The mischievous gamer God

Merlin sat in the grand, circular office of Headmaster Dumbledore, her eyes flicking between the swirling patterns of the carpet beneath her feet and the elderly wizard flipping through her paperwork with quiet concentration. High above, the enchanted ceiling glowed with a soft golden light, casting dancing reflections off the polished wood and brass trimmings around the room.

When the hell did Tet have time to create an identity for me? she thought, her brow furrowing slightly as her fingers tapped an anxious rhythm against the armrest of the ornate, claw-footed chair.

She tried to keep her face neutral, but her eyes roamed curiously over the many curious and arcane objects crowding the shelves and tables. The office seemed like a museum of the magical world's most eccentric secrets—glass spheres filled with swirling mist, delicate silver instruments spinning and whirring softly, and worn leather-bound books that hummed faintly with ancient enchantments.

Portraits of previous headmasters and headmistresses lined the upper walls, some pretending to nap while others peeked down with subtle interest. Their eyes followed her—some with suspicion, others with quiet amusement.

Her gaze eventually settled on the golden perch beside the desk, where a magnificent phoenix sat preening its brilliant scarlet and gold feathers. The majestic bird paused to glance at her with intelligent, molten eyes, as if sizing her up. Its mere presence radiated warmth

After a few moments, Dumbledore gently closed the last page of the parchment and looked up at Merlin over his half-moon spectacles. His blue eyes twinkled with warmth and approval as he spoke in a kind, grandfatherly tone.

"Well, Miss Ambrosius," he said, his voice calm yet full of reverence, "I've gone through your paperwork, and I must say—your credentials are exemplary. I would be honored to have you as my next Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher. Do you have any questions about the position?"

Merlin rubbed her chin thoughtfully, her eyes narrowing slightly in contemplation. "Is there any predetermined structure in which I have to teach my students?" she asked, her tone level but curious. "Or can I follow my own syllabus?"

Dumbledore smiled kindly, folding his hands atop the desk with an air of trust and calm assurance. "I leave my teachers to determine their own style of teaching your classes—Defense Against the Dark Arts," he replied. "So long as you teach the students to defend themselves from dark wizards and dark magic, and don't harm any of them," he added with a trace of dry humor in his voice, "then you're free to do as you please."

Merlin's lips curled into a mischievous smile. "Fantastic," she said, clearly pleased. "My only other question is… is it possible for me to move into my quarters immediately to begin prepping for the school year?"

Dumbledore nodded without hesitation, his tone gentle but matter-of-fact. "Oh yes. In fact, that would be preferable, as classes begin in less than a month. Are there any books you require your students to obtain before the school year begins?"

Merlin paused for a moment, tapping her finger against her chin as she considered. "My classes will heavily rely on practical study," she said at last. "So they'll only really need their wands... and open minds. I hope that won't be a problem."

Dumbledore gave a low chuckle, his eyes crinkling with amusement. "No, not at all. A witch with your background and skills will know what she's doing. I trust your judgment."

Merlin smiled warmly, a subtle glint of confidence in her eyes. "Thank you, Headmaster. Now, if you would be so kind… could you show me to my classroom?"

Dumbledore rose from his chair with fluid grace, gesturing toward the door. "Of course. If you'll just follow me."

He led her through Hogwarts' many winding halls and shifting staircases, the castle's ever-changing architecture a familiar symphony of creaks, whispers, and fluttering portraits. The ancient magic that filled its stone corridors seemed to hum in recognition as the two powerful mages passed.

Eventually, they arrived at the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom. Merlin stepped inside, and as her gaze swept over the traditional setup—rows of desks, chalkboards, and dull walls—her nose wrinkled slightly.

She took in the sight of the classroom and said, "Oh, this won't do at all."

Without hesitation, she raised one hand and casually waved it through the air. A swirl of golden magic danced from her fingertips, crackling softly like a breeze through old leaves. The room began to morph and change before Dumbledore's eyes.

The rigid rows of desks shifted and flowed into an amphitheater-style seating arrangement, curving around a central open space like the heart of a grand coliseum. In the very center of the room, a sunken dueling arena rose from the floor—its polished stone marked with glowing runes and warding circles, perfect for hands-on instruction and controlled combat scenarios.

