Many thanks to Jessica Newman on her beta work. Many thanks to Alison Hopkins for her assistance with proper Brit-speak.

Xander picked up an old iron gauntlet from off the cemetery ground, but he didn’t stop to wonder where it had come from or how it had gotten there. Nor did he wonder where the rest of the knight’s armor had gone. The Scooby had more pressing concerns on his mind, like the vamp currently trying to beat his brains out. Xander wasn’t worried; didn’t the vamp know he’d all but blackmailed his teachers into letting him graduate?

Nor did he worry about the Slayer slaying or the witches doing their mojo. He did worry about Spike, but only in terms of the vamp causing trouble to or for his girls. Xander could care less about Deadboy Junior.

That gauntlet, though, it made a good projectile. Oooh, a Giles word. It was almost enough to make Xander laugh out loud. When the iron fist smacked the attacking vamp in the nose, causing it to fall backwards onto a tree-branch-cum-stake like a Hellmouthy version of the Three Stooges, well, that was a different story. He did laugh out loud, long and thoroughly.

And why not? He had a job interview in the morning, one that might actually get him out of the Basement o’Doom. Xander was so excited he could barely stand it. His relationship with Anya was on solid ground - or, at least, as stable as any other of his relationships with women - even though that wasn’t saying a great deal. Best of all, Sunnydale was relatively quiet on the Slaying Front, though you wouldn’t know it by tonight.

As far as he was concerned, it was just as well.

The Slayer, Buffy Summers, was not a happy camper these days. She and her now-ex-boyfriend Riley Finn had gotten into a discussion over something that had turned into a yelling match that had then led to a breakup of apocalyptic proportions. It had been a very public breakup, too, from the University campus to right in the middle of the Magic Box. Xander had tried to ignore most of it by hiding under or behind whatever or whoever he thought would provide the best cover. He might not be a genius like his Willow, but he was no fool.

No way was he getting in the middle of that, not this time. He had hated Deadboy and, hey, it saved the world, so the whole ‘Willow said kick his ass’ thing was totally justifiable. And he’d been right about the bastard the whole time, even if the Slayer would never admit it. So there.

At least Riley had a pulse, which Xander supposed was a plus in his favor. Still, there was something about Cornfed he just didn’t trust, and he hadn’t figured out what it was yet. Of course, Finn underestimated him - just like O’Toole had done - and which of them was still walking around, huh?

Xander stood back and watched the others fight. He’d done his job - be the bait, distract the vamp, and get smacked around - so now he was going to let the others do theirs. Buffy was taking out her fury on the vamps and demons left and right; bits of demon and vamp dust flew everywhere as the Slayer pounded her post-breakup rage into the hapless creatures that she caught out on her patrols. Word was at Willy’s that everybody with the slightest bit of sense was laying low until the Slayer got laid.

Personally, Xander hoped Buffy never heard that comment. He also hoped that he wasn’t present if Buffy ever caught up with the soon-to-be-slowly-slain being that came up with the witticism. It wouldn’t be pretty.

Buffy wasn’t real happy about her mom dating Giles, either. That Xander didn’t understand. Okay, it was Giles. Tweed-wearing, tea-drinking, British-speaking, research-doing, Watcher Giles. It wasn’t like he wasn’t already a Dad figure to Buffy, and to all the rest of them too. They certainly all treated him that way to some extent. Xander would bet a box of Twinkies that Giles thought of them as his kids, but would never admit it to them.

And Mrs. S., she was a prize! Xander had so wanted to slap Buffy in the mouth sometimes during high school when she’d whined about how strict her mom was. At least her mom gave a damn. She could and would cook for her only child; Xander doubted that the woman who allegedly gave birth to him even knew how to turn on the stove, let alone how to use it. What he wouldn’t give to have a mom like Mrs. S. He couldn’t understand how Buffy treated her mom so badly. All in all, Giles and Mrs. S. weren’t perfect - no one was - but they were a hell of a lot better than the drunks Xander had for parental units.

So he didn’t grok why Buffy was so annoyed.

Giles was on top of the moon, so to speak. After the whole we-defeated-an-Ascension-thing, the Watchers’ Council had demanded that he prepare some kind of major report covering the past three years for them. Giles had refused, Travers had insisted, Giles said the British equivalent of ‘make me’, and the Council hadn’t replied with anything equally childish as yet. Xander frowned a moment at that, then shrugged. Giles hadn’t given any sign that he was concerned. The G-Man had bought a magic store, filled it with real stuff for practitioners and pretty stuff for the poseurs, and named it the Magic Box. That his reputation from the old days helped the business, Xander didn’t doubt at all.

One thing Xander did have doubts about - and he used the term ‘thing’ loosely since it was more appropriate than ‘person’ - was Spike. The bleached-blond vampire had been chipped by a military-like organization calling itself the Initiative so he couldn’t hurt humans, but he’d recently learned that demons and other vampires were fair game. Since Spike had all the loyalty of your average soulless vampire - that is to say, none at all - he’d eagerly begun patrolling with the Scooby Gang and slaying in exchange for blood and shelter. Spike was now pretty much considered a traitor by his own kind, worse than Angel had been.

The blood, Giles paid for. The shelter, Xander unfortunately had to provide. Buffy and Willow couldn’t keep Spike in their dorm room for obvious reasons. Nor could Tara. Buffy wasn’t comfortable with the idea of having the vampire at her mom’s house, and no one else liked that idea either. Giles had managed to cope with having the vamp chained in his bathtub or elsewhere for the first few months, but eventually something more long-term had to be found, which was how Spike had wound up kicked into Xander’s basement. Actually, Giles had dragged Spike by the hair into the basement, which had been pretty damn funny until Xander realized he’d soon be stuck with Fangless as a permanent roomie.

They didn’t quite trust Spike yet, even if they didn’t keep him tied up all the time anymore. At least Xander didn’t. Just like he’d never trusted a word that came out of Deadboy’s mouth. At least Spike had the decency to freely admit that he planned to kill them all after he got the chip out, in spite of everything.

Exactly the kind of behavior he expected.

It was the kind of behavior he could prepare for.

So they settled for keeping Fangless supervised, most of the time. After all, he has a life. Or do I? Do I have a life, when it partially involves supervising an undead vamp? He was still thinking that one over when Buffy finally put the vampire she was torturing - not Spike, damn it - out of its misery and dusted it. Xander figured she was pretending it was Riley; there was no other reason for her to have, er … given the vamp a sex change in such a bloody way.

Better it than him.

Willow and Tara were huddled together in a way that meant they weren’t doing-spells-together, but were talking about spells. Lately, where Willow was concerned, that might or might not be a good thing. The mojo wasn’t really his problem, or at least it wasn’t supposed to be; Giles was the one who was supposed to be watching her. Xander hadn’t forgotten the whole demon-magnet thing, thank you very much, like he really needed the help. Buffy still hadn’t forgotten that whole Spike-and-Buffy-are-getting-married spell. Spike certainly hadn’t forgotten; the vamp took every opportunity to hum the melody to ‘Wind Beneath My Wings.’ Xander would have liked to forget, to be honest.

The whole Buffy and Spike deal made him hurl.

But the witchy duo were muttering and twitching in a way that made him want to cackle like the cartoon witches did. Xander suspected Willow would be only too happy to turn him into a toad if he did that in her presence. Or worse, a rat, so he could share a habitrail with Amy Madison.

That was shudder-worthy. What was even worse, in his opinion, than the muttering and twitching was that Xander could feel them staring at him. Okay, people, let’s do the math: witchy duo plus mojo plus angry slayer equals an unhappy Xander.

It was time to go home. He had to figure out how to land that perfect job tomorrow anyway.

“Damn it!” Buffy Summers stomped her feet on the grass, and threw a Slayer-sized tantrum. He knew that wasn’t very nice, but sometimes she wasn’t very nice either. Xander called ‘em like he saw ‘em. “Where the hell are all the vamps! I need someone to kill!”

Spike cleared his throat. “I’ll just be off then, ducks.”

That figured. Xander tried not to laugh. After all, he was going to leave, too, and now was as good a time as any. “I’m heading home, guys.”

Xander did just that, and ignored the vampire walking next to him the whole way there. He was busy trying to remember if he had a clean shirt suitable to wear to a job interview.

The next morning found Rupert Giles, Watcher and former librarian of Sunnydale High School, at his place of business. In the six months since it had been open, the Magic Box had become a well-known and well-warded business for both human and non-human magic users. Not that his Slayer knew that, of course. Rupert understood that the vast majority of demons weren’t interested in causing trouble; they just wanted to live their lives and raise their families like any other species. He had no intention of discriminating against anyone, not within the magical community. His reputation, in spite of the guilt, has come in handy over the years. Anya had proven to be an able assistant, even though there were times he wanted to gag her.

All in all, Rupert was pleased. If only he could get Buffy to dress more appropriately for patrol. He didn’t understand why she felt the need to wear as little as possible or shoes that couldn’t possibly be either comfortable or helpful. Rupert shook his head, sipped his tea, and supposed it was one of the trials of having an American Slayer.

On the other hand, if not for Buffy, he would have never met Joyce, so there was that. He was considering if he’d be able to discuss Buffy’s wardrobe with her after he and Joyce married without sounding like too much of a prat when a tap came at the outside of the window.

Rupert Giles hadn’t gotten this far in his career by being stupid.

When he ran through the possibilities, he couldn’t think of anything or any person that could, would, or might attack him in broad daylight in his own shop. When he looked to see what it might be, out of the few possibilities, what Rupert saw was not one of them.

There was a snowy owl sitting on the ground outside the window of the store.

A rather large female snowy owl, Rupert judged, from the barring over the soft white feathers. The bird gave a questioning cry at him, which was when he noticed the letter on the ground. It was almost obscured by the owl’s heavily-feathered slipper-like talons.

Amazing. Rupert couldn’t believe his eyes. He called the owl in, accepted the letter, barely noticing that it was addressed to him, and offered the bird a bowl of water. At least he thought that was customary. The owl didn’t seem to mind, at any rate. It was unheard of. The Watchers’ Council and the Ministry of Magic didn’t even acknowledge each other’s existence. The letter was written in ink on parchment, a kind he’d heard of but never seen, an exquisite color, a delicate white tone with just a hint of cream for warmth. He rubbed the envelope between two fingers and marveled at how soft it felt.

As the owl sipped at its water, Rupert sat behind his desk and opened his letter with some sense of trepidation. It was just like the damned Council not to even have the decency to warn him. It read:

'Dear Mr. Giles:

First, please allow me to offer my congratulations to you, your Slayer, and your support team. Very ingenious, that. Please convey my sincere thanks to them for their hard work and courage.

Recent events on the American Hellmouth have convinced us here at the Ministry of Magic that a change in the status quo has become necessary. Namely, if I might be so bold, the fact that a first-level Ascension was prevented by a Watcher, his Slayer and her team, and a group of students with little or no formal training - even with such a level of casualties - is a great victory.

It is painfully clear that the Hellmouth requires a close eye. As you know, the United States makes no provisions for wizarding folk or for magical protections of any kind. After several weeks of negotiations with the Watchers’ Council on this matter, it has been decided that Aurors from the United Kingdom will be sent to Sunnydale where they will investigate and liaise with you.

As the Senior Official on site, of course, you will be in charge. We simply ask that the Aurors sent be provided access and information so that all of our jobs may be made easier. One day we might even find a way to eradicate the Hellmouth. We can dream, can’t we?

I do hope to meet you for tea.

Sincerely,
Albus Dumbledore
Minister of Magic

Rupert Giles had to think about what he’d just read, to take a few moments to absorb the implications of it all, before he was able to begin analyzing any of what he’d been told. At least the other shoe had finally dropped from Travers, the bastard. He’d certainly found a way to get that cursed report done one way or the other, hadn’t he?

This would be interesting, though.

He had heard of Aurors, but had never worked with any in the past. Of course, it was for the same reason why he’d never worked with anyone from the Ministry of Magic. As a rule, the Watchers’ Council distrusted magic and magic users; they preferred their Watchers, regardless of whether or not they were in the field, not to use magic as a defense.

Sometimes that was foolish. Vampires and demons had no compunctions about using magic if they had the ability or could pay or force someone who did and if it suited their plans to do so. On the other hand, Rupert could all too well recall his own early experiences with the darker side of magic and knew how seductive the power could be. Watchers tended to be power-seekers, anyway. It had happened more than once in the organization’s history, even once here in Sunnydale. The thought of Quentin Travers on a dark magic high was terrifying.

It was nice of the Minister of Magic to congratulate them. Quite nice. Rupert had heard of Albus Dumbledore, even in Watcher circles. The elderly wizard had quite a reputation for practicality, sensible behavior, and courage, as well as many rumors about his fierce intelligence and a crafty sense of planning. Rupert had also heard stories, rumors mostly, about the head of the Auror organization: a man named Sirius Black. They mostly centered around his past as an ex-convict, a murderer. But that couldn’t be true, could it?

It was, however, correct that the United States had no magical overseers within its borders whatsoever. In his opinion, this was one reason why America was such a chaotic place. People like Ethan Rayne could go to America and do whatever they bloody well liked, because there were no magical police forces there to prevent people like him from doing things like that. The only policed area in the whole United States was Sunnydale, and Los Angeles, to a lesser extent. Rupert thought it very sad. Hopefully, now, things could change.

Perhaps, if things went well, an American Auror program could be begun. God knew the country needed all the help it could get. He would have to speak to the children, though, about this, so that they would know what was happening. Those phone calls didn’t take long, luckily.

Rupert watched the snowy owl fly out the window and into the sky. It headed in a northerly direction, toward what he supposed was a transfer point in Canada. It was unreasonable to expect even magical creatures to fly all around the world without some form of rest-stop, and he couldn’t imagine how long this letter had taken, coming from England by owl post. Nevertheless, he had research to do, some investigating of his own into these matters. Rupert Giles disliked not knowing the entire story. He would have the truth from his sources, and some of it, well … some of it might not be in the children’s best interests for them to know.

After several hours of hearing from his sources - most of whom his Slayer didn’t and wouldn’t ever know about, not if he had any say in the matter - Rupert was not entirely pleased with what he had learned. The news had been interesting if unsettling, but he didn’t doubt its veracity. It did mean that the Scooby Gang would have to watch its collective step.

Later that evening, Rupert Giles found himself holding court at the Magic Box to a group of four ordinary-looking teenagers, Joyce Summers, and a vampire. Of the teenagers, one was a Slayer, two were witches, and one was Xander. He considered himself lucky that a twinning curse had never hit the boy; Rupert didn’t think the world could handle more than one Xander.

“So, Giles, what’s the what?”

Buffy still seemed rather agitated. He would speak with her later tonight. He hadn’t quite trusted the Finn boy, and had been pleased when she had broken off the relationship. Exactly what the couple had fought over, he didn’t know. Rupert wasn’t sure he wanted to know. He did know, however, that all this excessive anger being funneled into Slaying - while productive in that area - was not exactly an accepted form of anger management. “The ‘what’, as you say, is that the Watchers’ Council has negotiated an alliance with the Ministry of Magic.”

“That sounds like a definite ‘uh-oh,’” decided Xander. “Who’s with me?”

“What do you mean, ‘Ministry of Magic’?” Willow sounded worried, excited, and upset all at the same time. Rupert had heard the same tone in her voice when she’d been poring over the college class schedules, unable to decide what to take and when and where or to get it all to her satisfaction.

Buffy hadn’t said anything yet, which was worrisome. He hoped she wouldn’t -

“Do they think they can control me, too? Who the hell do they think they are?”

-- Explode. Rupert sighed. There were times in his life when he wondered whom he had brassed off in order to have gotten his position. Then he remembered it had probably all gone back to the Eyghon matter, something he’d be paying for in triplicate for the rest of his days.

“Buffy, the Ministry of Magic is not interested in controlling you. Quite the opposite.” He took his glasses off and began cleaning them, not because they needed it but because watching his Slayer fume was making his head throb. “In fact, the minister has extended his congratulations to all of us - except you, Spike -“ with a glance in the vampire’s direction, “for our roles in preventing certain events of the recent past.”

“The Mayor.” Buffy’s voice was calm.

“The Ascension that we stopped at Graduation was specifically mentioned, yes.” Rupert decided it was time to take back control of the conversation now, while he had the chance. “The Ministry is merely sending a team of Aurors -“

“Who?” Everyone else said at once.

Spike just sat there and laughed at him. Of course, he’d fed the bastard already, so that threat was no good. Well, he would ignore it for now and save the threats for when he really needed them. Besides, Joyce was present. What she saw in the wastrel he didn’t understand.

“The Aurors,” Rupert began, “is an organization within the Ministry of Magic. Think of them as a kind of police force for magic users.”

“Oh!” Willow looked surprised. “So they would track down witches who got in trouble or who did magic they weren’t supposed to do?”

“Yes, Willow, that and quite a bit more.”

Buffy cut in, her tone sarcastic. “So why haven’t they locked up your buddy Ethan yet?”

Rupert had thought of that already. “I expect they’ve certainly tried in the past. We know all too well how difficult it can be to keep Ethan locked up or even to figure out where he is at any given time, since he tends to slip away so easily.” That shut her up. Good. The subject of Ethan Rayne was a complicated one and private.

He decided to change the subject back to the problem at hand. “The Aurors will be here to investigate the situation here on the Hellmouth, and while they’re here, they will liaise with me as the Senior Official on site.”

“Go, G-Man!”

Rupert ignored the infernal nickname and continued speaking before he gave into the urge to turn Xander into a rat. “The United States has no facilities at all for magic users; Britain, however, has an entire community of witches and wizards for whom magic is as natural as breathing. There are schools and universities of magic overseas, but not here.”

Willow had an expression on her face that he imagined was akin to outrage. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

He sighed and broke the news to her as gently as possible. “For the simple reason that a person cannot simply apply for entry to a school of magic, Willow. The school chooses you.” Rupert had simply dreaded this conversation. His dear girl so valued knowledge that the idea that any place would forbid her a chance to learn was anathema to her.

And, if he was being honest, to him also.

Even if he could understand the reasoning behind the rule. These schools didn’t want people like Ethan Rayne to just be able to waltz in and out with new information with which they could wreak chaos and destruction on the world.

And there were people who were even worse.

“So, if these Auror guys are the magical version of the FBI, that must make the Watchers’ Interpol.” Xander grinned. “And that, of course, makes this,” he waved a hand around at the shelves of books and magical items, “the X-Files basement.” He eyed Willow with a grin. “And you know what that means, Scully….”

The redheaded witch heard her cue. “I’m sure there’s a logical explanation for everything, Mulder.”

Good Lord.

Buffy laughed at the woebegone expression on Xander-Mulder’s face. Rupert couldn’t decide if the pair of them had planned it somehow, or if they had simply known each other so long that they could read each other’s thoughts. Of course, both Xander and Willow had been born on the Hellmouth, so that was a distinct possibility.

Nevertheless, he was glad they were all still able to laugh, even after what they’d been through. And damned if there wasn’t some truth to what Xander had said, despite the joking way he’d put it. Aurors handled many kinds of magical problems, ranging from the general and mundane to the bizarre, but the British Aurors were generally restricted to the United Kingdom and no further. Watchers ranged all over the world, but their business was more specialized to a particular purpose. They dealt with Slayers, potential Slayers, vampires, demons, the paranormal, and prophecies. Here on the Hellmouth, well, anything was possible, just like on that television program.

