formidable battlefield presence. How did he prepare for such high-stakes magical combat?"
Sir Leon's Portrait: (Looks genuinely thoughtful) "His primary preparation seemed to be complaining. He would complain about the mud, the damp, the quality of the rations. Then he would feed half his dinner to a stray dog he had befriended, which was a gross violation of military protocol."
Lancelot's Portrait: (A quiet, fond interjection) "The dog's name was Mathair. It means 'Mother' in the Old Tongue. He named it that because it was the only creature in the camp that seemed to listen to him."

Question (from a very confused Hufflepuff): "So... his preparation for battle was... complaining and befriending dogs?"
Gwaine's Portrait: "Mostly! Except for that one time he tried to cook for us. Remember the 'rat stew,' Arthur?"
Arthur's Portrait: (A full-body shudder that even the paint can't hide) "Don't remind me. We were starving on a long patrol. He swore he'd caught a rabbit. It was... not a rabbit. The most suspiciously long-tailed rabbit I've ever seen. We were all sick for three days."

Me: (My patience is gone) "This is not helpful! We are trying to understand the biography of the most powerful sorcerer in recorded history! We need to know about his great feats! His political influence! His legacy!"

The Knights in the painting all looked at each other, then back at our furious, expectant faces with a shared look of genuine bewilderment.

Arthur's Portrait: (He spoke slowly, as if to a child) "But... these are the stories. The time he turned my eyebrows blue by accident. The ongoing, deeply personal war he had with a single, particularly arrogant stray cat. The fact that he was the only man in the kingdom I trusted enough to let near me before I'd had my breakfast."
He sighed, but he was smiling. "You are asking about a tale. We can only tell you about the man. And the man... was an idiot."

"A loyal, brave, and completely irreplaceable idiot," he finished, and his knights all murmured in fond, laughing agreement.

They remember a different person. This is not the biography of an archmage. This is the biography of a village idiot. It makes no logical sense.

A RAVENCLAW STUDY GROUP: THE ONTOLOGICAL PARADOX

(As transcribed by a Prefect, April 8th)

Penelope Clearwater: "We must consider the implications. If he is fifteen centuries old, then he didn't just live through history. He is a walking historical epoch. The Founders? They were his contemporaries, perhaps his juniors. The Statute of Secrecy? A recent bureaucratic adjustment in his long life."

Michael Corner: "Forget the Founders! Think about the global implications! The witch burnings? He watched them. The Goblin Rebellions? He probably knew the original rebels. The International Confederation of Wizards? To him, it's a fledgling committee."

Terry Boot: "This changes everything about magical genealogy. The 'Sacred Twenty-Eight'? A list of nouveau-riche families compared to him. He has no family tree. He predates the concept of a wizarding family name. His parentage isn't a mystery; it's a question that lost all meaning a thousand years ago."

Anthony Goldstein: (Who has been silent, until now) "Which means every primary source we've ever used is compromised. He hasn't just lived through the biases of historians; he has witnessed them being written. Our entire historical method is based on analyzing fragmented, static records. He is a complete, dynamic, and deeply biased primary source walking among us. How do we even begin to cite him?"

(A moment of stunned silence as the epistemological horror dawns on them.)

EXCERPT FROM THE DIARY OF A FRUSTRATED RAVENCLAW PREFECT:

April 10th

We have established the following "facts" from them about Merlin. I use the term "facts" loosely. The cognitive dissonance between this list and the man who executed a sorcerer on a battlefield is giving me a migraine.

