If I had auditioned for 'Merlin' on magic alone, I don't think

Host: The rain had just ended, leaving the city washed in a fragile silver light. The streets glistened like wet mirrors, and the smell of damp pavement mixed with the faint scent of roasted chestnuts from a nearby vendor. Inside a dim, narrow theater café, where the walls were lined with posters of forgotten plays, Jack and Jeeny sat across from each other, a half-empty bottle of wine between them.

The stage lights beyond the small curtain still glowed, their beams cutting through dust that hung like drifting stars in the air. A poster of Merlin — faded and curled at the edges — clung to the brick wall, the eyes of the legendary wizard watching over their conversation.

Host: Jack leaned back, his jacket slung loosely over the chair, a faint smirk playing on his lips. Jeeny, ever earnest, rested her chin on her hand, her eyes alive with curiosity. The quote by Colin Morgan had found its way into their talk the same way most things did — by accident, then turned into something deeper.

Jeeny: “It’s funny, isn’t it? He played one of the most famous magicians in history, and yet he says he never believed in magic. That’s... almost poetic.”

Jack: “Or honest.” He tapped his glass lightly against the table. “He wasn’t chosen for tricks or illusions. He was chosen because he understood what makes people believe in them.”

Jeeny: “You mean — that real magic isn’t the spells or the effects, it’s the feeling?”

Jack: “Exactly. The illusion’s just a tool. The real magic is in the audience’s mind. The human brain wants to believe in something — gods, ghosts, miracles, love, whatever you name it. The trick is convincing it that the impossible might actually be real.”

Host: A soft piano began to play in the background — something slow and melancholic, like a memory that had learned to hum. Jeeny’s eyes flickered toward the empty stage. The red curtains swayed faintly as if breathing.

Jeeny: “Then maybe Colin Morgan’s right. Maybe you don’t have to know magic to make people feel it. Maybe you just have to understand wonder — the way a child looks at the world before logic kills it.”

Jack: “You think it ever really dies?”

Jeeny: “In most people, yes. They grow up, trade wonder for caution, faith for reason. They stop believing that something beautiful could happen without an explanation.”

Jack: “That’s not growing up — that’s survival. People stop believing in magic because disappointment’s easier to live with than false hope.”

Jeeny: “But doesn’t that make life smaller? I mean, think about it — every great thing we’ve ever done came from believing in something impossible. Flight, light, music, art — it’s all a form of magic. It just wears science as a disguise.”

Host: A server passed by, refilling their glasses. The wine caught the light, shimmering like dark garnet. A faint haze of cigarette smoke curled near the ceiling, wrapping the room in an intimate kind of twilight.

Jack: “You’re poetic tonight, Jeeny. But let’s be real — Merlin was fiction, and Colin Morgan’s magic was acting. Craft, discipline, imagination — not miracles. He’s not conjuring light; he’s just learning where to stand so the spotlight hits right.”

Jeeny: “But isn’t that the same thing? A magician hides the strings; an actor hides himself. Both make us believe in something that isn’t there. You call it performance — I call it faith.”

Jack: “Faith is dangerous.”

Jeeny: “So is cynicism.”

Host: The silence that followed was sharp, but not cold — like the pause before thunder. Outside, a busker began to play a violin, the notes trembling through the thin glass of the café window.

Jack: He leaned forward, his voice quieter now. “You know what’s funny? I used to love magic shows when I was a kid. My dad took me to one once — this guy pulled coins from behind people’s ears, levitated a chair, made a dove vanish in his hands. I thought he was a god. Then, when I grew up, I read how every trick was done. And just like that — the world got smaller.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe it got honest. Knowing the secret doesn’t make the magic vanish, Jack. It just moves it — from illusion to craftsmanship. You learned how he did it, but you forgot why you loved it.”

Jack: “Because I was naive.”

Jeeny: “No. Because you were human.”

Host: The rain started again, this time softly, a whisper on the glass. The streetlamps outside blurred, casting streaks of light that moved like slow tears down the window.

Jeeny: “You know, that’s what acting really is — not pretending, but remembering. Remembering how it feels to believe in something you can’t prove. That’s what Colin Morgan brought to Merlin — not spells, not smoke — sincerity. He made you believe because he believed.”

Jack: “Belief is the oldest con in the book.”

Jeeny: She smiled, a small, knowing curve of her lips. “And yet you keep falling for it, every time a movie makes you cry.”

Host: Jack laughed, quietly this time, the sound like gravel softened by rain. His eyes drifted to the stage, where the lights had dimmed to a faint glow.

Jack: “You think we all need a little magic, don’t you?”

Jeeny: “No. I think we already have it — we just forget to notice. Every connection, every story, every act of kindness — that’s magic. It’s the invisible hand that keeps the world from collapsing.”

Jack: “You make it sound sacred.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it is. Maybe that’s what people like Blaine or Derren Brown tap into — not illusion, but emotion. They remind us we’re still capable of awe. And that’s something science can’t manufacture.”

Host: The piano faded, leaving behind the quiet hum of evening. Jeeny reached out, her fingers tracing the rim of her glass. Jack watched her, and for the first time that night, his usual skepticism seemed to falter.

Jack: “So you’re saying we don’t need to cast spells to perform magic.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Sometimes magic is just telling a story that makes someone see the world differently.”

Jack: “Like Merlin.”

Jeeny: “Like you.”

Jack: He raised an eyebrow. “Me?”

Jeeny: “Every time you argue with me, you build logic so beautifully that it almost feels like art. That’s your magic, Jack — reason turned poetic.”

Host: The stage lights flickered once more, as though the room itself had caught her meaning. The poster of Merlin seemed to glow faintly, its edges trembling in the draft. Outside, the rain had stopped again, leaving behind a clean, glistening world.

Jack: “You think even cynics like me can make people believe?”

Jeeny: “Maybe belief was never the point. Maybe it’s enough to make them feel.”

Host: The camera of the scene would have pulled back then — slowly — the two of them framed in the warm halo of café light, surrounded by the ghostly laughter of past performances.

Outside, the city breathed again, alive and ordinary, but shimmering faintly — as if someone had whispered a forgotten spell over it.

And as they sat in that quiet, the world, for a fleeting second, felt like it had remembered its own trick — that everything real began as something imagined.

That was the magic.