He supposed they would eventually encounter aliens at some point.

But it was time to get serious, no matter how much he hated the idea of making them stop their much-needed laughter. “While the Aurors are here,” Rupert announced in his most Watcher-like voice, “I want all of you to behave in a professional manner.” He glanced at the vampire. “That includes you.”

“What’s innit fer me, then?”

Rupert leveled a glare at the vampire that could freeze hydrogen. “You’ll do as I say, or find yourself reduced to your individual atoms with a decimation spell. That will only happen after I make certain that you’ll never die and that you’ll never regain full structure again.” He paused, and leaned down until he was face to face with Spike, to better threaten the vampire. “I’ll make certain you spend the rest of your unlife, floating along in space as individual atoms for eternity.” When the vampire said nothing further, he decided that was almost as good as an agreement. He didn’t expect to receive an actual ‘yes’, anyway.

“What do you mean, Giles?”

Now he had to explain what he meant to Buffy. Rupert wanted to sigh again, but instead he straightened up and fixed himself a cup of tea before answering her. He needed the extra time to formulate a tactful way to put what needed to be said. “I mean, Buffy, that I expect you - all of you - to act professionally when it comes to slaying.” He eyed everyone in the room.

“Don’t we always?”

Rupert raised an eyebrow at his Slayer. “Do you practice every day like you’re supposed to do?”

“Er, well….”

“I rest my case.”

Joyce Summers spoke for the first time. “So by ‘professional behavior’, you expect Buffy to do what she’s supposed to do, to be the best Slayer she can be.”

“Precisely. Just like I expect Willow and Tara to be practicing their magic skills every day. Spike and Xander will be working either with me or with Buffy.” This time Rupert did sigh. He’d wanted to put this decision off as long as possible and had hoped Xander might settle on some other career that didn’t involve death and destruction. As the only member of the group without magic ability or a special destiny, Xander had a chance to escape the Hellmouth, to live a normal life. “I will begin working with Xander to upgrade his fighting skills.”

Xander cheered that announcement, Spike looked disgusted, but no one else seemed particularly thrilled with the idea. He would deal with that fallout another time. Now, though….

“There are a few points we should discuss, however. First, Spike.” Rupert looked at where the bleached-blond vampire was insolently lounging and smoking a cigarette. “I doubt the Aurors will much care about the chip, or that it renders you helpless and harmless to humans. Their reaction will likely be to just stake you and move on.”

“I like these guys already,” Xander announced. Tara smiled at him.

Rupert ignored the comment and continued to speak. “I suggest you be on your best behavior, because they classify vampires as the enemy. Period. Whether or not they have souls.” He made a point to not look at Buffy.

“Second, we will not discuss Angel until it becomes necessary. Should a problem arise in which he needs our help or we need his, then I will discuss the matter with the Aurors.” Rupert didn’t add that he prayed the topic never occurred. Of all the idiotic things his Slayer had done, the relationship with Angel had been probably the most foolish. It had led to so much tragedy, so much of which could have been prevented if things had been different. If Angel had only been honest about his vampirism from the start, regardless of his good intentions. If Buffy had been smart enough to break off the relationship once she learned the truth about his condition. If he had been strong enough to make his Slayer see that a Slayer-Vampire relationship could only end badly.

Vampires weren’t meant to have souls.

“Third,” Giles changed the subject, “do try to keep magic use to important matters. Slaying and the like. That would mean, Willow,” eyeing her carefully, “no using magic to float pencils across the room. Doing it to practice your levitation skills and control is one thing; doing it because you’re too lazy to get up and get a pencil is another thing entirely.”

Her blush didn’t fool him. Willow was far too intelligent not to be manipulative, but he was determined to make this work. Having to watch what she did would be good for Willow. Somehow the magic had changed her, how he wasn’t entirely certain, but sometimes it seemed a stranger looked back at him from behind Willow’s green eyes. It was a stranger who hungered for power, a stranger who reminded him uncomfortably of himself so long ago.

“The people in this magic community use their abilities everywhere, as a part of their daily lives. The difference is that their society uses magic to make their lives better or easier, or in some cases, just plain different from ours. Magic isn’t just something they do so they don’t have to get up off the couch. They do, however, practice their skills regularly. Many of their higher-level abilities - shape changing and the like - requires a special license and a passing score on a test.”

Willow looked so downcast that Rupert relented a fraction. “If things go well, we might be able to get special permissions from the Aurors for some courses for the two of you.” When she brightened and looked over at Tara with a smile, he added, “But I make no promises. We’ll just have to wait and see.”

“Th-that would be nice.” Tara sounded excited at the idea of learning a new kind of magic. He knew Willow was thrilled.

“It would be so cool!”

“So when do these Aurors get here?”

Rupert gave a mental groan when he saw that Buffy had settled into Quiz-The-Watcher mode. She wanted more information, she’d decided he had it, and she’d decided he wasn’t telling her everything. Well, he wasn’t, but she wasn’t supposed to know that. He began to clean his glasses again. “Soon, but nothing was said about when exactly.” It was going to be a long night.

“Excuse me, I’m going where?”

Ronald Weasley had to have heard wrong. There was no way what he’d just been told could be the truth. It just wasn’t possible. To make matters worse, his supervisor just sat behind the desk grinning like a hyena.

“It’s a very important and very prestigious assignment,” Sirius Black told him with a straight face. He had been an Auror when accused of murder and treason all those years ago. After everything else, after having been cleared of those crimes, Black had simply returned to doing the job he loved. He’d told Ron once that having been in prison gave him a unique perspective and made him more determined to make sure that he caught the right person. Now, Black was the man in charge, the Chief Auror.

“It’s on the bloody Hellmouth!”

Black raised an eyebrow at him in surprise. “After Voldemort, you’re worried about that?”

Bastard. Ron seethed. He did not like being reminded of the war with Voldemort, no one did, true enough, but Black had no reason to throw it in his face. “I’m not worried,” he said in his best measured tone, “I’m concerned. That area is notoriously unstable, magically and otherwise, and technically it’s not even in our jurisdiction.”

“We have an alliance with the Watchers’ Council.”

“It’s not in their jurisdiction, either.” Ron was annoyed. “The Hellmouth is in the United States, and that country doesn’t have any magical anything in place.”

“Which is why the Watchers are handling it,” Black pointed out. “They have a Watcher and a Slayer on the Hellmouth right now.”

That was interesting. “Oh?”

“Called at fourteen -“

Ron winced. Imagining his sister Ginny having to fight vampires and demons at that age made his stomach turn. He thanked every god he’d ever read about that Ginny’d never been Called as a Slayer. It would have killed Mum.

Then Black continued, “-And still slaying today, at eighteen years old.”

“Holy Merlin,” muttered Ron.

“She’s the oldest surviving Slayer on record and still going strong.” Black took a large file-envelope out of his desk and pushed it over to where Ron sat. “That’s the case file. Be ready to leave in a week. You’ll be gone indefinitely.”

“And my team?”

“You’re the team, Mr. Weasely.”

Ron stiffened. “I’m being sent in alone?”

“You won’t be alone,” Black said in what he probably thought was a reassuring way. “Read the file, and you’ll understand what I mean.”

Ron took that as the dismissal it was, hauled up the heavy file-envelope, and got as far away from the office with it as he could manage before Apparating home. His flat was small, but he didn’t need much. A single bedroom with a living area and a spare room in the back: it was good and cheap and suited Ron’s unexciting bachelorhood.

The file made for interesting reading, but it also set off some unfortunate memories of his own. He hadn’t known it at the time, but the minute he’d sat down next to the dark-haired boy with the glasses and the famous scar, Ron had sealed his own destiny in spirit wax. Made his soul all sticky so it soiled everything it touched.

Not that any of it was Harry’s fault. Harry’s destiny had been decided the day he was born, probably, and Harry knew it all too well. That was why, after six years, Hermione still hadn’t got an engagement ring out of him. That was why, when it came to safe sex, no one was more careful than Harry Potter (despite Hermione’s attempts to be … how had she put it … 'inventive'?). He had told Ron last year that he feared having a child of his own, simply because he feared the Dark might transfer their attentions from him to the helpless infant. But Harry and Hermione were still together.

So Harry played quidditch for the Chudley Cannons - something that cheered Ron immensely - and although the team had improved its record somewhat and its popularity had soared, the team loved him. Ron was especially thrilled about the fact that Harry now played for a team that he had made all those snide remarks about back when they were in school. He had their old schoolbooks to prove it. Hermione studied potions at the University of Magic in London. She figured that eventually Professor Snape would get that Dark Arts position he so coveted, and she would be able to apply for his old job. After all, when the Headmaster had been convinced to take the Minister of Magic position - and according to what his Dad had said, it had taken a lot of convincing - Professor MacGonagall had become Headmistress of Hogwarts.

He had been an Auror for the past six years. Ron had applied as an Auror-in-training, right after the disaster that had passed for their graduation ceremony. He shook his head, not wanting to think about any of that or about what had happened afterwards, but the memories came anyway. It had taken five years to destroy Voldemort and to root out his minions - not long in the scheme of things - but it had felt like an eternity while Ron was working undercover.

Ron had been a spy, a double agent. The one person whose loyalty had always been so unswerving that no one could believe he’d turn on his friends. They’d believed it, all right, Ron thought bitterly, he’d made damn certain of that. It had been his job.

And so was going to the Hellmouth.

It had taken Ron a year to put his life back together after everything was done. Things were finally starting to get back to something like what they had been back in the old days. Back before so much bad stuff had happened to the three of them and twisted them up inside.

Now this.

But what choice did he have, really? Ron snorted. The same one he’d always had.

None at all.

Ron had been in town for less than three hours when he concluded that he hated Sunnydale. The air felt slimy, like the Hellmouth tainted it, like the portal covered everything around itself in dirt. He hated that; the feeling was all too reminiscent of being undercover again.

Oh yeah, he was going to hate this assignment.

Things had started off well, he thought. Ron had decided that, if he was going to have to live on the Hellmouth for Hecate alone only knew how long, he wanted a good flat - with good security and within his price range - picked by someone he could trust who knew money.

Those qualifications left his dad right out. He loved his dad, but sometimes the man spent oodles of money on the oddest things, like his collection of plugs and batteries. Dad still hadn’t been able to figure out exactly what they all were for, or how exactly any of them were used, but that didn’t stop him from buying more additions whenever the opportunity arose, or from rearranging his collection in new and exciting ways. Ron didn’t want to ask his Mum’s help either, since she had more than enough on her plate as it was.

Ideally, Ron would be asking for help from someone who knew Sunnydale, and he could only think of one person who fit that description. From a pub in Muggle London that many of the Aurors used, he’d contacted Rupert Giles and prayed he’d gotten the time difference right. The Watcher had been surprised to hear from him, or maybe it was just three in the morning there, or maybe it was that an Auror had been using a Muggle phone rather than owl post. He’d also been surprised to hear that the Ministry was sending only one Auror, but had accepted Ron’s explanation. Ron wasn’t certain he would have, had he been in the Watcher’s place, but it might be that the Watcher said that and thought otherwise. There was some truth to it, after all: the Aurors were trying to keep a low profile, and the Hellmouth was a bit out of their usual stomping grounds.

Mr. Giles had been very helpful. They had discussed Ron’s needs and wants in a flat, with the Watcher’s comments about certain things simply not being very safe. Ron would have guessed that balconies might be a bit unsafe in Sunnydale, but he would have thought that front porches would have been covered by the invitation clause.

Apparently not.

It sounded to him like there was a story there. Ron had plenty of his own, and he had an aversion to balconies anyway. Eventually, over a few days, with the Watcher acting as a long-distance estate agent, Ron chose a flat in a building that had good security and a good safety record. According to Mr. Giles, it also had one of the lowest death rates in town. That wasn’t something he planned to tell Mum. Unfortunately, the flat also had a small balcony, but Ron figured he could ward it. Although, now that he thought the whole thing over, the balcony might not be so bad. Pigwidgeon, his tiny minute owl, would be able to use the space. Ron just hoped Pig didn’t get eaten.

Hell, Ron hoped he didn’t get eaten.

It hadn’t taken long after that for him to pack his belongings. The organization arranged to sublet his lease - another Auror would borrow his flat for the time being - and handled the details that Mr. Giles had provided. Supposedly, this would make the whole problem of moving overseas easier, since it was job-related. Ron just waited for something to go wrong. It was only a matter of time in his opinion.

By the time Ron got everything to the airport, he was ready to go - which was very good planning, as far as he was concerned. His traveling-with luggage was packed and looked very ordinary and perfectly Muggle-like. Everything else was packed in boxes and had to travel via International Wizard Customs. Even Pigwidgeon, in her cage, had to travel via IWC. Ron double-checked his pockets: money, airplane tickets, vet papers for Pig, his Auror badge, Apparation license, claim papers for his boxes, and a check for long-term parking (which he didn’t plan on using). He put the file-envelope on the Sunnydale situation into his briefcase, so that he’d be able to read over it again while on the plane. It had been a good thing this briefcase came with a Lighten-the-Load spell included; otherwise, Ron doubted he’d be able to carry it down the corridor, let alone through the damned airport.

Now he had to go, or he risked missing his plane.

Ron used his wand one last time before he packed it - contrary to every rule wizards and witches are taught - to spell himself, his boxes, his luggage, his briefcase, and Pig from his flat to a section of Heathrow. He wasn’t happy about packing his wand away in a box, but Aurors had learned in the present day that wands can all too easily be construed as weapons. The airport was big enough to get lost in for a week. Luckily, Ron’s spell had dropped him and everything else very conveniently next to the entrance to IWC, at Terminal 1 ½. Moving all his possessions over there without anyone noticing was a bit more difficult than he had planned, but he managed. Getting everything through the magical barrier without anyone noticing might have been impossible if a Muggle porter hadn’t brought him a luggage trolley.

Quite smashing, really.

Ron loaded everything on the trolley, with the porter’s help, perched Pig’s cage on top, sat his briefcase in the front near where he was supposed to push, and waited until the porter had his back turned to rush through the barrier with all his belongings. He’d tip the man later if he caught him, but right now, he had to hurry. Ron had never been to IWC; he’d flown in a Muggle airplane before, but never on such a long flight.

This would be a new experience.

It would be his first time away from England, too.

And where was he going? The effin’ Hellmouth.

Ron tried not to dwell on it while he waited in line. He tried to think about the good things about this assignment: United States, California, warm weather, sunshine, blondes in bikinis. All of those were good things. Ron wasn’t picky; he liked brunettes, too. He had to admit that the assignment was different. He wasn’t undercover. He was neither in charge nor was he simply another team member. Ron was in Sunnydale to gather information and learn about the details of working a Hellmouth, to become the Aurors’ Hellmouth expert.

Black probably intended to give him this job on a permanent basis. Of course, if they were going to open an Auror base in the U.S., then that would only be sensible.

Ron remembered reading about America in Professor Binns’ History of Magic classes. People actually stayed awake during that section. They’d covered the burning times in Europe, and that had been frightening, especially since many of the pure-blooded families had lost a member or more to that madness. The Puritans in the American Colonies had taken their fear of ‘the Devil’ to an entirely new height.

Hangings, pressings, torture, abuse, and all of it nonsense. Elsewhere, burnings were popular. Most of it had gone unreported and unremembered by Muggle history, like the Burning of Roanoke Colony in Virginia. So many people killed, most of whom had been ordinary Muggles just like their murderers.

The wizarding folk that had actually lived in the Colonies had fled long before the accusations had begun. They’d seen how the wind flew and most of them had gone north to Canada. Some simply disappeared. None of this history changed the facts about the United States.

There were no wizarding folk in the United States, at least, not officially. They certainly weren’t organized the way every other nation was. There was a single magical institute in Salem, Massachusetts - which Ron had heard of - and that was it for America. All magical creatures native to the United States were considered to be extinct. Most of the native magical creatures had been driven out in the same way the growing population had driven out the Native Americans. Still, there were rumors about Bigfoot in the Northwest, and a lake monster in the Great Lakes. Ron supposed it was possible; the alleged lake monster was probably a kelpie, just like the one at Loch Ness, and Bigfoot was believed to be a yeti.

He figured he’d see more than his share of creatures on this assignment. Certainly vampires and demons. He imagined the Slayer counted as a magical creature. From what he’d read, Ron could count on pretty much anything happening on the Hellmouth. Even the usual rules of magic didn’t always work there, which was why wizarding folk with sense avoided the place.

At least reading the file again and analyzing what the facts meant had given him something to do from London to Chicago besides sleeping. There was a film for which privilege, amazingly, it cost absolutely nothing to watch; after which, however, Ron understood why it was free. It was still better than either sleeping or working. He didn’t get to see the Statue of Liberty as they passed over New York City. In Chicago, he did get to eat real BBQ ribs. Sadly, the restaurant refused to deliver to Los Angeles.

So far the BBQ was turning out to be the high point of his trip.

From Chicago to Los Angeles, Ron no longer gave much of a damn about anything. He felt like the twins had played a pickup game of quidditch and used his head as the quaffle. His arse hurt from sitting, his back protested, and if he had to keep this damned tie on much longer, he’d hang himself with it!

How the hell did Muggles deal with these clothes, Ron wondered as he tugged the tie as loose as he could without destroying the knot. It had taken him too damn long to tie that for him to go mucking it up now. Why couldn’t they just wear robes like normal people?

That was when everything had started to go bad, when he’d arrived in Los Angeles. He’d arrived with his briefcase, but nothing else; all the rest of his luggage hadn’t gotten past Chicago. He had no idea where his boxes and Pig were; supposedly, they were on a plane that had been ‘borrowed’ for Ministry business and was on its way to Japan. They promised Ron would have everything ‘soon.’

It wasn’t particularly reassuring.

Since when had the Ministry borrowed a Muggle means of transportation? And now that they did, they just happened to pick the one carrying his belongings? Ron had stopped believing in a lot of things after he began running with Harry, but he’d learned a lot too. Sometimes it was bad stuff.

One of those lessons was that there’s no such thing as a coincidence.

Ron didn’t like this at all.

Which was why Ron now found himself where he now was, standing in the afternoon sunlight in front of the Magic Box, trying to decide whether or not to enter. He knew he looked only marginally better than he had when he’d arrived in town. After making arrangements with the IWC personnel, Ron had gotten his rental car and driven like a maniac to Sunnydale. He’d had to buy some clothing and toiletries, since he had no idea how long it would be before his possessions were located.

Worse, he had no wand. He felt naked. Ron worried about Pig, too. The IWC bint had assured him that his owl would be well cared for, but Ron didn’t believe her. They’d lost Pig, hadn’t they? He could only hope the bastard in charge was better at remembering to feed his owl than he was at navigating the bloody plane.

What the hell, Ron decided. He was only going to go in and introduce himself anyway, to let them know he’d arrived in town. So Ron walked into the Magic Box, and found a very well-stocked magic store. Herbs, potions, powders, crystals, jars and flagons of all sizes, and a variety of divination items lined the shelves along with a selection of items he couldn’t identify. Some of the things he recognized from his DADA classes or from Auror training.

The store smelled comforting, almost like home.