• He was caught "liberating" a wheel of cheese from the royal kitchens no less than seven times. Sir Gwaine insists it was the best cheese in the five kingdoms and that Merlin had "impeccable taste for a criminal." (Source: Gwaine, with immense pride).
• He was terrible at sword-fighting, and held a sword like it was a "particularly offensive fish." (Source: Leon)
• He once gave Arthur a "magical poultice" for a head cold that accidentally turned his eyebrows blue for a week. The King held court like that. He was not amused. (Source: Arthur, with a fond, exasperated eye-roll)
• He was terrified of frogs. A single croak could send him scrambling onto a table. (Source: Lancelot, with a rare, small smile)
• He was, by all accounts, a catastrophically clumsy servant. He once polished the King's entire chainmail shirt with goose fat because he 'thought it looked dry.' Arthur spent the entire day smelling like a roast dinner and attracting waterfowl. (Source: Leon, who had to help fend off the geese)
• He had a seemingly supernatural talent for getting lost in the own castle he was supposed to know perfectly. He once failed to deliver a message for an entire day because he took a 'wrong turn' near the throne room and ended up in the grain stores. (Source: Arthur, who now looks back on this with deep suspicion)
• He was a notoriously terrible liar. His go-to excuse for anything was 'I was at the tavern.’ This was used to explain everything from being found in the royal vaults to being discovered soaking wet in the middle of a drought. (Source: Gwaine, who found this endlessly entertaining)
• He had a bizarre, ongoing feud with the castle's resident stray cat. The creature seemed to hold a personal grudge and would ambush him at every opportunity. (Source: Multiple knights, who considered it a form of free entertainment)
• He was thrown in the stocks so frequently for minor infractions that the local children knew him by name and would bring him snacks. (Source: Guinevere's portrait, with a warm, fond smile).
• He was widely known for his 'eternal optimism,' which the knights now understand was actually a terrifying glimpse into the mind of a man who regularly battled ancient evils before breakfast. (Source: Leon, with a newfound, thousand-yard-stared respect)

The portrait of King Arthur just sighed when we read this list back to him. "He is an idiot," he said, but he was smiling. "A loyal, brave, and completely irreplaceable idiot."

I don't understand. How is the man from these stories the same one from the Boggart? It's as if we've been given the biography of the court jester when we asked for the history of the grand sorcerer. It makes no logical sense.

A CONTRADICTION IN ORAL HISTORIES

(An excerpt from Penelope Clearwater's growing research parchment, now rumored to be over thirty feet long. Dated April 10th.)

KNOWN SOURCE A: THE WAR COUNCIL PORTRAIT (THE “VILLAGE IDIOT NARRATIVE)
Data Points: As per interviews, the subject was clumsy, a terrible liar, sarcastic, and his primary duty was ensuring the royal socks were dry. This suggests a figure of minor import, a court jester with occasional magical talent.

KNOWN SOURCE B: THE BOGGART VISION (THE "BOGGART'S EXECUTIONER" NARRATIVE)
Data Points: The subject was the central magical agent at Camlann, performing kinslaying and failing to save the King. This suggests a figure of immense power and tragic significance.

KNOWN SOURCE C: THE WIZARDING HISTORIES (THE "POLITICAL ARCHITECT" NARRATIVE)
Data Points: Wizarding histories portray "Merlin" as a brilliant statesman who founded unified magical society. This suggests a figure of strategic vision for whom personal relationships were secondary.

KNOWN SOURCE D: THE MUGGLE LEGENDS (THE "MUGGLE LEGEND" NARRATIVE)
Data Points: Muggle sources portray "Merlin" as a wise old advisor and prophet who guides the king to power. The story is framed as being about King Arthur.

KNOWN SOURCE E: CURRENT OBSERVATION (THE "SARDONIC PROFESSOR" NARRATIVE)
Data Points: Professor Ambrose displays moments of sadness and weariness, but nothing suggesting he is any of the above figures.

KNOWN SOURCE F: THE "BALLAD OF EMRYS" (THE COMPOSITE CONTRADICTION)
The Critical Analysis: We previously dismissed the ballad as prankster nonsense. However, given the confirmed authenticity of the Boggart vision, we must reconsider it as legitimate oral history. The ballad doesn't just add another version - it actively contradicts and undermines ALL established sources:

• Verse 1 ("What do you do with a secret sorcerer?"): Contradicts Source A (Knights' Servant) by confirming hidden power, but contradicts Source C (Political Architect) by framing this power as secretive rather than statesmanlike.
• Verse 2 ("...he cast all blame on him!"): Directly contradicts Source B (Boggart's Executioner). The Boggart showed Mordred's death as a military necessity; the ballad frames it as cowardly scapegoating. Also contradicts Source D (Muggle Legend) by showing Merlin as actively malicious rather than wise.
• Verse 3 ("Greensleeves was all my joy..."): Contradicts Source C (Political Architect) by suggesting personal romantic motives over political ones. Contradicts Source B (Boggart's Executioner) by replacing battlefield grief with romantic heartbreak.
• Verse 4 ("Sing me a song of a man that is lost..."): Contradicts Source E (Sardonic Professor) by showing profound despair rather than academic detachment. Contradicts Source A (Knights' Servant) by replacing comic incompetence with cosmic tragedy.

