The Legacy of Salazar

Lockhart

Something fuzzy was up against his nose.

The realization hit a minute later, and Merlin's eyes flew open to see a mound of black fur sitting on his face. Although he was grateful it wasn't a caterpillar—which his sleeping mind had suggested—it didn't improve the situation. He gently pushed Khoshekh to the side, and the sleeping kneazle yawned widely before flipping onto her back and continuing her snooze on his bed.

Merlin wanted to follow her example. He felt heavy, sluggish, as though he had woken hours before his mind wanted to be awake. But the sunshine streaming through his window implied it was well into the morning—perhaps even afternoon. And now that he was awake, the noise would have made going back to sleep impossible. Diagon Alley sounded alive with patrons, as did the ice cream parlour beneath him. Merlin groaned and rolled onto his side, staring at Khoshekh's chest rise and fall. He could feel it starting up again—a slight prickling at his temple, an ache behind his ears.

Ever since Quirrell had been sentenced a week ago, Merlin had been plagued by a pervasive headache. It'd made falling asleep hard, and waking up at a decent hour even harder. Florean thought it was just one of those annoying summer colds, the kind that lingers, dishing out a steady stream of body aches but never evolving into the real thing. Personally, Merlin thought he might still be dealing with the dementor aftermath. Either way, all he could do was wait for it to blow over.

Resigning himself to the day, Merlin pushed off his covers—careful not to disturb the kneazle—and eased himself out of bed. He ran his hands through his hair, hating the fog that settled behind his eyes. This thing, whatever it was, had pretty much destroyed his sleep schedule. After years of waking up early, sleeping in felt like a huge waste of time. Or at least, sleeping in to this extent did.

Anyway.

After splashing some cold water on his face, he shuffled off to the kitchen—where he could hear Florean and Silas arguing with the painting about lunch. From what Merlin gathered, Boris thought cheese and ham sandwiches were a waste of their culinary talents. He smiled and entered the kitchen.

"Well, looks who's finally up." Florean beamed up at him, pausing from cutting cheese and ham. Silas was sitting on a stool next to him, spreading mayo and mustard on slices of bread. "Feeling better, kiddo?"

Merlin yawned, nodding. "What time is it?"

"Lunchtime." Silas gave a lopsided grin. "Obviously," he added raising an eyebrow.

Merlin snorted. "I think I'm rubbing off on you."

Silas looked delighted. Florean consulted his fob watch for a moment and said, "It's almost twelve-thirty." He gestured towards the sandwiches. "Hungry?"

"Starved." Merlin pulled up another stool next to Silas and started assembling the sandwiches. Boris huffed loudly behind them but didn't say anything else while they worked. Merlin saw the Daily Prophet sitting on the edge of the counter, last week's Night Edition poking out from beneath today's paper.

Rita Skeeter's article had frustrated him. There'd been too much about him and nothing about Lord Voldemort. She had tried to discredit Merlin's memories and made Voldemort a non-issue entirely. Hadn't she said that Voldemort was big news? He'd expected her to write about Quirrell's testimony. She wouldn't even have had to exaggerate! Quirrell had made it clear whom he'd been working with. But, instead, she'd made Merlin sound traumatized and had swept the whole thing under the rug. Boring in comparison to an exclusive about The Dark Lord.

At least she hadn't lingered on his reaction to the dementors, which was a miracle in itself.

"Draco Malfoy will be here in about half-an-hour," Florean said, shooting Merlin a glance while he started putting away food.