At the counter stood a tall broad-shouldered man wearing a pair of spectacles. His hair was graying a bit at the temples and he had a professorial air, even as he paged through some kind of book. According to the file, this was Rupert Giles. Watcher, British, historian, a sorcerer who had been quite a hellraiser in his youth, and not on good terms with his family. On the other hand, Ron was impressed with how the Watcher had backed up his Slayer, particularly with regards to the Cruciamentum test. Most Watchers looked at Slayers like they were tools, and expendable ones at that.

Rupert Giles treated Buffy Summers like she was a person, not just a Slayer. Maybe that was one reason she was both alive and sane after so long.

Ron took a deep breath before he spoke. “Mr. Giles, I presume?”

Startled, the man looked over at Ron, then to the door before shaking his head with a smile. “Good Lord. I didn’t even hear the door to the shop.” He immediately set down the book he had been reading, and came out from behind the counter. “You must be Mr. Weasley.” They shook hands; the first meeting of Watcher and Auror had taken place.

“Ron,” he corrected. He didn’t like being called ‘Mr. Weasley.’

“Rupert, then.” Rupert Giles looked him over briefly, and Ron got the distinct feeling that he was being looked over in a magical kind of way. If that was so, it was a magical kind of looking with which Ron wasn’t familiar. “My apologies, Ron,” Rupert said softly. “I needed to make certain you were who you said you were, and that you had no other purpose in being here.”

Ron stiffened. He was going to kill Black. Forget the Killing Curse, that would be over too quick. He’d tear Black into shreds with his bare hands, or possibly lure him into a trap to be nibbled to death by fledgling chimeras. That might be fun to watch. “Oh?” was all he could manage.

“A year or so ago, one of my fellow Watchers came here to Sunnydale. To make a long story short,” Rupert looked at the floor, “she was using the dark magics rather heavily, and had something rather awful planned for a Slayer under my protection at the time.” Ron could tell the Watcher had left a great deal out, but the words triggered a memory from the file. They had indeed suffered quite a close call with a mad Watcher, as well as with one that hadn’t been field-ready. Ron had his own thoughts about the whole Faith situation and why Wyndham-Price had been assigned to her.

He supposed Rupert’s actions made sense, especially here. It wasn’t paranoia if they really were out to get you, and nowhere was that more true than on the Hellmouth. Ron was prepared to let it go, and smiled at the anxious Watcher to prove his point.

The Watcher relaxed, and returned the smile. “I’m glad you understand. We’ve had to take some … rather odd steps in the past.” Ron wasn’t sure what Rupert meant by that, but the older man continued to speak. “Most of the others are in the back room, if you’d like to meet them.” He gestured toward a curtained doorway, through which Ron could make out the faint sounds of conversation.

“Sure.” He was already here, after all.

Rupert led him into the back room of the Magic Box, where Ron saw even more occult items he did and didn’t recognize. And the books! There were shelves and shelves and shelves of books, some of which he had seen in Hogwarts’ Restricted Section - having ‘borrowed’ them for some reason or another - and others that were completely unfamiliar. Some of the titles made him want to call the other Aurors; what on Earth did someone need with a book entitled Sex Magick and the Focusing of Evil? And did he really want to know?

Ron hoped his mouth wasn’t open because that was not the professional air he wanted to uphold. He tore his eyes away from the room and focused instead on the people within it. The first thing he noticed was that all three girls and the blond man were grinning at him. The second thing he noticed was that the blond man wasn’t a man at all.

The blond man was a vampire.

Ron glanced at the Watcher, who had gone very still ever since he’d looked at them. “Was that,” cocking his head back toward where the vampire sat, “what you meant by ‘odd steps’?”

“Among others.”

The Auror raised an eyebrow. Maybe the file hadn’t been as complete as he’d thought. This was going to be an interesting case. A Watcher-Slayer pair working with a vampire was bizarre enough - let alone a vampire cursed with a soul - but now they’d apparently taken one in under their roof as a pet.

What was the world coming to?

Oh, yeah. The apocalypse had already happened, he’d been there in all his glory. Ron had also been totally ratarsed on butterbeers and anything else he could pour down his throat. Of course, he hadn’t been alone at the bar; Fred and George had been right there next to him, matching him drink for drink. He hadn’t seen them since, of course, because the twins blamed him for that whole disaster too.

Damn, damn, damn!

Ron was not going to think about this.

I am not!

Just because that, that, that thing over there looked like, like, well, him. Ron couldn’t even string together the thoughts he needed to make sense, let alone the words he’d need to say anything, and he struggled to calm down. I am not going to fall apart. I did my job. I accepted the consequences. Ron figured they knew he’d just gone a bit barmy there, but hoped no one would bring up the subject. At least, not to his face.

“That would be Spike,” the Watcher said.

Ron eyed the vampire critically and compared what he’d read about with the real thing. Also called William the Bloody, he was a vampire dating from the late Victorian era, turned in London, England. He was part of the Line of Aurelius, but no one was quite certain whether his Sire had been Angelus or Drusilla. Virtually nothing was known about the vampire’s mortal past, including whether or not his real name was even ‘William.’ Now crippled by the Initiative to the point where he was unable to hurt humans, the vampire apparently had turned to the Slayer for protection.

At least Spike was consistent. He kept everybody around him in an uproar.

None of that meant the vampire was trustworthy, though. Ron could picture plenty of ways that Spike could manage to kill, injure, maim, or raise havoc without setting off the chip. At least, if his information about the thing worked was correct. It went against his grain - not to mention his Auror training - to leave the vampire here and undusted when it was a threat.

And, chipped though he may be, Spike remained a threat.

“Is there some particular reason why he’s not dust?”

All three girls stared at him, and Ron had the distinct feeling they thought him a monster.

“He’s helpless,” the red-haired girl exclaimed, shooting a glare in his direction. It was a distinct Hermione-‘I-can’t-believe-you-asked-something-so-stupid’ look. Ron had seen the expression many times. “He’s not dangerous to anybody.”

“He’s not dangerous right now,” Ron corrected her. “What are you going to do when the chip comes out, and how will you know when that happens?”

“He’ll tell us.” She sounded so certain.

Ron looked at her in disbelief. “If it suits his plans, he will. If it doesn’t, he won’t.” The redhead was Willow Rosenberg, witch, computer expert, super-smart girl. She was like Hermione, only much more naive, and considerably more reckless with her magic according to the file. If she’d been raised in the wizarding world, her wand would’ve been snapped in half by now; of course, if she had been raised in the wizarding world, she would have known the rules in the first place that would have led to the snapping. It made him sigh. Ron supposed that Rosenberg believed she - or the Slayer or both - could control Spike, no matter what.

Underestimating your opponent was always an error.

He guessed that the slight blonde girl next to Rosenberg and holding her hand had to be Tara Maclay. The file didn’t have much on her, and Ron wondered why she seemed so sad. It was almost like she believed she had no choices in life.

“Then I’ll deal with it when it does.”

Ron turned his attention to the last member that was present, the tiny blonde girl in the skimpy workout clothes. It was hard to believe that this little slip of a girl was the Slayer, but he didn’t want to fall into the same trap he so often warned others about. Ron didn’t want to say what he was thinking, which had to do with her failure to do that with another vampire when it counted - and actually saying that might get him tied into a knot - but he decided he had better say something. “I certainly hope so.”

She held his gaze. “I will.”

“Good.” Ron wasn’t going to back down. He’d expected some kind of a power struggle from Buffy Summers. From her file, she wasn’t one to back down, even if she had an unfortunate tendency to get distracted from her duties. At least she could still feel; some Slayers weren’t capable of emotions. Ron could sympathize with her the same way he sympathized with Harry; both their lives had been taken away in favor of some great destiny.

Her accomplishments were impressive, and Ron recognized that much of what she’d achieved was because of her Watcher and her dedicated support team. None of that lessened her achievements in Ron’s mind. One reason why Watchers never bothered to provide their Slayers with teams was because it had been tried in the past with poor results. Slayers, in general, tended to be too predatory to work well with others.

Of course, Ron knew his own achievements were hardly a slouch. Despite how he felt about his service in the war - and everything that had happened because of that - he had still been one of the major links that had brought down Voldemort and his Death Eaters. Ron was proud of that, in spite of everything. No matter what, Ron had to keep telling himself that it was all worth the pain. He only hoped Percy and Ginny would agree.

Buffy was pretty, Ron thought. It was a shame, really.

Fortunately, Rupert stepped in and broke the stand-off. Otherwise, he and Buffy might have stood and glared at each other while the world turned in circles for the next thousand years. “Right, both of you, stop it.”

“He started it.”

“Enough!”

The Slayer went back to her workout, throwing punches that made the heavy bag swing and shake on its chain. From the glances she kept throwing at him, Ron figured she was picturing his face on the bag instead of some random vamp. Well, fine.

It wasn’t like he gave a damn or anything.

Ron decided to change the subject. He had to go yell at the IWC people, anyway. “I just thought I’d let all of you know that I was in town.” He sighed. “Once the airlines find my owl and my boxes -“

“Your owl?” Tara looked at him with wide eyes.

“I had wondered about that,” Rupert said with a twinkling eye. “Owl post really is the standard mode of mail transport in the wizarding world, even transatlantic?”

Ron grimaced. That had been a sore point in the arguments he’d had with Black over this assignment. “I’m afraid so.” Apparation over a transatlantic distance was extremely difficult, so most people didn’t bother to attempt it and risk drowning. Trying to fly a broom over that long a distance without a break could be done, certainly, but it was strongly discouraged. Most witches and wizards used Muggle transport whenever they needed to travel that far.

Willow had seized on the meaning of what he’d said. “But your owl was lost along with your luggage and stuff?” She looked upset; Ron hoped she didn’t expect him to have carried Pig in the passenger compartment.

“Yes.”

“They wouldn’t let you keep it with you?”

Ron wanted to groan.

Again, Rupert came to his rescue. “Willow, it’s illegal to keep owls as pets in the United States.” He turned to Ron with a questioning gaze. “I gather it’s a division of the Ministry that’s handling the transfer of your … familiar and your possessions?”

Ron nodded. “International Wizarding Customs.”

“And you have all the proper papers in order?”

“Of course.”

“Will they -“

A trill interrupted Rupert’s question, and Ron chuckled when he recognized the sound. “-Notify me when they’ve found my things? Yes.” He pulled a small round bottle cap out of his pocket, and activated the charm, acknowledging the alert from IWC. “They’ve found everything,” he explained, “and now they’ll be moving it all to my flat.”

“When?”

He hadn’t expected the Slayer to ask that question.

“Er, now.”

She turned to Rupert. “Giles, we help him move, and no training tomorrow since it’ll be a double today?”

The Watcher considered the proposal briefly before turning to Ron. “Would you like the help?”

“I wouldn’t turn it down.”

Rupert turned back to Buffy. “You still patrol on schedule, though.”

“Deal.”

“Done.”

“Cool! There’s a movie I’d like to see tomorrow afternoon.” She grinned at Willow, and group of them ran out of the room. From the sounds coming from the front of the store, they’d found someone. That was where Ron saw the only other original member of the support team that hadn’t been present. Buffy introduced them, “Ron Weasley, Auror. Xander Harris, Scooby.”

“What’s going on?” Xander looked confused. Ron could empathize. He’d felt that way most of his seven years at Hogwarts, and he figured this boy held his position in this trio. Willow was too much like Hermione, and the Slayer of course was like Harry.

“We’re helping Ron move. Come on!”

Ron figured he’d have to keep a close eye on this group, and he’d definitely need to talk to Xander Harris. He’d bet his wand there were things about the boy that hadn’t turned up in those files, not if he’d read the boy right. After all, Xander Harris reminded Ron of himself, and look how he’d turned out.

“We’re going where to do what?” Xander didn’t want to hear any of this, not today. He was pretty certain that the job-of-his-dreams had gone bye-bye, and it was all the vampire’s fault. Xander hadn’t been able to find a nice shirt suitable for an interview, and he couldn’t afford to buy a new one. He’d had no choice but to steal Spike’s red silk shirt - luckily Fangless had slept right through it all - and Xander hadn’t bulked up too much. Even so, the shirt was a tight fit.

Between the red silk shirt and his own trim black trousers, Xander had been certain he’d looked like a mobster or something equally unsavory. He certainly did not look like a business professional in a not-for-profit that helps children, complete with benefits, a pension, and dental.

Dental!

Xander would sell his soul for dental in today’s sucky economy.

He’d sell someone else’s soul.

Granted, he could think of a few people in particular, but that was probably all for nothing now. He’d looked like a stripper, just like on his Oxnard trip. Now that he stopped and thought about it, some of those cars had slowed down to pass him while he’d been standing on the sidewalk waiting for his appointment time to roll around had probably been wondering if he was a hooker.

That was just great.

Xander sighed and tried to focus his attention on this Ron Weasley guy. So he was the Auror they’d sent. Not much older than they were, he’d noted, and wondered if that meant anything in particular. Were the Aurors trying to make them more comfortable by sending someone closer to their own age? Or was this assignment considered a milk run for training the Baby Auror? If that was the case, then the Aurors were stupid. Xander wondered what Ron really knew.

What Xander could tell was that Ron didn’t want to be here. That was obvious as hell. The Auror hadn’t been happy about the assignment, but exactly why Xander wasn’t going to speculate. It could be just the whole Hellmouth thing, could be some other thing. But Ron was here anyway, which said a lot about him. It meant he did his job, no matter what his personal feelings were about the deal. Xander approved of that, and hoped the Auror could teach that trick to Buffy, like Giles hadn’t been able to manage.

Giles would probably be all happy now, with another Brit in town to talk British stuff with, and have tea with, and stuff. Spike didn’t count, with him being undead. Plus, Ron was probably not going to be making a play for Joyce Summers; at least, not unless he wanted to go mano-a-mano with Ripper. Ron had to be more competent than Wussley, or so Xander hoped, and that would be of the good too. Of course, he’d heard the other Watcher had improved since he’d begun working with Deadboy.

He had no idea how much of that was true.

Xander knew Willow enough to know that she was both intrigued and nervous. She wanted to know more, but wasn’t sure it was a good idea, like when they’d gotten the parent-signature forms for the sex education classes back in the eighth grade. Wills had wanted to go - for the knowledge - but had been equally determined to join a nunnery.

She even had the same expression on her face right now, listening to Ron talk about the world he came from and how it compared to this one. It sounded fascinating, Xander had to admit: owl post, magic schools, house elves, wands, but there was a great big something Ron was leaving out of his story. Xander could practically see the scissors marks from the holes Ron’d cut out of the tale he’d crafted. What was he hiding? Why was he hiding it?

Tara was harder to read, but she was a perceptive girl. Xander figured she would do her witchy mojo thing and learn that something was weird if it really was weird, and then she’d tell Willow. His Wills would look into it before anything else, so if something was weird, they’d find out what it was.

Of course, Giles probably knew all about it already. Xander wasn’t stupid. He knew that Giles had probably checked the Aurors out before he’d even told any of them that the Aurors were coming. Giles probably hadn’t told them everything he’d learned, either.

That meant he had to talk to Giles.

Even if Buffy didn’t like dealing with the ugly truth, Xander preferred it to pretty lies. At least you knew exactly what the score was, even if it wasn’t nice to look at.

Buffy wasn’t falling over her tongue with the Auror like she had with Deadboy, which was good. Xander might have been tempted to strangle her, Slayer destiny or no. On the other hand, she wasn’t exactly being nice to him, either. Buffy apparently couldn’t decide whether to be friend or foe with the guy, and that did concern Xander.

They’d made that mistake with Faith.

It wasn’t one he wanted to repeat.

He’d have to speak with Giles about that, too.

Overall, Xander was pleased about the Auror-Watcher alliance. As far as he was concerned, the Watchers needed all the help they could get. They acted like they knew everything when they were so far behind the times it wasn’t even funny. Wooden stakes were all well and good, very efficient, but the user had to get into close contact with the vamp to use it - and the vamp was stronger and faster than the average human, so the usual end result was that the human lost. Why the Watchers hadn’t utilized the bow and arrow Xander didn’t know, especially on the Hellmouth, where herds of vampires ran so thick he didn’t think he could miss. Xander could even visualize a pistol with custom ammunition designed for vamps; it’d be difficult, but he was sure Giles knew someone in his black-magic checkered past who might be able to get it right. Even those giant water pistols filled with holy water worked real well.

What made these Auror guys think they were so much better prepared for the Hellmouth? Giles kicked ass and he didn’t use a wand.

Xander was confused. He wondered about that and watched Buffy paw through the Auror’s choices of weapons. Obviously the slayer had been thinking the same thing as he had in regards to what these Aurors did and didn’t know. Her frown told him that she was less than pleased, so he hustled over to see what she’d found.

Or not found, as the case may be.

“Hey, Buffster. What kind of weapons is Magic-Investigator-Guy packing?”

She smiled at him before turning back to business. “Not much, Xan. I thought he’d have books of super-duper spells or some really cool weapons, but ….” Buffy waved a hand unhappily at the contents of the shelved closet.

Xander had to say it was less than impressive. “I figured he’d be able to make with the mojo. That’s his gig.” There were bags and jars of herbs, what he recognized as witchy workings, but also in the closet were a cauldron and a broom. Whoa! They actually use those? Coolness! He was staring at the broom wondering if anyone would notice when Buffy spoke.

“Giles would kill you if you took that for a joyride.”

She was right, too, dammit.

Xander sighed. Besides the herbs, there was a miniature library on magic: books on dark magics, vampires, magical creatures, charms, potions, and other things he couldn’t begin to translate. What was transfiguration anyway? It sounded like some kind of math.

But that was it. Auror Ron Weasley hadn’t brought any other weapons with him, except his magic, unless he’d packed them separately from the magic stuff.

Xander didn’t like that at all. He glanced at Buffy, and could tell that she didn’t approve either. “Hey, Giles, what are they teaching these Auror guys about dusting vamps?”

“I beg your pardon?”

He was pretty sure this was not in Miss Manners’ Book of Etiquette, but Xander wasn’t going to risk the only family he had that counted. “You didn’t bring any weapons with you? How are you gonna kill vamps?”

Ron stared at him. “With magic, of course.”

“That’s all?”

“What would you expect me to use?”

Xander tried not to lose his temper. Giles had magic, but he didn’t use it all the time; the Watcher used his brain. “What if the spell doesn’t work? What if your wand gets broken? What if the ritual you’re doing gets interrupted by demons who want to eat you?” Okay, not much luck on the whole not-losing-the-temper since my voice went up in volume pretty steadily, but, hey, he could cope and deal.

“Xander has an excellent point, Ron --”

Woohoo! Giles agreed with me, and he did it in front of Buffy and Willow. Go me!

“-Although he could have chosen a more tactful way to phrase it.”

“Why? This worked fine.” Xander spoke without thinking, winced once at the thought of eternal ratdom, and then shrugged off the threat as yet another day in the Kingdom of Xander. He ignored the glare Giles sent his way through long practice, beginning in the first grade. That was when he’d realized that school wasn’t always going to be like kindergarten, and that teachers actually expected you to sit still and learn stuff.

“I think we should teach you other methods of dealing with these creatures, while you conduct your investigation.” Giles looked like he was enjoying this way too much. “It can only help.”

“Very well,” Ron said. “If you think it’s important.”

Xander jumped in. This topic he felt eminently qualified to speak on, more than anyone else. “Hey, if there’s anything we know, it’s if things can go wrong, they will, and in the worst way possible.”