CONCLUSION: We now have SIX mutually exclusive versions, with the ballad serving as a meta-narrative that actively argues against all the others:

1. The Village Idiot (Clumsy Fool)
2. The Boggart's Executioner (Tragic Warlock)
3. The Political Architect (Wizarding Statesman)
4. The Muggle Legend (Wise Advisor)
5. The Sardonic Professor (Our Teacher)
6. The Ballad's Composite (Cowardly Villain/Heartbroken Lover/Cursed Survivor)

The ballad doesn't just add another version—it creates a framework where NONE of the other versions can be entirely true. It is the source that proves all other sources wrong. Every line makes the mystery worse.

A CONVERSATION IN THE HERBOLOGY GREENHOUSES

(As overheard by a listening gnome nestled among the Gillyweed, April 10)

Professor Sprout: "I just feel so awful for him, Minerva. Truly. To have one's deepest wound... to have it turned into a public spectacle... it's a violation. The poor man. He must feel so terribly exposed."

(Professor McGonagall is silent for a moment, her hands efficiently pruning a dead leaf from a Snargaluff plant. Her movements are precise, controlled, betraying none of the castle's chaos.)

Professor McGonagall: "The man is in a great deal of pain. That is evident."

Professor Sprout: (Looking relieved) "Exactly! So shouldn't we be doing something? Reaching out? Offering our support?"

Professor McGonagall: (She puts down her shears and finally looks at Pomona. Her face is not angry or cold. It is weary, and there is a deep, worried crease between her brows.) "And what would you have us do, Pomona? Send him a card? A basket of muffins? The man is a fifteen-hundred-year-old warlock of incalculable power who just had his soul publicly vivisected by two of my Gryffindors. I hardly think a muffin is going to suffice."

The bluntness of it silenced Sprout.

"My concern right now," McGonagall continued, her voice low and firm, the voice of a wartime general, "is not for the man who has survived a millennium and a half. He has his own coping mechanisms, however destructive. My primary concern is for the hundred and fifty children in my care who just watched a double homicide and a regicide during dessert. My responsibility is to them. To this school. To maintain a shred of normalcy and stability in the face of absolute, historical chaos."

Professor Sprout: "But to leave him all alone... locked away in that tower... he could be... we don't know what state he is in!"

Professor McGonagall: (Her lips tighten, and for a moment, a flicker of genuine fear crosses her face before being suppressed by her iron will) "He is beyond our reach, Pomona. Albus cannot get through the tower's ancient wards, and the man has not responded to any communication. He is... alone. That is his choice. It is a choice I find profoundly reckless, given Albus's failure to be more forthcoming about the nature of the entity we have been housing all year."

She picked up her shears again, the finality of her gesture a clear end to the debate. "My job is not to lay siege to the West Tower, a role for which I am magically and emotionally unqualified. My job is to ensure that when—or if—he chooses to emerge from his self-imposed exile, there is a safe and orderly school for him to return to."

THE WAR COUNCIL UNDER SIEGE (SESSION II)

(From the journal of Penelope Clearwater, Ravenclaw, 7th Year. April 12th.)

After days of hitting a wall, our strategy shifted. We stopped asking about the Legend and started asking about the beginning.

My Question (to Arthur's Portrait): "Your Majesty, history is silent on how you and the Court Sorcerer first met. Could you describe your initial acquaintance?"

Arthur's Portrait: (A complex, deeply uncomfortable look crosses his face. He is clearly not proud of the memory.) "Our... 'initial acquaintance'... was not the most auspicious of beginnings. I believe my exact words to him were 'I could take you apart with one blow.'"