The walls transformed into high, majestic shelves lined with ancient tomes, scrolls, and enchanted relics, some softly glowing, others humming faintly with latent magic. Behind Merlin's desk—now an arcane command station brimming with personality—tables appeared, cluttered with alchemical beakers, vials of glowing liquids, and coils of enchanted wire. Potion ingredients were carefully labeled and sorted in drawers tucked beneath, while crystals pulsed quietly beneath protective glass domes.

In the corners of the classroom stood several tall, wooden statues—each carved in the likeness of mythical warriors and beasts, weapons in hand, their eyes eerily lifelike. They seemed frozen in mid-action, yet brimming with potential energy, as if ready to spring to life at their mistress's command.

The space was no longer a classroom—it was a training hall, a laboratory, a battlefield of knowledge and magic. It was Merlin's domain.

Dumbledore laughed in joy and amazement, his twinkling eyes shining behind his half-moon spectacles, and said, "Wonderful! From what I can tell, you intend to have the students learn to fight in a controlled environment."

Then Merlin, her tone calm yet laced with a confident smirk, said, "The first and second years, yes. But for third years and up, I'd like you to give the go-ahead for field trips to the Forbidden Forest or other such locations."

Dumbledore's smile softened into something more serious as he folded his hands behind his back and said, "I have faith that they'll be safe under your watch, and I completely understand the necessity of what you propose. These 'field trips,' as you called them, will allow the students to acquire experience with dangerous situations. But I doubt the parents—or the Ministry of Magic—would allow such a thing, I'm afraid."

Merlin tilted her head thoughtfully, a spark of playful defiance dancing in her eyes as she placed a finger to her chin. After a moment, she said, "Alright then. Instead, I'll change it to second years and up. And rather than field trips, I will use a powerful illusion magic to simulate scenarios for them to overcome. There will be no danger of death or maiming."

Dumbledore's expression brightened again, the corners of his mouth twitching into a pleased smile as he considered her proposal. Stroking his beard in thought, he said, "Yes, I do believe that will be fine. In fact, I don't even need approval from the Ministry for it."

Merlin gave a small nod, her tone smooth and assured as she replied, "Wonderful. I'll begin planning as soon as possible."

Dumbledore chuckled lightly and said, "Very well. I'll leave you to get settled in while I return to my duties."

With a graceful turn, Merlin climbed the spiral staircase leading to her quarters. Her footsteps were silent, deliberate, and unhurried—befitting someone with centuries of knowledge and confidence in her own power. When she entered the room, she didn't even bother looking around. Instead, she simply waved her hand, her fingers glowing faintly with magic, and the space shimmered in response.

The once plain chamber transformed instantly into a lavish bedroom, one that exuded refined elegance and quiet power. In the center stood a grand four-poster king-sized bed, its frame carved from ancient blackwood and wrapped in violet silk hangings etched with runes of protection and comfort. Rich tapestries adorned the walls, depicting arcane constellations and magical beasts mid-flight. A crystal chandelier floated lazily above, glowing with soft, ambient light. A fireplace framed in smooth obsidian crackled with magically sustained embers, casting a warm glow over the deep purple carpets and shelves of ancient tomes lining the walls. The air itself seemed infused with the faint scent of lavender and old parchment—a room truly worthy of the Boar Sin of Gluttony.

Merlin lay on the bed, her arms folded behind her head as she stared up at the enchanted ceiling, its illusion of a starry sky softly glowing overhead. Her long dark hair spilled across the plush pillows like ink across parchment. With a contemplative tone, she said aloud, "I'll have to ask Tet to give me some of those keys he spoke of. Well, I could make simulations with illusion magic... but it would be a lot more fun to actually immerse the students in something far more lifelike."

A faint smirk tugged at her lips, though her eyes remained focused above.

"But that's for later," she continued with a sigh. "For now, I need to prepare my lesson plans and get ready for the school year. I have a feeling things are going to be… exciting."

The month quickly passed, and true to her word, Merlin was fully prepared for her classes—her syllabi detailed, enchantments rehearsed, and every illusion meticulously crafted. When the day of the students' arrival finally came, the castle of Hogwarts buzzed with life.