“Ain’t it the truth,” muttered Buffy.

“You said it,” added Willow.

“Quite,” finished Giles, who was cleaning his glasses again. “We have learned never to rely on one thing absolutely, and to use our combined strengths whenever possible.”

“Now that everything’s settled,” Xander said, looking around at the little apartment. All moved in, he figured he could go home now … but first…. “Has anyone seen Anya?”

Anya couldn’t face going into work today. She liked the idea of capitalism, free enterprise, making money, but the former demoness just couldn’t bring herself to do it. Not even the joy of taking money away from customers would make her day better. Her stocks had gained, but not even that made her smile.

Xander had told her once, that if she chose not to go to work for whatever reason, she should call and let Giles know. He’d also said that she shouldn’t choose to always not come into work; he’d added that little detail after she’d decided to take a vacation from work.

She hadn’t called Giles this time, though.

Anya hadn’t been sure the Watcher would understand. Once upon a time, men and even other demons had feared her all over the world. She had been the Patron Saint of Scorned Women, the one who punished men for their wrongdoings. A demon canonized as a saint.

Now she was a mortal human woman, having lost her power center. Now she was the laughingstock of the demon world and D’Hoffryn wouldn’t help her. All because the Watcher had figured out how to destroy her power center. Anya hadn’t even known that was possible!

Why hadn’t anyone warned her that her power center - which she had to give away for the wish to take effect - could be destroyed by anyone? And that, if it happened, not only would that wish fall apart but so would her whole existence as a demon.

Anya’s life had been ruined.

Xander had helped her a lot, as had Giles. Between the two of them, Anya honestly didn’t know what she would’ve done. She didn’t exist in this time. That didn’t really matter in Sunnydale, but it did anywhere else on the planet. Somehow Giles had arranged for her existence to be verified; she thought he felt a bit guilty. Maybe he hadn’t expected this to happen to her either. Xander had helped her learn how the world worked, since it had changed an awful lot in the last twelve hundred years.

She had spent eighteen years as a mortal, twelve hundred years as a demon, and now she was a mortal again.

Anya had been mortal this time, the second time, for a year. Or so. She wasn’t certain of the exact date anymore, since time ebbed and flowed funny in some of the demon dimensions. Thinking about it made her sad. She sometimes thought she loved Xander - would have married him if he’d been a Viking, since he’d have made a great Viking - and he’d been really nice to her, but it didn’t change how she felt.

She didn’t belong here.

Anya was out of place as a mortal.

That was a hard cold fact, and she knew it was true. She would do anything to get her power center back.

“Anything, Anyanka?”

Anya whirled around to see her old friend, Hallie, standing there in front of the television. Halfrek was a Justice demon, like Anya herself had been, but the dark-haired demoness was smiling, and that was usually bad news for someone. Hopefully it wasn’t her. “Anything.” She only hoped she could follow through with her claim.

“I have a plan that should work.” Hallie took her hand, and Anya noticed her friend’s hand was cold. “It should get your power center back.”

“Good,” she said softly. She let Hallie transport them wherever they were going, and the demoness dematerialized them while Anya thought. No matter how she felt, this was the right thing to do. Anya needed to become a vengeance demon again, no matter what it cost her. Even if it cost her Xander.

Anya couldn’t let anything stand in her way.

Willow Rosenberg didn’t think she’d been this upset since finding out Xander had kissed Cordelia Chase. One of the first things she’d done as a witch was to learn a protection spell, and she'd put one or two on Xander way back then. As she’d learned more powerful spells, Willow had upgraded the protection spells on her oldest friend.

It was just like upgrading the program files on a computer - it made the spell work better for a longer period of time and against more kinds of evil. She and Tara together could write and work some really powerful spells.

But for some reason, the other night, the protection spells on Xander had stopped working. Willow couldn’t get them to reinstall on his mainframe, and she didn’t understand why.

Tara didn’t have an explanation, either.

And now Giles had announced he was going to teach Xander how to fight, just what Willow and Buffy had been trying to prevent for the past three years! Willow didn’t want Xander to get hurt, hence the spells, hence them trying so hard to convince him not to slay. None of it had worked, and now the spells had crashed.

Willow needed to get this fixed super-soon.

She’d grabbed Giles before the meeting that afternoon, and thrown questions at him until the Watcher had sent her for tea in self-defense. Not that Willow minded the tea that much. Giles hadn’t been able to help much; he’d said that Xander might have ‘outgrown’ the spells because they just ‘didn’t fit anymore.’ Willow took the gentle rebuke for what it was. The Watcher had not approved of the way she and Buffy had treated Xander when they’d begun college with their attitude toward ‘townies’.

She and Buffy had tried to repair their relationship with Xander, especially after the Big Riley Blow-Up. That had driven home how important their Xander-shaped friend was to them; he was important enough that Buffy had broken up with Riley after a giant fight over Xander’s importance to the group. Riley hadn’t understood. Willow snorted; the ex was just lucky not to have said those things about her Xander in her presence. She would have wrapped a shovel around Riley’s throat and strangled him with it, then beaten the corpse into tiny bits.

None of this solved her problem. Xander was running around naked.

Eep! Willow hurriedly wiped her mind of that image and replaced it with an image of naked-Tara. Gay now, gay now, gay now.

She rephrased the sentence. Xander had no protection spells protecting him. Willow sighed. It was okay to think about men, but not Xander. She’d been down that road before when she shouldn’t have, and she didn’t plan on going down that road again. First she’d chosen Oz over Xander, then Tara over Oz, and that was how things were going to stay.

Willow hadn’t wanted to write a new spell for Xander, even though she’d reconnected with him. Things weren’t perfect between them yet, that would take time before it felt like it had been. Back when the Scooby Gang was just her, Xander, Buffy, and Giles.

Back when they didn’t have secrets.

Or tell lies.

Willow didn’t want to think about that. Those were all bad memories. Bad memories did not do anything good. She had never particularly liked writing spells, but Tara was great at it. Tara, though, didn’t feel confident enough to write the spell, especially seeing as she felt she didn’t know Xander well enough. So they’d been searching for a spell that would work. If necessary, they’d make it work.

They had found an old spellbook in Giles’ library that looked promising. Not only did the tome hold spells about protection, but about removal and transfer, too. Some of them had to be very old, indeed, because Willow didn’t even recognize some of the ingredients. Maybe they were the old names for things.

What Willow wanted for Xander was a super-powered protection spell that would grow and change with him. That meant major mojo, and a super-powered spell. It meant, Willow rationalized, that this would be like adding three times more memory, a faster modem, and a faster operating system to someone else’s computer overnight.

A pow! Bang! Zoom!

It’d be hard to do, she could tell that by reading the spell found in the far back of the book. This last spell must have been an afterthought on the part of the author, since he’d written it on the last few empty pages.

The spell itself was very strange, and Willow had seen some weird spells. For example, two weeks ago, she and Tara had done one to get rid of some blue demon that involved chocolate pudding and belladonna. Apparently that demon species was deathly allergic to the combination, so all their weapons had to be soaked in the magically-charged potion.

Willow suspected Xander had slurped up the potion when they were done with it. That would have explained why it was no more when they’d returned from slaying. Giles had nearly stroked out; he’d thought the same thing as she had, and had dragged Xander to the emergency room with some story about nightshade seeds.

But this spell was even more bizarre. Willow honestly wasn’t certain she’d be able to go through with every step. Once she and Tara began the process, they wouldn’t be able to stop; they’d have to continue, step by step, each night, no matter what else was going on in their lives. Some of the components were odd and others were downright yucky.

Willow supposed the yuckyness and weirdness might be related to the age of the spell. Old spell equaled old ideas. Maybe the mage hadn’t been sane when he’d written this; it looked like the ink jumped around quite a bit. Maybe he’d just been excited.

After all, how often do you uncover a magic spell allowing the user to ‘seek help from a god’?

That was what Willow needed. She wanted to call on this god, goddess, or deity of indeterminate gender to protect Xander. Apparently the magic user had to be willing to go all out.

“Honey, are you ready?”

Tara never stuttered around her. She was still afraid to speak her mind in public in spite of Willow’s repeated assurances that no one was going to make fun of her or look down on her. No one would dare. “Yeah, I’m ready.” She took her girlfriend’s hand and smiled at her. “First task is tonight.”

“Yeah.” The blonde witch looked nervously around the room, fiddling with the wicker baskets she held in one hand. “Are you sure no one will see us?”

Willow grinned. The first task of the spell was to gather wild white clover, mugwort, and wild rose petals under a full moon. The thing was, not only did all three ingredients have to be found in the same earth, but they had to be gathered by skyclad lovers. Tara was concerned someone would see them nude. “In Sunnydale? Where no one ever sees anything?”

“Still….”

“Don’t worry,” Willow assured her. Tara didn’t look convinced. “Who’s gonna know?” That was true. She hadn’t told Giles she’d borrowed the book. If she had, he’d have wanted to know which spell, which would have led to endless discussions about whether or not it was necessary to do this or that or the other. Willow Rosenberg decreed it necessary. End of discussion. They were doing the spell, which meant even though they were tired from helping Ron Weasley move, they needed to do this. With a last look, Willow and Tara headed out the door toward their task.

Willow would do whatever she had to do in order to protect Xander. Nothing would get in her way.

Rita Skeeter almost hated to leave London, even for a story like this one. The Ministry of Magic and the Watchers’ Council had never worked together before, and for them to have actually agreed to this alliance now meant something big had happened.

And to send a team of Aurors to the Hellmouth!

It was scintillating. Rita’s mouth watered and her nose twitched. In fact, it made her antennae quiver, so there had to be a story there.

She wasn’t particularly thrilled about visiting the Hellmouth - honestly, what was so exciting about southern California, anyway? - but she hadn’t enjoyed Romania either. It was her job to cover the news, not sightsee, and Rita loved her job. She loved ferreting out the truth that people tried to hide because the public deserved to know the truth.

Rita truly believed that. Sometimes she worked to make the public see what she saw, and sometimes the subject of her article didn’t appreciate her hard work. That was all just fine, as far as Rita was concerned. She knew her worth, and so did her public.

So did her editor at The Daily Prophet.

Rita had plans in place from Chicago to Los Angeles. Not a single part of her journey would be wasted. She had planned everything in advance just like a professional journalist should: where to go, who to call, when to call, what to see. Rita had even considered the pros and cons of a story about the Slayer’s enemies from the enemies’ own point of view. It would be a fabulous story, one her editor would love, one that might even win an award, but it could get her eaten. Probably why no one had done this story before now … which was exactly why it was such a great idea.

She just had to find the right hook.

Or maybe she just had to find the right vampire.

Rita Skeeter went to sleep and dreamt of news awards dancing around her head. Oddly, they all had wings and little fangs. Whenever she tried to grab one, it hissed and snapped at her before flying away. She just had to keep trying. She couldn’t let anything get in her way.

All things considered, nearly twenty-four hours later, Rita was very pleased with what she had accomplished so far. Not only was she safely ensconced in Los Angeles, but she had also gathered plenty of juicy information while in Chicago. While there, in addition, she’d called a contact in New York City to gather some more information. After all, there was no such thing as ‘too much information’, not when it came to journalism. Now she planned some information-gathering here - shake up the city and see what color dirt falls out, as her editor always said - and maybe it would be important later.

The Watchers’ Council and the Ministry of Magic hadn’t said a great deal beyond official comment, but that was only to be expected. The Chief Auror - she didn’t like to use his name - had sneered at her over a magical fire even though she’d been on her best behavior. Rita certainly didn’t hold the man’s past against him; didn’t the man realize that she, Rita Skeeter, had been one of the first to call for justice once his innocence had been proven?

Apparently not. Perhaps he just didn’t care.

Or, Rita supposed, it was possible that his godson had filled his head with stories about certain happenings of which he was too young to understand the real meaning. Incidents like why it was sometimes necessary for an interview to take place in a closet … secrecy was important … for the interviewee’s safety, for confidentiality, for the proper frame of mind, and all that. Albus Dumbledore hadn’t understood any of that either. It made Rita grit her teeth, remembering all that, honestly, it did. Rita could understand how the Potter boy felt, though. He’d only been a child at the time, so she tried to understand that he hadn’t understood how she was really doing it for his benefit.

Luckily, though, she’d been able to find plenty of other information on this Slayer through other sources. Most of it wasn’t particularly helpful, but a few bits were tantalizing indeed. Most of this Slayer’s group - which was new - weren’t particularly unusual, and the Watcher didn’t have any oddities that she’d seen. Namely, this Slayer had worked with a vampire instead of slaying it. What’s more, this vampire had been cursed with a soul.

It was mind-boggling.

Rita was certain she had a front-page story here.

The big thing - the thing that made her hair curl backwards - was that the vampire in question was no ordinary creature. It was Angelus, an infamous vampire, one-fourth of the Scourge of Europe. Rita remembered reading about them during her Advanced DADA classes. Even the Slytherins had been disgusted by what they’d read. She’d heard one of the Hufflepuff girls had fainted during class. And somehow this Slayer had formed a romantic relationship of some sort with this creature?

She didn’t understand it.

But that was why she was here: to beard the vampire in his lair, so to speak. Rita stood outside the building that housed Angel Investigations. The vampire Angelus called himself ‘Angel’ now. Why, she didn’t know or care. Her plan was to get an interview with the souled vampire.

And Rita knew she could do it, too.

Why, she would’ve interviewed You-Know-Who with a smile on her face if there’d been anything left of him to answer questions. Rita had spent years carefully building a list of questions just for the occasion, ever since she got her spot as Special Correspondent at the Prophet. She had a list of questions full of things that she was certain the interested and educated wizarding public would want to have answered, a list that, now, she might as well flush down the loo.

It almost made her want to cry.

Almost.

Rita Skeeter cried over no man … or creature, either. A lost story, well, that was a close one. She walked into the building and into the office, ready for whatever horrible thing she might find. It was all part of her job as a journalist, after all.

Of all the things she expected to find, this wasn’t it. Rita did not expect to find a teenage girl and a young man in his mid-twenties arguing at the top of their lungs over something called a ‘hot pocket,’ a vision, and bars. She wasn’t certain she wanted to know what they were talking about.

Scratch that. Of course she wanted to know what they were talking about.

What a stupid question.

Rita just wasn’t certain she’d understand it. Obviously, they were Muggle references despite the talk about visions. And what did they mean by that? She had never heard of a Muggle receiving magical visions. Did this mean that the Ministry of Magic had been hiding information from the public for years? If that was true, then what else could they have been hiding? She was determined to find out.

Then the girl noticed Rita standing in the doorway. “Oh, Doyle, a client!” The brunette rushed over, took her firmly but gently by the arm and steered her to a rickety-looking chair. “Where’s Angel?” The girl urged Rita to sit, so she did, if a bit reluctantly. “Doyle?” The pitch of the girl’s voice went up dramatically. “He runs this place, how come he’s never here when we have a client?” The green-eyed man just smirked at her but hadn’t said a word in reply yet.

The brunette turned back to Rita and introduced herself. “I’m Cordelia Chase, this,” she motioned to the green-eyed man, “is Doyle.” He made a gesture of greeting, of which, Rita noted, Miss Chase didn’t seem to approve. “Welcome to Angel Investigations. Unfortunately, Angel isn’t in at the moment, but if we can help you-“

“Actually, yes. My name is Rita Skeeter,” she set out her Quick-Quotes Quill for dictation, “and I work for The Daily Prophet in London, England, and I’d like to interview all of you if that would be acceptable.” It was the first time in a long time she’d had to state her name and business; most people recognized her on sight. Still, Rita reminded herself that these were Muggles and American Muggles at that. You couldn’t expect a bloody colonist to be on top of things, could you?

“A newspaper?”

“Yes, dear.” Rita smiled encouragingly at Miss Chase. “I’m doing an article on the recent alliance between the Ministry of Magic and the Watchers’ Council.”

“Watchers?” The man, Doyle, had a pleasant Irish lilt that reminded Rita of her school days. Her best friend at Hogwarts, Maggie O’Rourke, had been from a tiny wizarding village on the southwest coast of Ireland. Mags had been killed during the days of the war when Harry Potter was still an infant. In fact, Auror Margaret O’Rourke had been one of those people Black had been accused of killing with one curse in the middle of the street.

Rita tried not to think about that.

Not now, not in the middle of an interview. “Yes, Watchers.” She’d never heard of this Doyle character, but Miss Chase looked old enough to have gone to school with the Slayer. The girl did work for the vampire, after all, but that didn’t necessarily mean she knew he was one. “They train Slayers to fight and kill vampires, as well as other trouble-causing demons.”

“Except our boss,” added Miss Chase.

Rita Skeeter could officially strike that theory. The girl definitely knew about her employer’s … condition. But, knowing that, why did she continue to work there? “So you know Angel -“ she made a point to use the vampire’s preferred, if incorrect, name - “is a vampire?”

Both of them were aware of this fact. Actually, Miss Chase had said, “Duh. Of course.” Rita ignored what she guessed was probably an American insult, and childish besides, and continued her questioning. “Don’t you know what vampires are capable of doing?”

“What a dumb question,” shouted Miss Chase. “I’m from Sunnydale, the Hellmouth, vampire central! I fought in the Battle against the Mayor who tried to eat our graduating class!”

Wonderful! Rita was delighted. She was definitely going to have to interview this firecracker of a girl. Thank Merlin she was getting all of this down on parchment. “Why don’t you tell me all about -“

“Cordelia, why on earth are you -“ Another man entered through a rear door. He was tall, wore spectacles, and spoke with a British accent. Rita immediately pegged him for a Watcher, save for the fact that he didn’t look old enough to be in the field on his own. At least, such was her understanding of how the Watchers trained their agents. The man gazed deeply at her and frowned. “Ms. Skeeter, I presume?”

Recognition was so nice!

Even if it was from a Watcher. She’d bet a thousand galleons on it. “You presume correctly.” She offered her hand, which he warily took. Rita found that amusing. “And you are?”

“I am Wesley Wyndham-Pryce.” A pause. “Watcher.”

Rita wanted to jump up and down with glee at having been proved correct, but instead she merely nodded in serene contemplation. “I’m writing an article on the recent compromise.”

The Watcher nodded. “I’ve been expecting you.” He didn’t look happy, she noticed. Not that she particularly cared what he thought.

“Then I’m glad I don’t disappoint.”

He glared at her in a manner that Rita was used to receiving from Ministry of Magic employees and Weasleys. The whole family had some sort of grudge against her for some reason, but why it was she hadn’t the slightest idea. “I’m quite sure you won’t. Ms. Skeeter, I’m well aware of your reputation -“

That pleased her.

“-And I must say that I’m most unhappy to find you on our doorstep, considering the general nature of what I have heard. Most of which, I should add, is poor.”

That didn’t.

The Watcher continued. “However, I also know that it would be foolish to chase you or indeed any other journalist away. You, Ms. Skeeter, in particular, have a reputation for retaliation against those persons who refuse to consent to your interviews.”

Where in the name of Merlin’s fuzzy green beard had they heard that?

“So, I propose that -“

“What do you mean, ‘retaliation’?” Rita couldn’t stand it any longer. She knew some of the rumors were bad, but honestly, she had no idea how bad they’d gotten. No wonder people at the Ministry refused to speak to her. She reported the news, and found the truth - it was what the people deserved. After so much had been hidden during the Voldemort Wars, the wizarding world was determined to never go through that level of treachery again. Rita was only doing her part to expose evil and treachery. That was good, wasn’t it?