Sir Leon's Portrait: (A fond, tolerant smile touches his lips.) "To be fair, Sire, he did call you a 'prat.' To your face. It was a rather memorable first impression for a new serving boy."

Gwaine's Portrait: (Joining in the laughter) Ah, I wish I had been there to see him put the princess in his place."

The corridor went silent. I could feel every student around me just... stop breathing. The word, said so casually by Sir Leon, was so incongruous, so utterly wrong, that I thought I had misheard. Serving boy.

Penelope Clearwater (Myself): "I... I beg your pardon, Sir Leon. Did you say... a serving boy?"

Sir Leon's Portrait: (Looks at our stunned faces, confused) "Yes. You must understand the context of the times. Under King Uther, magic was a death sentence. Merlin's position as Prince Arthur's manservant was his only way to remain at court."

Arthur's Portrait: (His voice is quiet now, tinged with a deep, old regret) "I was a fool. Blind. For years, I was surrounded by a constant, baffling whirlwind of sheer, dumb luck. Assassins would trip on perfectly flat flagstones. A bandit's dagger would suddenly turn into a bouquet of flowers. I just thought I was the luckiest man alive."

He shook his head, a wry, self-deprecating smile on his face, remembering a particularly potent example of his own foolishness. "Do you remember Sigan's Folly, Leon?"

Gwaine's Portrait: (Lets out a bark of laughter) "You mean the time you fired Merlin and hired that smarmy git Cedric? Oh, I love this story. Merlin never let you forget it."

Arthur's Portrait: (Wincing, but with a rueful grin of his own. He is laughing at himself.) "I did not fire him. I replaced him. Temporarily. For being an insubordinate, jealous dolt. He kept going on about a 'cursed jewel' and evil spirits. I was a prince. I knew better. So, naturally, I had him thrown in the dungeons to teach him a lesson."

(A collective gasp went through the students. He had thrown the most powerful sorcerer in history in a dungeon.)

Sir Leon's Portrait: (His voice is dry) "And then the gargoyles came to life and attempted to dismantle the citadel stone by stone, Sire."

Arthur's Portrait: "A minor tactical oversight," he said, the irony dripping. "I was knocked unconscious. When I came to, the battle was over. The beasts were rubble. The thief was dead. I, in my infinite wisdom, declared it a fortunate miracle."

He paused, and the humor faded, replaced by a profound, almost religious awe.

"The 'miracle,' of course," he said, his voice a quiet revelation, "had broken out of the very cell I had put him in, fought an ancient spirit for the soul of the city, saved every last one of us, and then, presumably, gone back to his chambers by sunrise. His reward?" I gave him my armor to polish."

"He was always 'getting lost,'" Gwaine added, his own voice now full of respect. "Always 'looking for herbs.' He saved our lives a hundred times, and we never even saw the blade."

Arthur's Portrait: (His voice was heavy now, with the full weight of a king's memory.) "The day I finally found out... the day I saw his magic... I had been taught my whole life that magic was evil. And the man who had, without question, been the most loyal, the bravest, and the best friend I had ever known... was a sorcerer."

He looked at us then, his painted eyes seeming to see into each of our souls. "He had every right to leave. I had been a prince who mocked him, a king who was blind to him. But he stayed."

"He stayed," Arthur repeated, the words a quiet vow of gratitude. "Through my father's tyranny, through my own ignorant prejudice, through war and plague and betrayal. He never left my side. Not once."

He looked at us, his students from a future he could never have imagined. "So yes," he said, his voice carrying an authority that silenced the corridor. "Before he was the greatest Court Sorcerer the world will ever know, he was my servant. He was also my physician, my strategist, my conscience, and my friend. And I was the luckiest king in all of creation to have him."

The revelation was absolute. The silence was finally broken by a single, whispered word from Draco Malfoy. It was not a sneer. It was a sound of profound, world-shattering confusion.

"A servant."

I was just standing there, looking at my own research chart, at the six contradictory figures I had so carefully documented. The Warlock, The Statesman, The Fool, The Professor, The Villain, The Lover.

And now this. A seventh. The most impossible one of all. The humble, loyal, irreplaceable idiot.

My voice didn't feel like my own. It was a hollow, defeated whisper.