That evening, Merlin sat beside her fellow professors and the headmaster at the staff table in the Great Hall for the Welcome Feast. The hall was as grand and awe-inspiring as ever: four long house tables stretched the length of the room, filled with excited chatter from new and returning students. Hundreds of floating candles bathed the space in warm light, and above, the enchanted ceiling mirrored the darkening night sky outside. Platters of rich food and goblets of pumpkin juice decorated the tables as the Sorting Ceremony commenced.

Merlin, calm and observant, quietly enjoyed the event. She watched the Sorting Hat's song with an amused glint in her eye—its animated theatrics and quirky rhymes eliciting a light chuckle from her. But midway through the feast, she noticed a shift.

From the corner of her eye, she saw Professor Snape abruptly rise from his seat after Argus Filch, the castle's grimy and sharp-eyed caretaker, leaned in and whispered something into his ear. A few minutes later, both Professor McGonagall and Headmaster Dumbledore followed him out of the hall.

Her curiosity piqued, Merlin gracefully stood and followed behind them, silent as a shadow.

She eventually found the professors standing in a corridor, conversing with two young boys. Both were quite short and clearly first years. One had shockingly bright red hair, freckles dotting his pale face, and wide blue eyes that darted anxiously between the adults—this was unmistakably Ronald Weasley. The other boy had messy black hair, emerald green eyes behind round glasses, and a very distinct lightning bolt scar across his forehead.

Merlin immediately surmised who he was. So that's Harry Potter... she thought, her gaze thoughtful. Just as Tet described.

He had told her to pay special attention to three students in particular: Harry Potter, Ron Weasley, and a girl named Hermione Granger. According to him, if she did, she would never be bored.

As the professors discussed disciplinary action for the boys, the tone became more formal. Professor McGonagall, her arms crossed and lips pressed into a thin line, informed Ron that he would serve detention with Filch. Snape, his voice cool and dripping with disdain, promptly suggested that Harry serve detention with him.

Before a decision could be finalized, Merlin interjected with calm authority and a disarming smile.

"If I may, my fellow professors," she said, her tone polite but assertive, "I think Mr. Potter's detention would be better served aiding me."

Professor McGonagall looked at her with mild surprise, one brow arching with curiosity.

"And what would he be doing, Professor Ambrosius?" McGonagall asked, her Scottish accent clipped yet respectful.

Merlin turned to her, hands clasped behind her back as she replied with practiced ease, "While my lesson plan is complete and ready, it would do to have someone do trial runs of certain parts—iron out the kinks, as it were. Mr. Potter would be both aiding me and continuing his studies at the same time."

McGonagall's stern expression softened slightly as the logic clicked. Her eyes lit up in understanding and she nodded.

"Yes, I do believe that would be a good use of Mr. Potter's time. Thank you, Professor Ambrosius."

At that, Harry looked relieved, visibly relaxing as he realized he wouldn't be spending detention alone with Professor Snape. Though he had no idea what awaited him under Professor Ambrosius' guidance, he was quite sure it would be preferable.

Dumbledore, ever the peacemaker, chuckled lightly and said with a warm smile, "Well, now that that matter's settled—off to bed, both of you."

Snape regarded Merlin coldly, his arms folded and lips curled into a sneer.

"I still believe the boy would have been better off serving detention with me, getting a proper punishment," he said, his tone icy and edged with contempt. "Your punishment sounds like a joke. In fact, it sounds more like a reward."

Merlin turned her head just enough to meet his gaze, her eyes calm and unreadable.

"He'll be putting in plenty of work, I assure you," she replied coolly. "He will not have an easy time of it—of that there is no doubt."

With that, she turned and began walking away. But just before disappearing down the corridor, she glanced over her shoulder and added with a knowing smile, "By the way, Professor Snape… just because I let Mr. Potter off easy doesn't mean I don't know how to inflict a punishment on deserving individuals."

Snape's scowl deepened, his black eyes narrowing.

"Is that a threat?" he asked, voice low and venomous.

Merlin gave a light, melodic chuckle, one that held the faintest edge of warning beneath its charm.