She didn’t think she’d ever been so shocked in her entire life. Not even when they’d found the former Minister of Magic’s body, had she been so shocked. Of course, no one really talked about him much these days. It was generally agreed that Cornelius Fudge had mishandled the Voldemort Wars from the beginning.

“I mean,” the Watcher explained slowly, “when you ask for an interview and the person refuses, or if the person says something that you don’t like, you write a story designed to cause problems for that person.”

“What are you talking about?” Rita couldn’t recall doing any such thing. Certainly, there had been times when an unexpected refusal had meant she’d had to put together an entirely different story on the swift in order to meet her deadline, but everything she wrote was verified on her notes and what was said. She kept her notes, too, all carefully filed, just in case someone ever decided to bring her to wizarding court for slander. It hadn’t happened yet, but that was because she was so careful.

“Oh, come, you must know.”

Now Rita was angry. She wondered if the Watcher was deliberately trying to provoke her into doing something foolish. Not only would it cause her trouble personally - something that the Aurors would enjoy only too much - but it would also give the Watchers a reason to complain and demand reparations. With that thought in mind, Rita visibly struggled to keep her composure. “Mr. Wyndham-Pryce, I pay very little attention to the rumors about me. Most of them are untrue. I am a professional journalist, and I take pride in my work.” Rita met his eyes, and refused to back down from the stony glare she saw in them. She had survived the Voldemort Wars, something most of her colleagues hadn’t managed to do unscathed. “Nothing more. Nothing less.”

“Are you both finished?”

Rita and the Watcher both turned around. She was startled by the sudden voice, and saw … him standing there. The vampire formerly called Angelus. He … it … was standing at the other doorway just out of range of the fading afternoon sunlight. She couldn’t even move, could barely breathe, as the vampire walked into the room with an odd gliding gait. The tiny hairs on the back of her neck were standing up and screeching with fright, and every instinct she had was screaming at her to run. A part of her mind frantically wondered where her wand was, what spell worked best against vampires, and whether or not Martin Luther King, Jr. Hospital would take her personal injury insurance through Glotterby, Goop, and Frankenstein, Ltd. without laughing.

She rather doubted the latter.

“Ah! Angel, there you are.” The Watcher smiled at the vampire, which shocked Rita even more. What was the world coming to? What next? Vampires having children of their own?

Merlin, and they’d probably try to get it admitted to Hogwarts, wouldn’t they? Rita wished she’d never even thought of the possibility. Just the idea made her head hurt like it’d been hit by a bludger. Stupid game, in her opinion, but she understood it in order to have a proper conversation with people, in order to lead the conversation around to the topics she wanted to discuss. Sometimes you had to do dull things like that to succeed in life. Personally, she preferred the Muggle sport of greyhound racing.

Racing in general, actually: dogs, horses, cars. She would happily watch any of them. It was fun, fast, and you could legally gamble. It was much more fun than stupid people on brooms trying to beat each other stupider than they were already.

The Watcher’s voice pulled Rita out of her shock. “We have to do something now that she’s here.”

“I know.”

“Like what?” Rita had thought that Miss Chase and her companion had been unusually silent during this whole shouting match, but that had now ended. “And why should we give a damn? I mean, publicity is always of the good, but not - hmmm…”

The vampire gave the brunette a look that the journalist couldn’t interpret. “What are you thinking, Cordelia?”

“She’s a reporter, for -“ she looked at Rita questioningly, “-a big newspaper?”

“Yes.”

“Lots of people read it?”

“All over the U.K., and many people throughout Europe have subscriptions to the Prophet.” Rita suspected she knew where Miss Chase was going with this line of inquiry, so she decided to help it along a little. “And you’re a small business in a big city, and good publicity is hard to find.” She smiled.

Miss Chase smiled winningly back at her, before turning back to the Watcher and the vampire with a smirk. “See! It’s perfect. She’ll get her story in by deadline and we’ll get more publicity. More publicity means more clients means more money! Now, shoo, Mister Broody.”

The girl quickly ushered Rita past the stunned group of males; she was hesitant to use the term ‘men’ when one of them was a vampire. While preparing for the interview, Rita could just barely hear one of them say, in a hushed tone filled with horror: “Oh my God! I think they like each other!”

It was all Rita could do not to burst out into laughter.

The interview with Miss Chase - Cordelia - went rather well. The girl lived here in Los Angeles and wanted desperately to pursue a career as an actress. Honestly, did every pretty young thing have dreams of stardom in Hollywood? Even the occasional witch or wizard abandoned their magic teachings to reach out for Hollywood’s magic, or so Rita had heard, if Euphemia Finkleworth’s complaining about the younger generation was any indication. Her Aunt Eppie advice column was very popular.

Nevertheless, this particular member of the younger generation had helped fight vampires and demons alongside the Slayer, and had fought with her graduating class against the Ascension. Interesting how everything was about what the Slayer had accomplished, but the reader hardly ever heard anything about the Slayer’s helpers. For that matter, the reader rarely heard that the Slayer had helpers that weren’t Watchers or witches … they were just normal people.

People like Cordelia Chase.

And another boy she mentioned, her ex-boyfriend, Xander Harris. Rita noted there was some considerable tension there. It might be worth looking into what had happened to cause that strain.

Cordelia had given her a wealth of information about the major players in Sunnydale as well as some history and background. It hadn’t escaped her notice that the vampire played a very important role in the tragedies in Sunnydale; at least, he had corrupted the Slayer. Why hadn’t the Watcher dealt with it?

Unfortunately, her source didn’t have a great deal of recent information as to Sunnydale, but that was perfectly fine. Rita couldn’t have everything. “Cordelia, darling, why don’t you come visit me in London when you have the chance? I think we could accomplish wonderful things together.”

“Really?”

“Oh, yes. I can think of someone you should definitely meet….” Not that it would last, she thought. But that would be good, too. Rita had learned to trust her antennae when it twitched a certain way, and right now it said that this would be good for Cordelia’s career, and that by the way Cordelia still loved that Harris boy no matter what she said.

So maybe she would do something about it.

Rita Skeeter, secret romantic. She had a reputation to protect.

Of course, on the other hand, she could get a human-interest feature story out of it, make all the housewives sob with the sheer love of it all. Or something equally mushy, like a real-life soap opera, star-crossed lovers, class differences, and all. Rita could work that angle.

Things hadn’t gone nearly so well with the Watcher. Rita wasn’t surprised; she imagined that Watchers were trained from birth to be stern, stoic, and utterly humorless. They also likely all came from the same small town in England, which explained why they all seemed to know each other, right down to the family lineage. Granted, Wyndham-Pryce answered all her questions, but reluctantly and using as few words as possible, while telling her as little as possible. It made Rita wonder if the Watchers taught a class in coaching their field agents in how to handle reporters - it couldn’t be typical for him, unlike in the wizarding world - but Wyndham-Pryce was doing admirably enough. He even took her blunt questions about the rogue Slayer with few qualms and gave simple direct answers.

Wyndham-Pryce should have been an Auror. Pity he had no magic … or at least, no formal training in schools. That was something else she wanted to do an exposé on, now that there was all this so-called ‘openness’ between the Watchers’ Council and the Ministry of Magic. Rita knew there were Watchers that had and that used magic, in spite of the Council’s disapproval - and Cordelia had confirmed that fact - but why had these Watchers with the ability never been given proper training? What about Slayers with magical ability? Or people in the Slayer’s support group? They were all on the same side, weren’t they?

Rita wondered about those questions while she restocked her quill. Honestly, buying the Quick-Quotes Quill had been the best move she’d ever made. Expensive, yes, since she could have bought a new broom for all three of her nephews and a deluxe beginners potions set for her niece (with the safety charms so she wouldn’t burn the house down) with the money she’d spent on it. True, sometimes the prose got a bit purpler than even she liked, but the quill saved her so much time. Plus, it was so nice being able to focus on her interviewee instead of having to focus on taking notes, and she usually got better interviews that way. She knew it was worthwhile. Rita absently wondered when they’d stop fighting each other and instead fight the Dark. All the Dark had to do was sit, wait, and take out the winner.

The thought gave her a chill.

It had nearly happened that way.

Rita shook the feeling off, and looked over the dark-skinned man who entered. She didn’t know him, and hadn’t met him earlier. “Hello.” She hoped he would lead her down that path.

“Hey.” He sat down, across from her, and looked at her with a suspicious air that Rita found delightful. Apparently the young man thought a reporter was worse than a vampire. How odd. “Gunn.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“My name. Charles Gunn.”

“Oh.” Now she felt silly. “I’m Rita Skeeter.”

“English told me.” He eyed her. “Why are you here, really?”

“To find the truth.”

“About what?”

Rita smiled at him. “I’ll know that when I find it.” Which was itself the truth but said exactly nothing. Something Mr. Gunn obviously understood immediately from the twist of his mouth and the set of his eyes.

In spite of that awkward beginning, her interview of Mr. Gunn went rather well. Apparently he had gotten his start in the vampire-hunting business as a means of self-preservation and later for vengeance, after his sister had been killed. His ‘gang’, as he put it, didn’t understand why he now worked with a vamp, and that bothered him.

“How did you come to realize that he was different? That Angel” - Rita used the other name deliberately this time - “wasn’t like the vamps you usually killed?”

“He was killin’ those vamps when I saw him.” Mr. Gunn sat back in his chair, glanced at her, his dark eyes wide with the memory playing out like a pensieve-on-reveal. “I’d never seen that before, one vamp killing another, and it not being a power play or fighting over food.” Mr. Gunn shook his head. “This was different. Angel wanted those vamps dead just as bad as we did, maybe more.”

“Why do you think that was?”

He hesitated a moment, then spoke. “He’s a vampire.” Another pause. “He knows exactly how evil those bastards are.”

Rita nodded in reply. It was true enough. “What is it like for you, being a human employed by a vampire?” He gave her a questioning look, so she tried to explain. “Have you ever been concerned about your safety?”

“Only when he sings.”

“Excuse me?”

“Nothing.”

A vampire that sings? It was definitely not nothing. Rita Skeeter didn’t like mysteries. They made her twitchy. She needed to investigate them, which was why she’d become a reporter. Her grades hadn’t quite been good enough for the Auror program. Otherwise, there was no telling where I might have wound up.

Mr. Gunn had answered her question at length after that. Rita figured he was hoping to distract her from what had slipped out of his mouth. It was moments like these that the Quick-Quotes Quill was worth every galleon, sickle, and knut she’d paid.

Mr. Doyle had entered the room immediately after Mr. Gunn left, and he seemed rather nervous. Why she didn’t understand until he explained that he was half-demon, of a species called Bracchen, and he showed her his demonic appearance. The purplish-blue spikes didn’t look particularly frightening. They weren’t razor-sharp or venomous; nor did Bracchen demons have any special skills, neither were they particularly evil. They generally didn’t associate with other demons, but rather stayed with their own clan. Doyle - he insisted that she drop the formality - admitted that he was only a halfling and clanless besides. He refused to provide further details. Rita wondered if Cordelia knew the details.

Despite the fact that he was not wholly human, Rita found Doyle to be very charming and a good speaker. She felt fairly certain that he was interviewing her at least as much as she was interviewing him, but sharing information was always acceptable. Not that it really mattered … his Irish lilt was just lovely.

The information Doyle gave her was fascinating, if a bit confusing. Apparently, a pair of supernatural semi-deities called ‘The Powers That Be’ had chosen Angel as their Champion with a capital ‘C’ for the Light. Doyle had seen her expression of abject disbelief, laughed uproariously and promptly told her his own reaction to the news. He’d gotten drunk for a month and a half, especially after he’d heard about who this Angel bloke was and who he had been.

Doyle admitted he didn’t know why Angel had been chosen, but figured it had something to do with the vampire’s search for redemption. He certainly didn’t know why the Powers had picked him to help Angel.

“In what way do you help?”

Cordelia chose that moment to stick her head through the doorway and comment. “He’s the comic relief.”

“Now, listen here, princess -” Doyle’s complaint turned into a scream. He grabbed at his head with both hands and crumpled to the floor.

“Angel, vision!”

Rita was stunned. The vampire was in the room before Cordelia had finished shouting for him and was already snapping out orders to the assembled group. This was how Doyle served the Powers and helped Angel? By acting as a bona fide Seer? She would have liked to see Professor Trelawney’s face when this article gets published, that old fraud. She was still relishing that mental picture when the vampire’s words brought her up short.

“-Get Rita outfitted, she’ll go with us.”

I will?

“Yes.”

Damn vampire. Rita glowered at him. “Fine.” Then she thought of something and smiled. “Just wear something bright-colored so I can tell you apart from the others. That way I’ll remember which ones I’m supposed to kill.” She had a feeling her editor was going to give her a raise.

Anya sipped at her drink, a Sex-on-the-Beach, very tangy. She licked her lips in appreciation. That was one thing she liked about being mortal - sex - that she had missed about being a demon. Not many people, demon or otherwise, of any gender, were real willing to take a chance on Anyanka.

Of course, it could have been because they didn’t want to run the slightest risk of winding up like the scumbag men she cursed. ‘Scumbag’ was a good word. Xander had taught it to her from a TV show he liked to watch about four mercenaries who helped people. She hadn’t found the program to be particularly realistic, but there were plenty of learning opportunities. Giles had no idea how much money she’d made for the shop thanks to that show. He’d thank her later, she knew.

Still, Anya’d never had sex on the beach. Any beach. Xander hadn’t been into public displays. With all the vamps, it really wasn’t safe to try it anyway. At least, that’s what he argued every time she brought up the topic. She could picture it, too, so the argument had merit: they’re just getting to the fun part, and some vamps burst out of the shrubbery. While watching Xander slay naked would be exciting, she didn’t want any of those vamps to see her Viking naked. After all, one of them might escape, and then that vamp would start stalking her Viking Xander. He was irresistible. The vamp would want to Turn him in a split second.

No, it was best to avoid the whole scenario. No sex on the beach for them.

“Wouldn’t the sand get everywhere?”

“What?” Hallie stared at her.

“The drink.” Anya waved at her glass. “Sex on the beach. Wouldn’t the sand get everywhere?”

“Never mind the sand,” Hallie snapped. “We’re going to get your power center back. We need to find you a target. Someone good.” She paused. “Someone better than good.”

Halfrek had been a justice demon for nearly seven hundred years now, and Anya had twelve hundred years under her belt before her unexpected fall from grace. Between them, they had more experience than most of D’Hoffryn’s employees. Based on that, it shouldn’t be hard for them to put their experienced and treacherous minds together and formulate some kind of plan. Anya thought about where they were.

They were sitting in a bar in Orange County, California. Specifically, Newport Beach, a city by the Pacific Ocean, where the living was easy and nothing was free. Sex, drugs, lies, manipulation: even without her demonic powers Anya could sense the dark undercurrents in this town. She’d been a witch before she was a demon, after all.

Hallie nodded knowingly back at Anya’s glance. “The adults all live secret little lives, trying to hide them from their spouses and their kids. The kids lead secret lives, learned from their parents, hiding it from their parents and each other. Sex, drugs, alcohol, secrets, lies, manipulation, around and around.”

Anya had to admit that sounded very promising. “It should be easy to find someone then.” She might come back here, later, when she had her power center back.

“Someone, yes.” Hallie leaned forward, and sucked down some of her drink. “But we need to find the perfect someone.”

“Impressing D’Hoffryn won’t be easy.” He could be a right bastard in fact. After all, he wasn’t the Vengeance Lord because he had a mean backhand on the tennis courts. Anya knew they’d have to find the perfect someone with the perfect background and find the perfect foil for a good solid cursing. To get her power center back, impress D’Hoffryn, and regain her coveted position in the Inner Circle of Vengeance, Anya had a great deal of work ahead of her.

That was fine, though.

Anya knew what hard work was, not like today’s little pansy-assed brats. They weren’t married off to the highest bidder and didn’t have seven rugrats by the time they were sixteen years old - maybe three of which lived to be toddlers. They didn’t have to lug water from the well. They didn’t have to prepare supper with an axe and then pluck the feathers or skin the hide. Girls today had rights. They could vote.

It certainly hadn’t been like that when she was mortal.

Anya slurped down the last drops of her drink. She didn’t have time to get maudlin. “Let’s go to the beach.” Hallie slapped some bills down on the counter, and the two women walked off into the afternoon sunshine. The demoness claimed there was a promising beach nearby, so they were heading there first just to see whom they could see. Luckily, Hallie had come prepared with swimsuits for both of them, so they wouldn’t stand out. Well, at least, not in a bad way.

Anya was still thinking about the past, hers in particular, when they reached the shimmering pale sands. Xander had liked it when she’d told him about what it was really like back then, back when she was mortal, even when sometimes she knew the details grossed him out. She got so angry at Buffy and Willow. Didn’t they see how good they had it? But that was the problem: they didn’t see, Buffy didn’t care, and Willow still thought of Xander as ‘her property’ after all this time.

She made a mental note to do something about that after she got her power center back. Willow had to learn that she couldn’t have her Xander and eat Tara too.

I made a funny! She grinned.

All at once, the target jumped out at her from the crowd of people. For Anya, the boy might as well have had a bullseye painted on his chest. The dark-haired teenager was sitting with a pretty blonde girl, and they were having some kind of picnic on the beach. It was all very innocent, romantic even, until Anya readjusted her line of sight to the teenage boy’s own. Instead of watching his girlfriend, he was paying attention to something else.

He wasn’t even watching another girl.

Anya laughed. The teenage boy was positively lusting after the muscle men. From here, he could watch them work out and not look like he was watching them work out since he was really picnicking with his girl. Nope, not gay, not me. She laughed again and told Hallie, whose response was predictable.

“Men are such pigs!”

“I wonder what other secrets he has.” Anya watched the couple for a few minutes, watched the boy watch the men sweat, and watched the girl get increasingly more annoyed by the minute. Eventually, one thing led to another, words were thrown, dishes were thrown, and the girl left in a huff. The boy sat there, alone and confused, like most men are, most of the time.

It was almost as funny as the Spike-and-Buffy-are-getting-married incident.

In any event, they needed to track the boy down and get more information. They hadn’t caught the girl’s name, but they had his. Seth Cohen.

Anya smiled. “I’ve got a crazy idea, but it just might work.” She wasn’t too worried. Finding someone to talk to wouldn’t be hard, it was finding the right someone that might be the tough part. However, the way that girl stormed off had reminded her of someone. Who, though, she wasn’t exactly sure.

Rupert Giles was very pleased with things so far. Here he sat, in a leather armchair, during a lovely afternoon next to Joyce, with a piping hot pot of tea between them. A plate of cookies, fresh from the oven, sat on the table. Joyce had been cooking. She liked to cook, equating it with home. That was what she’d told him, so he made an effort to cook for her whenever she visited his home.

Which, thankfully, wasn’t often. His cooking skills were rather limited - better than most bachelors, he hoped - but Rupert knew he was not a gourmet chef by anyone’s standards. He certainly did not have the skills appropriate for a husband and father. He had developed a taste for Indian curries and the like in his youth, which he could cook very well, although some of the more exotic ingredients were difficult to find in Sunnydale.

“Snickerdoodle?”