"Seven," I said to no one in particular. "There are seven now."

THE SEVENTH COLUMN

PENELOPE stared at the sixth column—"THE KING'S FRIEND"—as if it had personally offended her. "He trusted him with his life," she murmured, "but not with the truth about his socks."
ANTHONY slammed a heavy wizarding tome shut. "It's a persona. A brilliantly maintained long-term cover. The ultimate strategic position is to be perceived as harmless. The jam thefts are a masterstroke of misdirection!"
TERRY looked up from his copy of Le Morte d'Arthur. "You can't just dismiss centuries of cultural memory! The Muggle narrative has internal consistency—the wise advisor, the prophet. That archetype exists for a reason!"
MICHAEL let out a short, bitter laugh. "You're both missing the point! The portrait's anecdotes are primary source testimony! This wasn't a legend or a strategy—it was a Tuesday! Arthur sounded fond."
STEPHEN, who had been studying his detailed notes on the Boggart's sensory data, shook his head. "The battlefield is the core dataset. Extreme stress reveals fundamental character. The man on that field is the real man. Everything else is just... background noise."
MARIETTE clutched her transcribed copy of the Ballad. "And you're all ignoring motivation! The Ballad gives us the why. He was a villain to some, a heartbroken man to others. That emotional truth is a data point you can't dismiss!"
Finally, in a moment of exhausted rage, Penelope grabbed her quill.
"FINE! You want another variable? HERE!"

ANTHONY shot to his feet. "Penelope, don't. You're violating the principle of parsimony! We must reduce hypotheses, not multiply them! The Political Architect model can absorb these anecdotes as tactical data!"
"YOUR MODEL IS A FANTASY, ANTHONY!" MICHAEL yelled, surging up. "The Muggles made him a sidekick! The wizards made him a politician! The Boggart made him a murderer! The Ballad makes him a villain! Our own eyes gave us a professor! And the King's own voice just gave us a SERVANT!"
He was breathing heavily, his finger jabbing at each column in turn.
"ALL THE SOURCES ARE BIASED!" he roared, his voice cracking. ""SEVEN MEN! Which one is the disguise? Which one is real? Or are they ALL real? Are we looking at a man or a committee? WHO DO WE BELIEVE?!"
The question hung in the air.
All eyes turned to Penelope. She tore the tape and fixed the new parchment to the wall.

VII. THE SERVANT

She turned to face them, her expression one of profound, academic grief.
"We don't believe any single one," she said, her voice flat. "We have to believe they're all true."

Anthony opened his mouth, but no sound came out. He looked from the "KILLER" column to the "SERVANT" column. The man who executed a sorcerer... and the man who polished the king's armor.
The seven columns stood together, a monument to contradiction. The Great Merlin Hunt was over. They hadn't found the answer.
They had found seven of them.

(From the corner, LISA TURPIN, who had been silent, finally speaks, a new, wild light in her eyes.)
LISA: "Unless... they're not lies. What if they're all... job descriptions?"

The true madness was just beginning.

The Last, Desperate Hypothesis

(Scrawled on a mess of tear-stained parchment, found shoved in a copy of 'Numerology and Grammatica.' Date: April 16th.)

SUBJECT: THE MERLIN PROBLEM - A NEW, DESPERATE PARADIGM.

It is not working. The historical data is fundamentally irreconcilable. We are trying to fit six completely different wizards into one life.

1. The Village idiot + servant (Clumsy Fool)
2. The Boggart's Executioner (Tragic Warlock)
3. The Political Architect (Wizarding Statesman)
4. The Muggle Legend (Wise Advisor)
5. The Sardonic Professor (Our Teacher)
6. The Ballad's Composite (Cowardly Villain/Heartbroken Lover/Cursed Survivor)

Hypothesis: We are all getting it wrong. We are assuming "Merlin" is a single, continuous entity. This is our foundational error.

Revised Hypothesis: They are not the same person.

Think about it. "Merlin" isn't a name. It's a title. Like "The Dread Pirate Roberts" or "The Supreme Mugwump"! It's a custodial role, a magical mantle passed from one great wizard to the next, generation after generation, to serve as the magical guardian of Britain.