"No. Merely a statement of fact. Have a good night," she said over her shoulder as she walked away, her heels clicking softly against the stone floor.

Snape's scowl only grew darker as he watched her go. Dumbledore, still standing nearby, looked at him with a rare seriousness and said quietly, "Severus, you would do well not to antagonize her. I've not seen what she's fully capable of… but I know that if she meant you harm, I have no doubt that even I wouldn't be able to protect you."

With that chilling warning, Dumbledore calmly turned and left the corridor, leaving both Snape and McGonagall standing in stunned silence.

As she walked back to her quarters, Merlin's mind drifted. I do not hate the man, she thought, her expression unreadable. But he is annoying.

A faint, mischievous smile played at her lips.

Perhaps I will do what Tet asked… and deliver that special package to him and those three Slytherin boys.

The next day, Professor Snape was walking through the dimly lit halls of Hogwarts, his black robes billowing behind him like a shadow given form, when he heard something curious.

A low, intense tempo of drumbeats echoed through the corridor—eerie and insistent. The sound reverberated through the stone walls, haunting and primal. Despite himself, Snape found that he was unable to ignore it. The rhythm gnawed at his nerves and tugged at his attention like a spell he hadn't cast.

He narrowed his eyes, his expression darkening with suspicion, and followed the sound. As he did, the beating grew louder… and louder.

He soon noticed that he wasn't alone.

Following the same sound, trailing behind him, were three students: young Draco Malfoy, his pale face drawn in confused curiosity; Vincent Crabbe, glancing nervously over his shoulder; and Gregory Goyle, trying to appear braver than he felt. The three boys also seemed unable to resist the lure of the drumbeats, drawn to them like moths to flame.

Snape found this deeply strange—and mildly alarming—but even with his considerable willpower, he could do nothing but continue to follow the sound.

Finally, they reached the door of an abandoned classroom, the haunting rhythm now thunderous and pressing. Without speaking, as if compelled, they opened the creaking door and stepped inside.

The moment they entered, the door slammed shut behind them with a deafening bang that echoed like a thunderclap. Snape immediately spun around, yanked on the handle, and muttered several unlocking spells under his breath—but it was no use.

The door would not budge.

His voice rose, filled with fury. "Whoever is doing this, my revenge will be swift and severe! It is in your best interest to let us out now!"

But no one answered him.

Instead, the drumbeat grew even louder—more aggressive, more urgent—as though the very heartbeat of something ancient had awoken.

Snape turned slowly, scanning the room with calculating eyes. Aside from dust-covered desks and shelves forgotten by time, there was nothing… except for a single table in the center of the room.

Atop the table sat an old, ornately carved board game. The wood was dark and aged, the edges worn as if it had passed through many hands—and survived many untold stories. Intricate tribal markings adorned the corners, and a central green gem gleamed faintly with a strange light. The name etched into the top in bold, curling letters read:

JUMANJI

Snape's gaze narrowed. Before he could speak, glowing golden letters scrawled themselves across the classroom door like invisible ink revealing its message:

No one leaves until the game is finished.

Snape growled low in his throat, his face a mask of restrained fury.

"Fine," he said coldly, his voice slicing through the silence like a blade. "Let's get this over with. You three—to the table. Now."

The three boys looked at one another nervously, visibly shaken by the strange events. Malfoy hesitated for a moment, his usual arrogance nowhere to be found. Crabbe gulped audibly, and Goyle's face had gone slightly pale.

But none of them dared disobey their professor. Wordlessly, they moved toward the table and sat down, shoulders tense and eyes darting toward the unmoving game box.

Snape approached last, his robes whispering across the stone floor. With a heavy sigh of contempt and tightly coiled irritation, he lowered himself into the final chair. His long fingers reached for the board, and with a sharp motion, he opened it.

The game creaked as it unfolded, revealing a strange jungle motif etched into its surface. Two swirling tracks of spaces looped around the center gem, and small animal-shaped tokens sat waiting in their places. Faint whispers of wind and jungle sounds seemed to rise from the board itself, unnatural and alive.

The drumbeat faded—but only slightly.

It had begun.