He took one of the crispy cookies that Joyce offered, and bit into its cinnamon flavor. Lovely with tea. He savored the taste, the coziness of books, the fireplace, the sunlight, the teapot: all in all, it was so comforting that he supposed Heaven must be much like this. Only with an endless supply of new books.

Rupert considered that if the day had been a bit more gray out - or even raining, perish the thought! - he might have been able to delude himself for a short while that he was in England. At least until one of the children called or came running all panicked about something. He was concerned about Anya; no one had heard or seen her in days.

He blamed himself. If Xander hadn’t asked them and brought attention to the fact that she was missing, they might not have even noticed.

Stupid!

To not notice a friend missing? In Sunnydale?

Rupert sadly shook his head. They had looked for her and asked around, but no one knew anything. Buffy had stormed Willy’s and tossed the place - and the patrons - around, demanding information. She’d gotten plenty of information, but none of it pertained to their missing ex-demoness’ whereabouts. Now several days had passed, and nothing had changed. Anya was gone.

He could guess what the others were thinking. Xander was frantic. Willow was worried because Xander was frantic. Tara was worried because Willow was worried. Spike thought Anya had left for greener pastures, not that anyone had asked for his opinion. Buffy was angry. Ron was confused, mostly because he hadn’t met Anya, which had been a mercy.

That was something else that weighed on Rupert’s mind: Ron Weasely. He had not been pleased with what he’d learned about the young man, but he’d had to admit there had been a war on at the time. Certainly he had to give the boy credit; he did his job, no matter what, even if it meant his own family suffered for the good of winning the war. The Watcher wasn’t certain how he felt about that. Stopping a war of such magnitude was vitally important, but Rupert wasn’t sure he approved of how Ron had gone about doing so. Then again, he hadn’t been there, either.

It was easy to ‘Monday-morning quarterback’, as the Americans say.

And he was certainly not one to be throwing stones at Ron Weasely about making stupid decisions about how he’d used magic during the war. God only knew he’d made far more stupid decisions for far less noble reasons. Raising demons for fun and profit, for God’s sake. It still astonished Rupert how much of a fool he’d been.

At least Ron had family living. According to his sources, there was a serious rift in the Weasely family still existing, even though relations had begun to improve somewhat before this new assignment. Now there was the problem of what might happen if Ron or Buffy approached each other romantically. He thought he had seen signs of interest on Ron’s part, but there was no telling whether or not Buffy would reciprocate in kind. However, only yesterday he thought he’d seen that fascination returned. It was nothing serious right now, but it could certainly develop into something that might be problematic.

That was the other matter that concerned him. Ron was certainly a better choice for a boyfriend than either a souled vampire or a soldier with corn for brains. Rupert had not approved of Riley at all, had just felt something wrong, something coached about the young man. On the other hand, there was nothing coached about Ron; he presented himself exactly as he was with all his faults.

What Rupert did find surprising was that Buffy was even interested in Ron in the first place. In his opinion, the only difference - barring physical ones, of course - between Ron and Xander was the magic. Ron had magical abilities; Xander did not. Why Buffy couldn’t have dated Xander rather than Angel in the first place, he just didn’t understand. It certainly would have prevented a great deal of trouble.

Of course, this was a good thing in other ways. While Ron was certainly capable of manipulation, he was also capable of tremendous loyalty. He was intelligent, practical, cautious, and a skilled magic user. Ron had learned about life the hard way, much like the rest of them had.

However, Rupert could foresee a couple possible problems in store for the couple if their relationship continued to grow. First, Ron might not appreciate having a girlfriend who was so much stronger physically than he was. Riley certainly hadn’t liked that little fact, if their fights had been any indication. Of course, Ron had magic at his disposal while Buffy did not, so perhaps that difference wasn’t too much of an issue. He had his strengths, she had hers; between them, they would make a formidable team. With the full force of the Scooby Gang backing them up, the villain wouldn’t stand a chance. Or so Rupert hoped.

The second problem of the Ron-Buffy matter was a bit more complicated. It was fact that Ron worked for the Aurors both now and during the War. It was also fact that Ron had worked extensively undercover during the War, and had done some very distasteful things in order to defend the Light. It was uncorroborated rumor that Ron was a member of the Order of the Phoenix, but Rupert suspected it to be fact.

It was fact that the Aurors paid Ron’s salary and had assigned him to Sunnydale in the first place. It was fact that the Aurors could send Ron on assignment elsewhere at any time and send another Auror to take his place.

It was fact that some of the extensive undercover work Ron had performed during the War had been against his own family without their knowledge. It was uncorroborated rumor that the Aurors had ordered Ron to do so in an effort to gain the trust of the Death Eater organization.

The question Rupert had was simply put: what would Ron do if the Aurors ordered him to perform an action here in Sunnydale? Rupert Giles didn’t doubt that Ron would probably do as he was told, but it was hard to tell. The situation was different. There had been an ongoing war, with the lives of millions weighed in the balance and all that rot. Perhaps Ron believed his family would understand why he acted as he did. Perhaps it would depend on what was ordered. Rupert doubted the Aurors would want to examine Buffy’s Slayer powers; they might, however, be interested in how he, Willow, and Tara managed to wield so much magical energy without a wand.

He would simply have to watch the boy.

No matter.

That was, after all, his job.

Willow figured, spell or no spell, she and Tara would have to go herb-gathering in the nude at night again. Tara’d been pretty nervous at first, but after a bit of time passed, and nothing happened out of the ordinary, she’d begun to enjoy herself. The red-headed witch grinned widely. Really enjoyed it.

They’d processed the herbs they’d gathered that night, according to what the spell required, for later use. Even with all those tasks completed, Willow knew they weren’t even halfway done. Sometimes she had this tiny little voice that warned her to call Giles, but she’d done that already. Giles hadn’t given her any useful information.

She was sure it would work.

It was in one of his books, after all.

Three nights ago, she and Tara had begun preparing for the first icky task. Icky and weird. Weird, but not in a Hellmouthy way. Which was good. Willow really didn’t want to do this particular task - she hadn’t approved of Thanksgiving, and had said so, and now this, which was worse -but she thought of Xander with no magical protections and that firmed her resolve.

Resolve face, Xander would have said if he’d seen her expression.

Of course, none of that made the task any less icky and weird. Three nights ago, they’d bathed in olive oil and spring water. A ritual cleansing. After fasting for the day, they’d burned candles of juniper that following evening. It was a different sort of cleansing. Last night, they’d had to bring in the star of tonight’s ritual and pour the discarded bath mixture of oil and water all over him. That had bordered on disgusting, even if she understood the reason why. It was a binding.

Willow had kept the living, breathing, very much pissed-off male turkey at her parents’ house. She couldn’t keep it at the dorm, and she didn’t want to ask Giles to keep it. He’d ask questions, the kinds of questions neither witch really wanted to answer. Actually, the spell was quite vague here. It actually called for ‘poultry’, which had upset Tara. She’d insisted that no spell this powerful should be so vague about the ingredients, especially when it was so specific with regard to other things.

Willow wasn’t so sure. Maybe the spell had been written that way deliberately, so magic users could adjust the spell to what they needed. When she had been computer hacking, she had written codes that way all the time. Codes that she could cut up and split and paste to do whatever she needed them to do. Why couldn’t magic spells work the same way?

The weird part was the Halloween portion of the spell task, but hopefully without the whole turn-into-your-costume thing. The ick part, Willow sighed, would be tougher. They had to sacrifice the turkey, and chant … while wearing their costumes. This was where hoping the whole not-Hellmouthy part came into the picture.

She did not need a zombie turkey stumbling down Main Street looking for whatever a zombie turkey would look for.

It was going to be a long night.

They’d worked hard on their costumes, figuring that might be the focus that drew the god to them. The spell didn’t say how to choose which god arrived, so Willow had no idea how she was supposed to control that. Of course, there was always the possibility that she wasn’t supposed to have control over that. Willow didn’t like not having control; she was a big girl, she could admit to having control issues. The problem was that some of the gods and goddesses were reputed to be violent and unpredictable. Sometimes they needed that kind of help, like Xander did now.

So the two witches had decided to split their luck. That was why, Willow reflected, I look like G.I. Jane. She had purchased a set of tight-fitting woodland-green camouflage fatigues from the local Army-Navy store. She wore them with black windwalker boots, black leather gloves, and a black leather belt. Tara doesn’t know it yet, but I’ve got black lace undies on underneath all this guy stuff. “Oh yeah, I feel manly.” She buckled on the last part, the prison riot gear. Willow had found the whole set at Sunnydale’s Salvation Army store.

She didn’t want to know. She really didn’t.

And it fit. Willow looked in the mirror, and snickered at her reflection. How am I supposed to do a spell, sacrifice a turkey, and save Xander in this goofy get-up? Wait, it comes with a hat!

Willow plopped the green-camo boonie hat on her head, laughed like a loon, threw herself on her bed, and wondered when her life had gone so out of control. Best she could figure, it had to be when Buffy entered their lives. Still, things were much worse in their lives without Buffy’s presence. Cordelia’s wish had proven that. Willow made a mental note to track down an outfit similar to the one her vampire-self had been wearing. Despite the skanky overall whore-ness of her vampire self, she had been hot.

Willow would have, in fact, done Vampire-Willow. Or at least considered it.

And didn’t that sound perverted.

Thankfully, Tara chose that moment to enter and took Willow’s thoughts elsewhere. “Sweetie, you look great!” Dressed in a flowing silk chemise with a floaty tulle skirt that brushed the floor, Tara looked like Cinderella. All in pale pink with long gloves and high heels, the blonde witch even had a glittering tiara atop her head. With her hair upswept, Tara looked like a princess.

Mmmm.

Willow stood up, assumed a classic manly pose with Tara in her arms - learned from hundreds of manly movies with Xander, of course - and said the first appropriate manly phrase that came to mind. “Gimme some sugar, baby.”

By the time Rita Skeeter got to Sunnydale, she had called her hotel five times to update her reservations due to ‘unexpected circumstances.’ It was times like these when her position as a journalist came in handy. After all, it was work-related. She’d been delayed because of breaking news, missed a connection or what-have-you, and Bob’s your uncle, that’s that. Luckily, the concierge either had heard it all before and didn’t want to fight with her or her editor, or didn’t want a lawsuit over the right of the press. Does the American constitutional right of the press even apply to me, seeing as I’m a British subject? Rita didn’t care. Possibly, he was just another Sunnydale native who didn’t want to pay too close attention to things … especially those things that weren’t identifiable straight away.

She honestly didn’t care about that either.

Rita was just glad they’d kept updating her reservations in response to her phone calls. She was also glad she’d arrived when she had, with barely enough time to check into her hotel room and ward the damned thing properly before nightfall. After sleeping the sleep of the chronically insane, she’d made the four-hour drive from Los Angeles to Sunnydale in two and a half hours while trying to beat the sunset. And I have the speeding ticket to prove it, too. Rita snickered. Her editor would not be pleased about that. She had not wanted to be outside on the Hellmouth at night for the first time when she was this exhausted.

Staying the extra days had been worth it though.

Even interviewing that vampire had been worthwhile, if creepy. Rita had to admit he was nice to look at; she’d taken several photos of Angel and his group, posed and candid. They should go very well with the article she’d be writing.

This story had everything: sex, drugs, rock’n’roll, violence, demons, vampires, werewolves, and kareoke. Rita wasn’t certain she would have believed it if she hadn’t been there herself, but she had, and she even had the pictures to prove that it all occurred. Thanks to an agogic demon named Lorne, she even had a Quibble of the vampire on stage. Thank Merlin she’d thought to bring one of those handy things along.

A Quibble was similar to what Muggles called videotape, except that a Quibble was semi-sentient and looked like a pastel-colored parrot. Rita didn’t know exactly how the magic worked. It just did. The Quibble watched whatever it was ordered to watch and record; when it was ordered to play whatever it had previously recorded, the playback, well, came back. They were employed as security systems, for private investigation, and as reporter’s helpers (since they could record audio and video). They had enough intelligence to recognize when their job was finished, when they were in danger, that kind of rot, but they weren’t able to think independently. Because of that, Rita didn’t worry much about her job being in danger. A Quibble would never steal her job. They made good helpers, though. If you knew something was going to happen at a particular place, but you weren’t certain when, you could leave a Quibble there with orders to wait and watch.

This particular Quibble had been subjected to the vampire singing Barry Manilow’s ‘Mandy’.

Rita hoped the poor beast hadn’t suffered a stroke from the horror of it all.

Honestly, it had been like watching a train crash. She’d been disgusted, but she hadn’t been able to turn away. The rest of Angel’s employees had been similarly afflicted, and Lorne had gotten her on stage too. It was his price for the chance to get a Quibble of him. Interestingly, when she’d finished singing - a catchy Muggle song by some group about the Roman goddess of love and beauty, Venus, that she’d never heard of - the green demon had grinned and winked at her. He hadn’t said anything else about her future, good or bad, so maybe that was a good sign.

Rita hoped the wink was a good sign. Despite the fact that he was a demon, Lorne worked for the Powers That Be. So he said, and so Angel and Doyle and the others said. Lorne read people’s futures when they sang for him. He was funny and charming and, yes, green with red horns, but she liked him.

That had been after capturing the bad guys, of course. Doyle’s vision had sent them scurrying for weapons because they needed to stop a fight in a bar with morning glories crawling up the windows. These were the kind of flowers that needed morning sun; at least, normal morning glories were. These morning glories actively followed the sun and the patrons … especially those patrons that wore yellow. A sign above the bar warned the patrons about the morning glories - and that the moonflowers in the restrooms were easily agitated.

The name of the bar?

Hanging Gardens.

Rita had thought it all very funny.

There, she’d met the current house band. Apparently Cordelia had gone to school with the guitarist, a werewolf with purple hair. Even stranger was that the lead vocalist was a vampire. Not that anyone seemed to care, or even to notice, for that matter. Rita had never had much to do with werewolves personally, but this purple-haired one was very … quiet. He didn’t say more than ten words total during the entire situation, and yet she still had the impression that he had been very important and everything he said had been very profound. It was very odd. She didn’t understand it at all.

Another thing she didn’t understand was that Cordelia had introduced them and then just added, “he’s a werewolf” as if it meant nothing. To her, it might not; after all, Cordelia had grown up on a Hellmouth where such a thing might have been commonplace. Maybe it was.

Stopping that fight and questioning one of the bad guys had led to news of a ritual sacrifice. One that naturally they had to stop. The problem, though, was something Rita had never before seen. It certainly wasn’t normal magical practice.

Cordelia had assured her that she’d seen it before. “Talent show. Not on this scale, but….”

None of which made Rita particularly thrilled to be going to the Hellmouth. Normal magical rules didn’t apply there. It made her think that perhaps having an Auror present might be a good idea.

The bad guy they ‘interviewed’ had claimed that the ritual-casters were dolls. Living dolls. Literally. Exactly how, he didn’t know or care. Thereafter, they’d all settled down to do research in the books, on the Muggle internet, and on the streets. What they’d discovered had terrified her.

Well, perhaps ‘terrify’ was too strong a word. Rita was certainly concerned, to say the least. The ritual-casters were a species of demon called the Luchasii. They always appeared very benign, very cute, very loving, but that was in reality the farthest thing from the truth. Muggles never had any idea that they harbored these terrible creatures by the thousands, and had made them popular many times over, again and again. Mr. Wyndham-Pryce had pointed out that the fads came on so suddenly in the United States, especially, that the Watchers investigate them; they’d found the fads instigated by the Luchasii themselves through their human handlers.

The Luchasii were soul-stealers.

“The buyer signs a contract -“

“Or the person the buyer bought it for,” interrupted Cordelia. “Like a kid.”

“Yes.” Mr. Wyndham-Pryce paused. “That signature on the contract binds the person to the demon, allowing it to eat the person’s soul.” So the conversation had gone.

It had been Cordelia who had matched brand names on the Luchasii they were fighting: Cabbage Patch Kids, Beanie Babies, Pound Puppies, and so on. The list, Rita learned, was endless. The Luchasii demons were all very similar in some ways, but they varied greatly in other ways. There might even be some of these demons living in wizarding world homes. It wasn’t entirely unusual for children from the wizarding world who visit relatives in the Muggle world to bring back toys of that variety.

Rita shuddered just thinking about their attack on the ritual place. The majority of the Luchasii stood only knee-to-ankle-high, but there were thousands of them. Between those hideous numbers and their control of their now-soulless human handlers, Angel Investigations had their hands full. Rita didn’t doubt that it would make a great story. She just wasn’t sure she’d be able to write it without being violently ill.

Not that it would stop her, of course. Not after all that.

Besides, she wasn’t going to let a vampire claim Rita Skeeter had no honor. Especially not that one!

But tomorrow she was going to face the Slayer. Her questions were all planned, and she knew just where to start.

The morning came all too soon.

Rita prepared herself like a soldier going to war. For all she knew, she very well might be walking into one. She made certain her hair was perfectly coifed, her clothes were pressed, and all her necessary items were stored where she could get to them quickly and quietly. Most important, of course, were scrolls, ink, a camera, film, and the Quick-Quotes Quills. Since she was in Sunnydale -- a.k.a. the Hellmouth - Rita added her wand, a pair of sturdy wooden stakes, a bottle full of holy water with a sprayer top, a long silver knife, and an iron rod.

(She had learned a great deal at Angel Investigations, and had prepared accordingly.)

Her index went into the bag, too. That listed all her sources of information here in Sunnydale that she’d gathered so far. It wasn’t like she expected to get a warm welcome at the Magic Box.

It’d be nice.

Rita thought it was about as likely as Harry Potter inviting her to tea.

Finally, she picked up her bag and her purse, and left the hotel. Fortunately, the Magic Box was just down the street. Rita walked there; after all, it was a lovely warm day in sunny California. She could see why people liked the area, in spite of the Hellmouth. No doubt the real estate prices were low. It was a buyer’s market.

Rita did notice a few things right away that bothered her. People stayed in small groups or couples, even during the daytime. Birds sounded dull, almost as if their sound was faded. Insects were everywhere. People kept their children in sight. That could be just good parenting, especially in today’s age of child abductions, but it still made her wonder. Did they know that there was something dangerous about the town, even if they didn’t want to admit the truth, even to themselves? Rita mused on that all the way to the magic shop.

Her reception once inside was more than enough to bring the professional journalist to the fore. The proprietor - or who she determined must be the proprietor - saw her, opened his mouth with what had probably been a greeting, and then stiffened. He must have recognized her, which meant he was probably also the Slayer’s Watcher. “Mr. Giles, I presume?”

“Ms. Skeeter.” His voice was cool. The late unlamented Lucius Malfoy had been warmer towards her. Of course, Malfoy Senior had usually been trying to accomplish something sinister for his Dark Lord’s benefit. “I imagine you’re here regarding the recent negotiations?”

“Precisely.” Rita didn’t even have to look to know that her quill was scribbling away. It had gotten to be habit now, to take it out automatically sometimes. That was probably a bit rude, but he didn’t seem too terribly upset by its presence.

“I will not give an interview at the present time -“

Well, that was better than an outright no.

“-As we are rather busy. However, I do have a prepared statement for you, if that’s acceptable.”