This explains EVERYTHING.

• Contradictory Personalities? Of course! They're different men from different eras! One was a wild prophet, the next was a slick court politician, and the current one is a tweed-wearing academic who is clearly, profoundly sick of the entire job.
• Impossible Chronology? It's not a single lifespan; it's a succession! A lineage!
• Varying Power Levels? Different wizards have different skill sets! Some were better at prophecies, others at politics. Our Professor is clearly specialized in sarcasm and dramatic exits.

Professor Ambrose isn't the Merlin. He is simply the current Merlin. The one on duty. He probably got the job sometime after the last one fell fighting a Saxon invasion or got trapped in a crystal cave, and he's been stuck with it ever since, suffering from a terminal case of magical burnout and administrative fatigue.

(The handwriting becomes more frantic, leaping to new, terrible questions.)

...but this just opens up a hundred new lines of inquiry.

• Who chooses the next Merlin? Is there a secret committee? "The Merlin Trust"? Does the current portrait of the previous Merlin have a vote? Does the Lady of the Lake conduct the interviews? "So, where do you see yourself in five hundred years?"
• What are the terms of service? Is there a handbook? A pension plan? Is there a mandatory retirement age, or is it strictly "serve until you are driven mad by grief or bureaucracy"?
• Most importantly: Is "Arthur Pendragon" also a recurring title? A job? Did our professor's predecessor warn him, "Heads up, the new Arthur model is a bit of a prat, loves a good joust, but his heart's in the right place"? Did our professor just happen to get the one who died tragically? Is that why he's so bitter? He got stuck with the lemon king?
• If it's a job... can he quit? Or is he trapped in a magical contract for all eternity? Is that the source of his immortal sorrow? Not a broken heart, but a non-negotiable, multi-millennial employment contract with a terrible "Once and Future" clause?!

I need to cross-reference this with Goblin fiduciary law and house-elf contractual theory. The answer *has* to be here. It has to.

(At the bottom of the page, a single, desperate, final thought.)

Maybe the real secret is hidden in the plumbing. It's always the plumbing.

AN OVER-ANALYSIS OF THE CURRICULUM

(From the scattered notes of a 7th Year Ravenclaw, later found abandoned in the library, April 16th)

HYPOTHESIS: Professor Ambrose's entire curriculum has been a series of deliberately coded confessions, hinting at his true identity and the nature of his trauma. All observable data must be re-evaluated through this new lens.

Exhibit A: The "Magical Superiority Fallacy" Lecture.

• Previous Interpretation: A simple lesson on pragmatism.
• Revised Interpretation: An allegorical reference to the source of the original conflict. The "arrogant wizard" clearly represents the unchecked, prideful magic of Morgana le Fay and the old sorcerers. The "cautious Muggle" represents King Arthur, a non-magical ruler whose steady, common-sense approach to kingship was constantly under threat from magical hubris. Ambrose was showing us the central conflict of his era: the dangerous arrogance of magic versus the steady pragmatism of a good man. His personal tragedy is being caught in the middle of this ideological war.

Exhibit B: The "No Universal Cure" Poison Lecture.

• Previous Interpretation: A practical lesson in archaic medicine.
• Revised Interpretation: This was not a metaphor. It was a literal, historical confession. He was not speaking of poisons in general, but of one specific poison. The vision at the feast clearly showed King Arthur was struck down by a cursed blade. His lecture's central point—that "some wounds are absolute" and that no magic could undo the venom—was a direct, personal testimony. He was describing, with chilling clinical detachment, his own failure at the Battle of Camlann. His quiet statement, "All you can do is manage the inevitable... you stay with them until the end," was not a philosophical musing. It was a verbatim account of the three days he spent trying, and failing, to save his king's life. The lesson was not an allegory; it was a memory.

Exhibit C: The Toaster Lecture.

