The Legacy of Salazar

Outside the Courtroom

"You all right, kiddo?"

Merlin nodded, although it couldn't be further from the truth. "I want to talk to Rita Skeeter before we leave." The idea of her writing about—well, about whatever had happened to him in there with the dementors made him nervous. Or, how she could twist it did. Her photographer hovered nearby, looking confused. He'd had his camera set up next to the courtroom doors, but clearly hadn't expected them to leave ahead of everyone else. Merlin dimly registered that he'd probably ruined some amazing photograph of the lot of them exiting the courtroom together—

Florean put his hand on Merlin's shoulder. "Well, let's go around the corner at least. The dementors should be coming at any moment."

That got him moving. He walked with Florean down the corridor until they were standing right next to the elevators. But even from this distance, when they came—he knew.

Florean had neglected to mention the dementors until they'd gotten to the courtroom. They had probably just slipped his mind, but the rushed explanation about the Azkaban Guards hadn't prepared him at all. They'll make you feel sad, hadn't quite covered it.

They hit Merlin like the Dorocha, a creature born from that black space of hopelessness. But the dementors didn't need to touch you to chill your bones as the Dorocha did. They drained every happy thought just from standing in the same vicinity. They found the worst memories buried deep and dragged them to the surface. Merlin cringed as he felt their aura drift over to him, cold prickling his mind. And then it started to hurt.

He hadn't known about the curse that had swallowed over half his life until the sorting hat had told him about it. It was the reason he couldn't remember why he'd come to this time period, and it was why he'd had such a hard time figuring out what he needed to do. He could barely remember the Hogwarts founders, even though they'd apparently been close friends. He couldn't remember the Bloody Baron or Helena Ravenclaw at all—even though they knew him. And every time he tried to touch those memories, it hurt.

The dementors reached right into that part of him, reaching for those memories with their rotting hands and forcing them to the surface. They didn't seem to know—or care—that they were too corrupted for him to actually recall. His head was splitting open, burning up, collapsing in on itself—

And he couldn't make it stop.

"Hey, you sure you're okay?"

Merlin managed to open his eyes, wincing as he looked up at Florean. His head still ached from his first encounter, let alone from the dementors currently down the hall. "I'll be fine." That was closer to the truth. He took a deep breath, relieved when he felt them leaving at last.

"Here, eat some more chocolate." Florean handed him the bar from earlier and Merlin eagerly broke off a piece.

"Why does it help?" he asked as he ate a piece. He felt his mood lift immediately, though he still felt weak and shaky.

Florean shrugged. "You'll have to ask a medi-witch for that one. I just know that it does."

Merlin nodded, finishing his chocolate. He heard the doors open and took another steadying breath. Time to face Rita Skeeter.

"You don't have to talk to her today, you know."

"I need to." Merlin grimaced and led the way back down the hallway. He stopped a little before the doors, watching as the photographer snapped a picture of the head Wizengamot members, Dumbledore, and Fudge.

"Ah, Mr Evans, I hope you are feeling better."

Lucius Malfoy had emerged from the sidelines, and Merlin thought he saw a flicker of genuine concern in his light grey eyes. He hadn't expected that.