Rita was impressed. “That would be lovely, thank you.” She took the typed statement Mr. Giles offered, and slipped it into her bag. Obviously this Watcher had style, class, and knowledge of how to work the press; the Aurors needed to learn from him. It was clear that he wasn’t happy to see her, but he wasn’t going to advertise that fact. Rita liked working with another professional.

That was when, of course, everything went pearshaped. One of those damned Weasleys walked out of a backroom, calling for Rupert, and Rita knew it had to be a Weasley because of the red hair and freckles. And of all the bloody children the Weasleys had in that damned family, this one is the Auror sent to the Hellmouth?

It just wasn’t fair.

“Mr. Weasley,” Rita managed to say in a reasonable tone, “I had no idea that the Aurors had assigned you to this case. No doubt your connections and role in the defeat of Voldemort aided you in snatching up such a prestigious assignment.” She had meant it as a compliment, but it had sounded more like a back-handed accusation coming out of her mouth. It was a statement of fact, after all. Still, Rita Skeeter wasn’t going to back down from anything or anyone. She tried to change the subject, since Weasley looked like the top of his head was going to explode. “Hopefully, matters have improved between you and your family….”

She ducked just in time to avoid a knife thunking into the wall behind her head. Obviously, that was still a touchy subject. “Well. You could have just said ‘no comment’ like everybody else does.”

A tiny blonde girl stood in the doorway behind Ronald Weasley, holding another knife identical to the one now quivering in the wall next to Rita. “I could have, but I wanted to make sure you got the point.”

Rita figured this had to be the Slayer.

“Buffy! Stop that this instant!”

“But Giles-“

“Don’t ‘Giles’ me! You,” the Watcher pointed at his Slayer, “back room, training, now.” With a last hostile look, the Slayer returned to her training.

Rita had the distinct feeling that if the Watcher hadn’t been there, the Slayer would have been perfectly happy to use her for a training dummy. Not something she was particularly eager to experience. No doubt Mr. Weasley’s being here wasn’t going to help matters.

“I have nothing more to add, at the current time, to the Ministry’s official position on the alliance,” Mr. Weasley said with gritted teeth.

“Very well. Thanks much.”

Rita wondered why people got so uptight. Interviews with the press really weren’t that big of a deal. She watched the Auror walk into the back room; he wanted to run, she could tell just from the way he carried himself, like someone had strung him right out to a point of no return. She hadn’t gotten this far without being able to read people.

The Watcher, Mr. Giles, was watching her when she stashed her quill away. “My apologies for Buffy, Ms. Skeeter. I’m afraid she doesn’t react well to any kind of perceived threat.”

“Even criticism?”

He sighed and shook his head. “Unfortunately.”

Rita didn’t think that was good at all. “Then the Real World will have some rather rude awakenings in store for her, won’t it, unless she grows up and begins acting like an adult.”

“Quite.”

There wasn’t much else she could say, really. Well, almost nothing. “I’ll be in touch.” He nodded in reply.

Rita left and decided to head for the local college. Why the University of California had chosen to place a campus in Sunnydale was something she might never understand, but the joke was that perhaps something had indeed possessed the U of C to make that decision. It was entirely possible, what with the Hellmouth being present. The concept of the Hellmouth as a sentient or semi-sentient entity enticed and worried her simultaneously. She might research that theory for an article. If nothing else, it might garner plenty of discussion in the wizarding world.

Now Rita wanted a professional’s opinion on the matter. Not that she planned to tell a Muggle about the wizarding world, oh no, that would be foolish and potentially dangerous. She would present it to the psychologist in the form of a hypothesis, a ‘what if?’ situation, not with a lot of details, but enough to be convincing and realistic. She’d also be able to add in some of what the potential problems might be of such an alliance; Rita could just imagine what kinds of weirdos would try to use it to their benefit. California seemed to be full of them.

The door was partly open, so she knocked. Rita’s source had sworn up, down, and sideways that this was the best person currently on the Hellmouth to be interviewed on the topic of psychology. “Is Doctor Margaret Walsh in?”

A tall dark-haired young man stood at one of the cabinets, where he’d been busy filing when she spoke. “No,” he said, after a moment. “May I ask your name?”

“Rita Skeeter, with the Daily Prophet. I have an appointment.” She had the grace to blush faintly. “Although I am a bit early.” Only an hour. I’d expected the Hellmouth to be …bigger.

“Oh.” He closed the file cabinet, ushered Rita into the main office, and showed her to a chair. “I’m Riley Finn, Dr. Walsh’s teaching assistant. Unfortunately, she’s in class at the moment, but if you could wait about fifteen minutes, I’m sure she’d be right along.”

“I could always come back at the proper time…”

“Nonsense.” He smiled.

Rita smiled back. “So, Mr. Finn, what does a teaching assistant do?” She hoped he didn’t notice her hand sneaking into her bag to turn on that quill; she’d bought a Sneaky-Right Charm just for occasions like this one. Sometimes a journalist from the wizarding world had to interview a Muggle for some reason or another. It came in handy; the big handbag helped hide everything, from Muggles and nosy wizarding folk.

By the time Dr. Walsh arrived, Rita had garnered quite a bit of information on the doctor and on her handsome assistant. Dr. Margaret Walsh was a well-known psychologist, specializing in the field of social behavior. She had also trained in the field of forensic psychology. In addition, she had extensive training in biology, chemistry, and held an advanced degree in bioengineering. That last tidbit of information Mr. Finn hadn’t provided, but Rita’s own investigation had, and she found it very interesting indeed.

Mr. Finn - or Riley, as he insisted she call him - was from Iowa. Rita had no idea where that was. His job was to help the professor in her duties, usually by grading papers and other tasks. His parents owned a farm. He was the middle child of five. He’d picked psychology as a major because the Business Administration major didn’t offer the kind of latitude he wanted. “Besides,” he’d added, with a twinkling eye, “it came down to Psychology, History, or English. I speak English just fine, and I know my History already.”

“Ah, but those who don’t learn from history are doomed to repeat it,” Rita had replied.

That was when Dr. Walsh entered. She’d obviously heard the last part of their conversation, since she announced her presence by saying, “Too true, Ms. Skeeter. Too true indeed.”

“Dr. Walsh, I’m so glad to meet you.” Rita stood up and extended her hand politely. The psychologist had a firm grip, and she looked Rita right in the eye without a flinch. “I do hope my being here early doesn’t upset your busy schedule.”

“Not at all.” Dr. Walsh settled herself in the big chair behind the heavy wooden desk. “How can I help you?” The woman’s gaze remained fixed on her, and Rita felt like someone had nailed on a spy charm when she wasn’t looking. Worse, the feeling was reminiscent of her annual performance review, only far more dangerous, like if the newspaper’s Board Members somehow got to review her.

“I’m writing a story requiring the use of a hypothetical situation. Two organizations must work together to solve problems.”

“What kind of problems?”

Rita smiled at the doctor. “Magic. You see,” she played it off as a joke, “the people in this world believe magic and monsters are real. The belief, of course, is all that matters.”

“Do results occur because of this belief?”

“Sometimes.”

Dr. Walsh definitely appeared to be interested in her true-but-not-quite-exact story, so Rita continued. “For a long time, these two groups knew about each other but didn’t acknowledge the other or share information.”

“Why?”

“A difference of opinion. Group A saw magic as a tool to be used like any other, but Group B thought magic too dangerous.” Rita paused a moment to put her thoughts in order. “Group A used magic openly, taught others how to use the skill, and policed those who misused it for greed or evil purposes. Group B studied the end of the world, monsters, prophecies, and all kinds of arcane lore, but didn’t think magic was worth their time.”

“Weaknesses?”

“Group A is a bureaucracy, through and through. Furthermore, it’s just had a thorough house-cleaning. People are settling into new jobs.”

“Why?” Dr. Walsh leaned forward. Rita wondered why she seemed so eager.

“A recent war over magical purity.” She didn’t want to dwell on that. “Group B, on the other hand, has problems with political infighting. They are also a bureaucracy, and their system hasn’t been updated since the Middle Ages.”

“Interesting.” The psychologist steepled her fingers together and leaned back in her chair. “Their strengths?”

“Group A is determined.” Rita chuckled. “In fact, if you asked, both groups would be equally certain that they’re right and the other is wrong.”

“Aren’t we all?” The psychologist smiled. “I suspect it’s a facet of human nature.”

“Group A has more people with a more varied age range and a more varied range of magical specialties. Group B consists of mostly older men and women, but they are spread all over the globe.”

“And now these groups must work together?”

“Correct.”

“Is there a deadline?”

“Some problems would have deadlines, others would not. Obviously a prophecy taking place at a certain place at a certain time would have to be handled in proper time, for example.” Rita hoped that was sufficient.

Dr. Walsh made a noncommittal noise and appeared to be thinking the question over in her mind. Never one to waste an opportunity, Rita used this one to better study the woman on the other side of the desk. A handsome older woman, the psychologist dressed well and expensively, and her blue eyes spoke volumes about ambition. Her hair was nicely curled but not overly ‘done’, as they say; it was a no-nonsense style, very appropriate. Most interesting, Rita thought, was that Dr. Walsh did not color her hair where it was beginning to gray.

A few glances around the office added more tidbits to the plate making up this personality. The psychologist’s desk was as neat as the proverbial pin, obsessively so, orderly to the extreme. Files all had labels, files all had a place, as evidenced by Riley’s actions earlier in her visit. Apparently Dr. Walsh was very strict about her orders, because Riley had made certain his tasks were finished before she’d interrupted their conversation. Very little in the way of personal items here, which could mean many things.

This might not be her main office.

For example. Who knows, this is Sunnydale, she could be anybody.

Riley seemed relatively comfortable around her. Of course, he works for her. Rita suspected he had the same kind of relationship with Dr. Walsh as she did with her editor. Loved on payday, hated all other times, and twice as much right before deadline. It was a very simple kind of hate-hate relationship. He hated to pay her (but did because she was the best), and she hated him (but loved the job and the money). Riley probably looked at the job as a good thing for his resume.

And Riley Finn was cute. Of course, it didn’t necessarily follow that he was smart. On the other hand, he could follow orders well, which was a plus. Still, Rita didn’t think she would do anything about it.

This was Sunnydale. She was here for a story, not to get her end away.

Even if it was tempting.

“Well,” Dr. Walsh answered, “it seems unlikely that the people in your hypothetical world will be able to work together for the long-term, especially if they can’t agree on such a key issue as magic use. For the short term, Groups A and B might be able to manage, using each other’s strengths and weaknesses to hold the other above water.”

That made sense.

“Eventually, though, things will probably fall apart as both sides become disillusioned with the other. Group A says that Group B moves too slowly when action needs to be taken, is callous and cold, and is prejudiced. Group B says that Group A is impulsive and emotional with an untested bureaucracy.”

Rita could see that happening all too easily.

“Particularly if there’s no clear hierarchy between the two groups’ governments, in terms of how they relate to each other.”

She wanted to groan. Even though she didn’t know exactly if anyone had put those details in the alliance documents, Rita would bet no one had bothered. It would a disaster of monumental proportions.

Dr. Walsh smiled. “I hope that’s sufficient for your article, being off the cuff.”

“Of course,” Rita assured her. “Thank you so much for your time.” She left the office, thinking that maybe it was time for lunch. There had to be somewhere good to eat in this town.

Doctor Margaret Walsh watched the British journalist sashay out of her office, then motioned to Finn to shut the door. After he did so, she spoke, “A whole society of magic users? Intriguing.” Already she could see the possibilities unfolding for her projects. There had to be something genetic that allowed some people to mutate and perform these acts they foolishly called ‘magic’, and she intended to find those genetic markers. “We should look into this further.”

“You don’t believe her hypothesis story, then?”

“Of course not.” Walsh couldn’t believe Finn even asked that question. “It was obviously a cover story.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Follow her. Get close, get information.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

After Finn left, Walsh reflected a bit. Her second-in-command shouldn’t have too much difficulty following the woman, not how she was dressed. The Skeeter woman wore a shockingly pink suit with Victorian black lace trim on the sleeves and lapels. Even the skirt had the lace trim and ruffly frou-frous. Her long fingernails had been painted a matching shade of pink, which made them look like claws. She supposed that meant something from a psychological standpoint.

She had thoroughly investigated the woman before allowing the interview. After all, she was a busy scientist, what with teaching these idiot children, running the Initiative, her own projects, and everything else, well, she had to choose wisely. Rita Skeeter didn’t exactly seem to exist anywhere, and neither did this newspaper by which she claimed to be employed.

Those two facts also tended to support the likelihood of an entire society of people with these special abilities like those Ms. Skeeter had described. She hadn’t said much, true, but Maggie Walsh had enough imagination to picture what might be possible. Plus, she had the exposure to the Initiative to know that such things were, in fact, possible. Her own project might even benefit.

Maggie Walsh could also picture what society could be like with those genetic changes in the right places. It would be so much better.

Surely those people they detained would understand, that it was all for the best, all for the good of everybody. Surely they would understand that it was all for the protection of the United States of America, to keep the country safe and strong, and ultimately to keep the world safe and strong.

And what could be more important than that?

After Rita left the Psychology Department, she had wanted to eat something, but had too many places to visit yet. So she settled for a compromise. It happened that a nearby cafeteria offered these ‘wrap’ sandwiches. Rita’d never eaten one before, meat and cheese and vegetables all wrapped up in a warm tortilla, but with a spicy sauce it was quite tasty. With that, and a bottle of mineral water, she could be on her way.

She would have preferred tea, but after seeing the … monstrosities Americans blithely call ‘tea’, she changed her mind. Honestly, it was no wonder the Americans had no taste. No doubt it was from drinking that awful stuff.

After a super-quick lunch, Rita set out on her fact-finding tour of Sunnydale. She had it all planned: where to go, what to do, who to talk to, what to ask, and hopefully what to find. Her first stop was the local newspaper office - where hopefully they kept copies of old newspapers in their morgue instead of corpses - and it turned out to be a gold mine. They’d covered the graduation tragedy, all right, but called it a gas explosion. Rita made copies of that story, and the one about the murder of Deputy Mayor Alan Finch. That, she knew, directly related to the rogue slayer Faith.

She’d also looked up the talent show incident Cordelia had mentioned, to see what - if anything - the newspaper had said. There wasn’t much of interest besides what she already knew had occurred. That would be a question for Mr. Giles at a later date, then.

When she left there, her crocodile bag full of bits and pieces for assembly into a journalistic masterpiece, Rita had no trouble at all spotting Riley Finn trying and failing to be inconspicuous. It was not something the man from Iowa was particularly good at doing.

He followed her the rest of the day. At the ruins of Sunnydale High School, she’d been tempted to do a ‘re-reveal’ spell to show what had happened, and perhaps even get some snaps of the Ascension defeat, but Rita had finally dismissed the idea as a bit too dangerous. There were risks, and then there were risks, and then there was sheer bloody stupidity.

Riley wasn’t close enough that she could guarantee the Mayor-demon would eat him rather than her.

That was the problem with ‘re-reveals’; they could be very helpful to the investigative reporter, but sometimes the reporter wound up sucked into something that had already happened. The Accidental Magic Reversal Squad did not like cleaning up that kind of time paradox disaster. They had their hands full cleaning up assorted missing body parts and matching them with their frantic owners.

Worse, this was the Hellmouth. Doing an already unpredictable spell here, right on top of the damned gateway, would be unbelievably foolish. Rita didn’t consider herself a fool.

Riley followed her to the public library. She wondered what kind of resources the public had available to it, in terms of protection from the dark forces. The answer was, unsurprisingly, not much. That corresponded, unfortunately, with the very short phone interview with Sunnydale’s police chief. He had rambled about the town having a problem with ‘gangs on PCP’, so apparently he either hid the truth or didn’t care.

She would have to ask Mr. Giles about this ‘gangs on PCP’ comment, also. Perhaps the police knew more than they said to outsiders. If that was so, the Watchers’ Council and the Ministry of Magic should probably contact the police. Perhaps it would make matters less … stressful.

The teacher’s assistant even followed her on a quick walk-through of Restdale Cemetary. Rita planned to come back here later, at night, so she wanted to see the place first during the day. According to her interviews in Los Angeles, the slayer patrolled all of the major cemeteries in Sunnydale every night.

She planned to be here tonight, and hopefully the slayer would be here too. Rita would have her wand ready this time, and she wasn’t going to let the slayer pitch more knives at her face.

The Watcher wouldn’t be there to call her off.

What Rita really wanted to know, though, was why Riley Finn was following her around in the first place. She doubted it was because he fancied her, or wanted to go out, or whatever it was Muggles did. True, she was pretty and knew it, but he wasn’t acting like that. Finn wasn’t even playing the part of a shy cherry boy.

He was acting more like he thought he was James Bond.

Or thought he was, anyway.

Riley Finn had no concept of subtlety.

When he followed her to Willy’s, well, that was impressive. Riley didn’t go inside the bar, which was a disappointment, but Rita’d managed to catch a glimpse of his shocked expression that she had. She’d been in worse places than this. Besides, after being in one demon bar, she’d figured one demon bar was more or less like any other demon bar. Obviously, that was a mistaken assumption on her part. Caritas was definitely more high-scale than this place, which was little more than a dive. Even the Leaky Cauldron was more high-class than this place.

The barman had some interesting tales, ones that involved the slayer and her group. He was only too happy to talk after she assured him that his identity would be protected. How, she wasn’t sure, but she’d work it into the story in some dramatic fashion.

Most of the vampires and demons present had tried to push her around, ignoring the fact that the bar was supposed to be neutral territory. Of course, they’d lined up to give their sides of the story when Rita introduced herself, her profession, her employer, and why she was here. When those creatures of the night heard that a journalist wanted their side regarding the Slayer’s duties, well, they jumped, slithered, and crawled at the chance to speak their minds.

It gave her a warm, fuzzy feeling.

When she finally left, it was only because she’d run out of scrolls and ink. Rita had promised to come back another time, perhaps the next night, to finish the rest of the interviews. Her bag was positively bulging, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to face down the Slayer in this condition.

She decided to make a quick walk-through of the cemetery. Perhaps she would see a fledgling vampire rise. That would make a dramatic snap, Rita reflected, but probably a poor interview. She might catch the Slayer, and she might not.

When she heard the sounds of a fight, she figured it was her lucky day. Only it wasn’t the Slayer fighting the vampires in the cemetery, it was a dark-haired young man. The brightly-colored shirt he wore identified him as Alexander Harris, Cordelia’s ex-boyfriend. Interesting that he was alone, since Rita didn’t see any sign of the Slayer or any other member of the group. Then she noticed one of the vampires wasn’t attacking the Harris boy, but was instead attacking the other vampires.

That was very odd indeed.

Before she could get their attention, the fight ended, and the pair left. Rita could only presume that they were patrolling Restdale Cemetery while the Slayer was busy elsewhere. A division of labor, but not a division of fame? At least she would bet the Watcher hadn’t heard about Mr. Harris’ adventures with zombies last year; Willy the barman certainly knew all about it.

Right now Rita wanted food.

She ignored Riley Finn, who was by now probably wondering what was going on, and walked back towards her hotel. During her wanderings of the day, she had spotted a diner that claimed to be open all night, and those were brave words in this town. Rita found the place - simply called ‘Main Street Diner’ - and it was indeed open. She found a booth, seated herself, and looked over the menu.

“What’ll ya have?” The waitress was at her elbow so quickly, Rita didn’t even hear her footsteps.