• Previous Interpretation: A quirky, melancholic observation on modern technology.
• Revised Interpretation: Given the irrefutable evidence from the previous exhibits, this lecture must also be a complex allegorical representation of the Camelot tragedy. The toaster is the Kingdom ("The Cauldron of Impatience"). The bread slices are Arthur and his court, who are put into the system. The "primal element," the trapped fire, is clearly the simmering conflict with Morgana. And the final, popped toast? It is a "miracle without joy"—the Pyrrhic victory at Camlann, achieved at a terrible cost, leaving the "toast" (Camelot) slightly burned and ultimately joyless. The entire lesson was a masterful, compact metaphor for the rise and fall of an entire epoch.
• Further Question: Does the number of slots in the toaster have a numerical significance related to the number of Knights of the Round Table present at the final battle? More research is required.

CONCLUSION: Every lesson has been an intricate cry for help. We weren't learning about Muggles. We have been his unwilling grief counselors. The evidence is irrefutable. We simply failed to see the pattern.

The Great Merlin Hunt

(As transcribed by a Prefect from the wreckage of the Ravenclaw study group, April 16th)

The Great Merlin Hunt ended tonight not with consensus, but with the sound of a forehead hitting a chart that held the ruins of our sanity.
It was a last, desperate attempt at synthesis. We stood before Penelope's massive diagram—a tapestry of seven perfect, mutually exclusive biographies that had been staring back at us for a week. The Seventh Column, "THE SERVANT," had been the final, mocking nail in the coffin of a unified theory.

PENELOPE: (Her voice already frayed) "We have to reconcile them. The servant profile is the key. It's the behavioral baseline. If we treat the 'jam thefts' and 'blue eyebrows' as constants, we can build a psychological model and map the other personas onto it as situational adaptations—"

ANTHONY GOLDSTEIN: "The Political Architect is the only logically consistent version! The servant stories are clearly a strategic disguise! No one with that level of power would actually engage in petty larceny for fun!"

TERRY BOOT: "You're dismissing the cultural evidence! The Muggle 'wise advisor' archetype has persisted for fifteen centuries! That narrative weight has to count for something more than 'strategic disguise'!"

STEPHEN CORNFOOT: (Without looking up from his Boggart notes) "The battlefield data is the core dataset. Extreme stress reveals fundamental character. The man on that field is the real man. Everything else is noise."

MICHAEL CORNER: "That's because you're ignoring context! The primary sources show a man who cared deeply about personal relationships! The Boggart shows what happens when you push that man past his breaking point!"

MARIETTE EDGECOMBE: "And you're all ignoring motivation! The Ballad gives us the emotional through-line! Why would a 'Political Architect' care enough to scream for three days? The heartbroken lover narrative explains the intensity of the grief!"

PENELOPE: "The Ballad is Morgana's propaganda! We can't use a biased source to—"

ANTHONY: "Exactly! Whereas the Political Architect theory provides a clean, power-based analysis that—"

TERRY BOOT: "IT DOESN'T ACCOUNT FOR THE DANCING CHICKENS, ANTHONY! Your brilliant statesman was apparently also a part-time poultry entertainer! Where's the 'power analysis' in that?"

MICHAEL: "And your 'wise prophet' from the Muggle texts apparently couldn't avoid getting thrown in the stocks on a weekly basis! Some foresight!"

MARIETTE: "And your 'noble soldier' from the Boggart poisoned his own friend when she was sick and afraid! Some honor!"

The argument raged for an hour. Theories were proposed and shredded in seconds. Every time someone tried to bridge two versions, the five others would collapse the entire structure.

PENELOPE: "What if the servant identity was a long-term strategic—"
ANTHONY: "Then why the cheese thefts? What strategic value does contraband preserves have?"
TERRY: "What if the battlefield execution was a necessary tragedy from the 'wise advisor' perspective—"
STEPHEN: "Then why the cold, efficient methodology? The data shows clinical precision, not tragic necessity."
MICHAEL: "What if they're all true but represent different periods in his life—"
MARIETTE: "DIFFERENT PERIODS? He was a clumsy servant, a brilliant politician, a battlefield executioner, and a heartbroken lover all within the same three-year span according to the timeline!"

The room fell into a gasping, hopeless silence. We were just circling the drain.
Penelope stared at the seven columns. Not as theories anymore, but as seven different men. Her gaze was empty, all the fight gone out of her.

PENELOPE: (Voice trembling) "That's... that's not possible. Seven different cognitive profiles. Seven different moral frameworks. Seven different—Seven different men." She stared at the chart, her academic certainty shattering. "All true. All documented. All impossible."

Goldstein opened his mouth—"The Political Architect framework can—"—but the words died in his throat. The framework was dust.

Then the dam broke. She let out a small, hysterical sob, dropped the quill, and began to methodically, quietly, bang her forehead against her own research.
Thump. "The statesman who built a kingdom."
Thump. "The killer who executed a boy."
Thump. "The legend who advised a king."
Thump. "The villain who poisoned his friend."
Thump. "The teacher who corrects our essays."
Thump. "The friend who made Arthur laugh."
Thump. "The servant who polished armor."

No one tried to stop her. We just watched, understanding dawning with each terrible impact. You can't reconcile what was never one thing to begin with.

(Madam Pince's Final Note): The Great Merlin Hunt has officially concluded, having produced no survivors. I am recommending the temporary closure of this entire wing of the library for psychological decontamination. The Ravenclaws appear to have broken reality and I will not be held responsible for the fallout.

FROM THE JOURNAL OF HERMIONE GRANGER:

April 17th

It has been two weeks. The arguments have become circular. Hero, villain, servant, lover, warlock. We have debated every facet of the myth until the words have lost all meaning.

We have all been so focused on trying to solve the historical puzzle of "Merlin." Why did he kill Mordred? Why did he fail to save the king? We have been looking for the grand, historical motive.

I believe we have been asking the wrong question.

The entire time, we have been looking at a ghost. We have been trying to dissect a memory. And in doing so, we have completely forgotten about the man. His absence from the halls has become a physical presence. The castle feels... bland.

I miss my professor. I don't care why Merlin did what he did fifteen hundred years ago. I care why Professor Ambrose hasn't come out of his tower for two weeks. I believe that is the only question that truly matters. And I am terribly afraid we all know the answer. He can't. We broke the classroom. We broke the trust. How could he ever stand in front of us again?

PENELOPE'S DIARY

April 19th

I took the chart down today.

It had been two days since the Great Merlin Hunt ended. Two days since my forehead had met parchment. A dull ache, both physical and metaphysical, still lingers.

The others have scattered, retreating to their respective intellectual corners to lick their wounds. Anthony is probably trying to rebuild the Political Architect theory with more complex variables. Stephen is likely running new statistical models on the Boggart data. But the fight is gone. The pressure to solve, the need to understand, it’s all lost.

But this morning, walking to the temporarily expanded Charms classroom for breakfast, I saw something. Neville Longbottom had pinned a note to the door of the Muggle Studies classroom. And it hit me. We were asking "Which one is the real you?" when it was always "Which one does he need me to be now?"

We catalogued seven Merlins. We treated them as separate entities, lies and truths to be weighed against each other. The Servant versus the Kingmaker. The Friend versus the Killer.

We were fools.

They aren’t contradictions. They are a sequence. A chronology of devotion.

The Servant was the first mask, the only way to get close. The Friend was the terrifying, wonderful accident that happened behind it. The Kingmaker was the purpose the Friend demanded. The Killer was the price the Kingmaker required. The Villain was the name the Killer earned. The Professor is the hollowed-out shell that remains, teaching lessons carved from the bones of his failures.

He wasn’t seven different men.

He was one man, and he loved another man so completely that he let it break him into seven different pieces.

Each piece was a tool, a weapon, a shield, all forged for one person. And when that person fell, the pieces were left scattered across centuries, with no center to hold them together.

The truth of it is so quiet, so simple, it should have been obvious. But it was a truth that could only be found after the shouting was over.

We weren’t just performing an autopsy. We were sorting the shrapnel from a love that was too large for one world to hold, and wondering why it wouldn’t fit back together in a shape that made sense to us.

The Great Merlin Hunt is over. We failed to solve him.

But in failing, I think we finally began to understand the question. And the question was never ‘Who was Merlin?’

The question was, ‘What are you willing to become for the person you love?’

And his answer was, ‘Everything. Even the parts that break me.’

I am going to burn my notes. Some truths are not meant to be pinned to a wall.