“Do you have real tea?”

“I’ll go check.” About five minutes later, the waitress returned. “Got Earl Grey back there.”

Rita sighed. That wasn’t her favorite, but it would have to do. “A cup of Earl Grey, please, and the special with tonight’s vegetable.” The girl scribbled it all down, and headed toward the kitchen.

That was when she saw Riley seated in a booth just adjacent to her own. He was still following her. But why? Fact: he’d been following her ever since she left Dr. Walsh’s office. Fact: he worked for Dr. Walsh. Therefore, Rita could safely conclude that Riley was following her on Dr. Walsh’s orders. That, however, led her back to ‘why?’ again.

Even if the psychologist didn’t believe her hypothesis story, so what? Most psychologists - particularly those in the Muggle world, she’d have thought - would have shrugged it off as some kind of joke. Rita had done this same kind of hypothesis-story before, and never once had she been followed. So why was she getting such an odd reaction this time? It was more than a little disturbing.

Her tea arrived, and Rita took a long sip. She watched Riley order his food. She watched him watch her while she thought this problem over in her head. It wasn’t until the waitress brought her meal of roast beef, potatoes, onions, green beans, and more tea that the answer occurred to her.

Dr. Walsh had to be doing something more than just being a psychologist. It was fact that she had a heavily scientific background, and this was the Hellmouth. Dr. Walsh was an expert in her field. Why would she have suddenly chosen to teach at this little out-of-the-way college when other, larger, and more prestigious universities would have been able to present much better offers?

Dr. Walsh was working on some other project with one or more elements that only Sunnydale could provide.

But what?

Riley smiled at her.

Rita smiled back. She didn’t know, but she knew who did. Riley would talk, even if she had to loose her feminine wiles on him. He was cute, so it wouldn’t be a hardship. Rita was a star reporter. She would succeed.

“That bitch! Who does she think she is, telling me to grow up!” Buffy Summers’ voice rang out in the confines of the back room like a death knell. “And, Giles, you agreed with her!” She glared at the Watcher, who was only just now entering the room. Ron was glad he hadn’t said anything beyond the minimum; of course, it’d been all he could do to not strangle the cow.

Rupert was unfazed. “After which, she promptly departed.”

“Good,” Ron muttered.

The Watcher gave him a look the Auror was used to seeing from Hermione. “That’s not particularly professional.”

“You’ve never had to deal with Rita Skeeter on a day-to-day basis, Rupert.” Ron snorted a laugh in disbelief, and ran a shaky hand through his hair. He tried to relax without thinking about the reporter’s question that he hadn’t answered. The one about his family. “I actually hoped she wouldn’t travel all the way to the U.S. I didn’t think she’d do it.”

“Yes, well,” Rupert sighed, “I assumed she would turn up eventually.”

“I should have. God knows I’ve suffered enough misery with that Skeeter cow popping up already.” Ron could think of plenty of things he’d like to do to keep her from popping up in his way, but he instead kept the image of Rita-the-beetle-in-a-jar safely tucked away in his memory. None of them had ever revealed it to anyone; they’d figured keeping Rita’s secret-animagus status safe meant that they’d be able to use it against her, if need be.

Ron doubted the journalist would ever give up her secret weapon of gathering information. After all, no one noticed insects, and people talked freely. If word got out about Rita Skeeter’s animagus status, she’d lose her scoop faster than a golden snitch could fly.

Blackmail was such an ugly word.

Buffy was still fuming, but at least she was attacking the punching bag instead of Ron or anyone else in the room. Ron had to admit, seeing the expression on Rita Skeeter’s face when that knife hit had been pretty good. He certainly hadn’t expected Buffy to defend him like that.

It’d been a long while since anyone had defended him like that. Harry and Hermione were too busy with their own lives lately to bother. His family, well, that was a tale better left unsaid. Ron knew that eventually he’d have to say something, especially since that Skeeter bird had opened her big ugly gold-toothed gob to the others.

That was a conversation he wasn’t looking forward to having. Ron decided to wait until someone asked. Normally, such a decision on his part would have immediately caused someone to ask the question he dreaded, but that didn’t happen this time.

Ron concluded the universe was setting him up for a larger fall. He couldn’t think of any other explanation.

When he tuned back into the conversation, Rupert was fending off questions from three different directions while sending him a rather significant look. Oh yeah, the Watcher definitely wanted to talk to him. Ron had some questions of his own to ask. After a second searching look, Rupert shepherded the two witches to their magic practice, leaving Buffy alone with Ron in the training room.

The Auror sat there silently for a few moments, watching Buffy attack the heavy workout bag. Spin. Kick. Thrust. She moved in a brutal dance, each move one of power and strength joined with grace, caused by a woman of terrible beauty.

He thought how awful it must be to have this great power, but its only use was for killing. While Ron personally didn’t care about vampires, it was still killing - and any kind of killing took a toll, regardless of whether or not some deity said it was your destiny. What did the Powers That Be know anyway? It wasn’t like they had to live here.

“I don’t envy you your task,” Ron said quietly.

He hadn’t expected her to hear the comment, but he’d misjudged Slayer hearing. Buffy stopped her workout, grabbed the bag, and said, “Good.”

For a moment Ron was taken aback by the sharpness of her tone, but realized she might have misunderstood him. Might have thought it a criticism. Unfortunately, Skeeter had been correct about that tidbit, not that he’d say so aloud. “I mean, you’re a Slayer. You kill vampires. Every night.” He paused. “That must be … unpleasant, after so long.”

Buffy shrugged. “Kinda draining, actually.” She gave the workout bag one last punch before coming over to sit next to Ron on the couch. “I got used to it.”

“But you never really do, do you?”

“It’s hard, sometimes,” Buffy whispered. “I worry so much about the others, especially Xander. Giles, Willow, Tara, they all have magic to use against a vamp or a big ugly demon. Spike can take care of himself. Xander hasn’t got magic skills, zero, and he’s never been up there in the fighting department.”

Ron smiled. “That’s why he’s working with Rupert. I think you’ll find that Mr. Harris is quite resourceful, or so my files say.” He realized too late that mentioning the files on the group had been a bad idea, and hurriedly moved on with his original topic even though it was a sensitive one. “You dance with death every night, knowing it could be your last.”

“You make it sound so attractive!” Buffy laughed.

“Why do you do it?”

Buffy shrugged again. “Someone has to.” She glanced at him, her blue eyes boring into his own with a ferocity that matched her strength. “What did that reporter bitch mean, asking about your family like that?” She glanced away. “Feel free to tell me to shut up, if it’s none of my business. It isn’t, I mean, but I was just wondering, and, uh….”

Ron was trying not to laugh, wondering when she would take a breath. “Ow!” She’d smacked him on the leg. “That hurt, that did.”

“What I’m trying to say,” Buffy continued, “is that if you’d like to talk, I’m here to listen.”

Ron wasn’t sure what to say for a minute. It was an honest and friendly offer. Before he could even think about the ramifications, Ron began to speak. “It’s hard to explain, Buffy. The wizarding world has been at war for a long time.”

“How long?”

“A long time. Easily over a decade before I was born. Maybe two decades or more.” He could relate to the disbelieving expression on Buffy’s face. A war that went on for so long, no one is even certain of its length. Now everyone just wants to forget. “It’s real complicated, but the war was over control of magic. Certain people thought that only pure-blooded witches and wizards should be taught the skills or even have the skills. Other people - the rest of us - wanted things to remain the way they were.” Ron knew he was simplifying Voldemort, the Death Eaters, and Harry a huge amount, but there’d be plenty of time to explain everything in more detail later … if Buffy wanted to know them.

Buffy understood right away what he was getting at. “Other people, meaning people like Willow, Tara, and Giles.” Her voice was cold.

“Exactly.” Ron didn’t waste words. “The people we were fighting in this war called themselves Death Eaters.”

“Lovely.”

“Their leader called himself Voldemort. He’d been terrorizing the wizarding world for years, him and his group.” Ron wanted to make it clear to Buffy how serious the threat had been, how frightened people had been, how much he’d had to give. Maybe she would understand like his family hadn’t. “People were in hiding, they didn’t trust anyone, not even members of their own family. Everyone was scared, people were dying all over England. Parents, children, Aurors, teachers, anybody could be a target. The Death Eaters didn’t care who they killed. People were afraid to say Voldemort’s name, even alone, let alone in public.” He paused. “If Death Eaters had captured Willow, Tara, or Rupert and identified them as a Mudblood -“ he spat the awful word. He then caught her confused expression and hurried to explain, “A Mudblood, not a nice term, I should add, is what Death Eaters would likely call a person with magic from a Muggle background. A Muggle is a person with no magic at all.”

“Like Xander.”

“Exactly.” Ron smiled briefly, but it faded once his thoughts turned back to his topic. “Willow, Tara, or Rupert would be killed once they’d been identified as a Mudblood.” Ron spat the hated word again. “The Death Eaters’ concept of magical cleansing.”

Buffy looked ill. “That’s sick.”

Ron nodded. “I know. I became an Auror to fight Voldemort and his Death Eaters.” He took a deep breath. “I got assigned to work undercover, from within the Death Eater organization.”

“Oh my God! You had to join them?”

“Yeah.” Ron remembered the initiation all too well. It wasn’t an experience he ever wanted to repeat. It wasn’t even an experience he liked thinking about. “They gave me the job because … well, because no one ever figured I’d turn out to betray my friends.” Ron laughed bitterly, even though he really didn’t feel in a laughing mood.

He felt like he was going to vomit. “One of my best friends, since we were both eleven, is Harry Potter. Voldemort killed his parents, tried to kill him when he was a baby, and had been trying to kill him for years. I’d been fighting right alongside Harry, then the Aurors ordered me to change sides, and to make it realistic.” Ron decided to bring it home for the Slayer. “It would have been like having Xander suddenly deciding to cuddle up to the Mayor, after three years of you and he saving each others’ lives.”

Buffy didn’t say a word, but she looked like she’d been dealt a deathblow with her own stake. Ron had seen that expression before, about six years ago.

On Harry’s face.

Ron would never forget it.

“My boss told me that I had to make it good.” Ron looked down at the floor, not wanting to see the horror in her eyes when he told her what he’d done. Sometimes he couldn’t believe he’d done any of it. “Death Eaters often started with their own family.”

He heard Buffy’s choked gasp, but didn’t dare look up.

“I grabbed my older brother Percy. He worked for the Ministry of Magic at the time, so it was perfect and it was well-known that he and I didn’t get along.” Ron paused, trying to keep his voice even. “No one in my family knew about my assignment, obviously, and I had just finished my training a few days earlier. Percy’d walked right into it.” Ron recalled how shocked ‘perfect Percy’ had been. It had been the last time he - or anyone else in the family - had used the epithet. Percy certainly wasn’t perfect anymore.

“He’d been tortured for information, for fun, just because. Sometimes Voldemort did it, sometimes one of the others did, or sometimes I did. They didn’t kill him.” Ron sighed, and ran a hand through his hair. He felt so old. “Might as well have.”

“What happened?”

“A double dose of the Cruciatus curse - extreme agonizing pain - over too long a time, combined with a collection of other abuses.” He didn’t want to go into detail exactly what Percy had gone through. There was no need. “By the time it was over, Percy’d … broken,” Ron touched his temple, “here,” and his heart, “and here.”

“He’s absolutely barmy, the healers at St. Mungo’s haven’t got much hope. Mum thinks,” Ron struggled to keep his voice intelligible, “that maybe he’ll get better with time.” Ron looked up at Buffy, and saw that she was crying. “Percy had a girlfriend, too. They’d gotten secretly engaged,” he whispered, “and I killed that.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” whispered Buffy. “You didn’t know.”

“And that makes it all better?” Ron wasn’t going to accept that answer. “Besides, there’s more to the story.” Buffy didn’t say a word. She just curled up next to him and hung on, offering her support. At least that’s what it seemed like to Ron.

“A year after Percy was taken,” he still couldn’t quite use the word ‘kidnapping’ even though it was the more appropriate choice, “the Death Eaters were discussing another problem. One of Voldemort’s primary supporters was Lucius Malfoy - long may he rot! - and I had gone to school with his son. Malfoy, Senior, was complaining about how Draco was his only heir and was of age but had failed to fulfill his part of the ‘contract’ for his inheritance. Namely, Draco needed to marry and sire an heir.” Ron choked back his own tears. He held Buffy tightly, talking more to himself now than to her. “I never thought they’d take me seriously. The Malfoys and the Weasleys have been at every kind of odds since there’ve been wizards in England.” Ron squeezed his eyes shut, and tried to will away the memories. “I brought up my sister Ginny’s name.”

He clenched his teeth.

“And that bastard Malfoy fucking laughed, and said how perfect she would be for his son. And I couldn’t take it back, because I was undercover. And I had to live with knowing what I had done to Ginny, forever and ever.” Buffy tightened her grip, but Ron welcomed the pain. It was less than he deserved. “Ginny was kidnapped. I was given the so-called ‘honor’ of informing her that she and Draco Malfoy were going to be married, whether or not she liked it.” He remembered how shocked - for a split second - Ginny had been before she’d begun screaming at him. Awful, horrible things. Things Mum would have washed out her mouth with soap for thinking, let alone saying out loud. “They were married that night. Malfoy, Senior, had it all planned out. One of the other Death Eaters was an official and he married them, made it all legal.” Ron remembered that he’d actually hoped Lucius Malfoy would forget that little detail. He should have known better. “I still hear Ginny scream in the night, sometimes.”

“What happened to her?” Buffy’s voice was barely audible.

“Draco Malfoy is a selfish, self-centered, cold-hearted son-of-a-bitch, but he’s also one of the most manipulative bastards you’ll ever meet. I hate his guts, always have, but he never got involved in the Death Eater thing like his father did. His dear old dad kept trying to get Draco involved, but he talked his way out of it every time.” Ron had that to be thankful for, at least. Who knew I’d be thanking every god and goddess in existence that Draco-the-bouncing-ferret was a sneaky manipulative bastard? “He protected himself. He protected Ginny. He protected their daughter, Medea.”

That had been what had nearly destroyed the family. Since the marriage had been a real one -- a legal marriage by a legal official - it had held up in wizard court. Ginny’s only defense would have been that she’d been kidnapped, and forced into a wedding she hadn’t wanted to a man she hadn’t wanted to marry. However, everything changed after her pregnancy. “After Medea was born, things changed. Ginny was still a captive and living with Draco. He got more protective and, I don’t know, gentler. I suppose Ginny fell in love with him.”

“They call that the Patty Hearst Syndrome, or something.” Buffy tried to offer him a smile. “When hostages fall in love with their captors.”

Ron grimaced. “After Voldemort was killed and all the Death Eaters rounded up, after it was all over, Ginny refused to leave without Medea. Naturally, Draco had no intention of giving up either his wife or his daughter. In fact, Draco and Ginny held another wedding and invited their family and friends.” He dropped his head into his hands and tried to erase the memories of that terrible day. Fred and George had spent the whole time threatening his life … at least, when they weren’t drinking as fast as he was. “I spent almost the whole wedding at the bar, trying to get so pissed that I wouldn’t remember any of it.”

“Did it work?”

“No.”

“That sucks.”

“Yeah.” Ron sighed. “Things between my family and I had just started to improve to the point where they didn’t cross the road to get away when they saw me coming.”

Buffy winced. “Ouch.”

“My Mum, my Dad, and Draco Malfoy are the only people who’ll speak to me directly. Ginny communicates with me some of the time, but not often; usually Draco delivers her messages, or I get her messages via owl post. None of my brothers are speaking to me yet, and Percy, well, he’s not capable of much yet.”

Ron still felt old and tired, too. He hadn’t respected Professor Snape much before all this, but that had certainly changed since he’d completed this assignment. It had been Severus Snape and Sirius Black who had met him when his extremely lengthy debriefing had ended. If not for the pair of them, Ron was certain he’d never have survived.

How had Snape handled the guilt for all those years? It wasn’t just the guilt, either, that drove Ron mad. The rage, the hindsight, the could’ve-would’ve-should’ve, the confusion: all those came in the night to torment him. The questions followed: what if, if only, why, and how come. Then came the ghosts, the people he’d failed, and it was always Percy who led the charge. Snape and Black kept him from self-destructing.

Black had kept him busy.

Snape had kept him sane.

“Now I’m here,” Ron finished.

“Now you’re here,” Buffy repeated. “So am I.” Both were quiet for a moment. “So,” she began, “how about a date?”

He stared at her. “Do you think we should?” Oh, well done, Weasley, you pratt.

“Why not?”

Why not indeed? Ron could think of plenty of reasons why not, but for most of them he could also think of ways around. This wasn’t something they wanted to rush into, and he said as much to Buffy.

“That’s true. Definitely no rushing.” She paused. “And we can talk about those files later.”

Ron needed to talk to Rupert at any rate; he would just add these topics to the list of those things they needed to discuss. After the scene with Rita Skeeter, Rupert probably wanted details about his family, in short, what he’d just told Buffy. She’d taken it amazingly well. She hadn’t yelled, screamed, or called him a monster. Nor had she thrown things at him.

Instead, Buffy had cried a bit - something Ron gathered she avoided doing - and then tried to comfort him while he spoke. Then, shockingly, she saw him as boyfriend material. He was a bit confused. Ron decided he definitely needed to talk to Rupert. He felt her take his hand in her own and gently - for a Slayer, anyway - squeeze.

He didn’t need to talk to Rupert right this minute.

Anya looked at the crying blonde girl sitting on the park bench next to her, and focused on pretending to be a concerned friend. All she really wanted to do was jump up and down, and yell and scream like she’d seen Xander do when he watched sports on television.

She felt like she’d kicked a home run.

This kid, Seth Cohen, was a real winner, from what her soon-to-be wisher had confided. Anna, that was her name, was in a real mess. Apparently Seth had it real bad for another girl, Summer; Seth had it so bad for this girl he named his boat after her.

Anya had to admit that sounded real bad. Naming an expensive material possession after another woman? She’d cursed men for a whole lot less.

Seth saw Anna as buddy material, but Anna wanted more than that. It had only been recently that he’d begun to see her as someone other than a girl he’d known his whole life and as a possible girlfriend. Anya had seen this scenario before -- hadn’t she? - in the triangle between Xander, Willow, and herself. Or maybe it was between Xander, Willow, and Cordelia. Well, Willow, in any event, had gone through what Anna was going through now - hence why Cordelia had called on her in the first place.

But this situation was a little different. Here, it was the male who couldn’t decide what he wanted, and the females - for some reason - were content to wait for him to choose who he wanted the most. Sure, they yelled at him, but nothing changed. Seth Cohen had actually invited both Anna and Summer to his house as his date for Thanksgiving dinner at the same time, and thought he’d get away with it without either girl finding out about the other. That plan failed miserably, but even that didn’t change anything.

If Xander had even attempted such a thing with Willow and Cordelia, his body would have never been found. Anya was certain of that fact.

Willow and Cordelia would probably be very happy together.

“And she likes him even more now,” Anna sobbed. “I just don’t understand it.”

Anya didn’t understand it either. Unfortunately, a lot of women out there were like this Summer chick. “I do. Men are pigs.”

Anna laughed through her tears.

Of course, Anya has one little problem. She’s not a justice demon anymore, so she can’t grant wishes, but that’s fine. She’s got a plan. After all, she hadn’t been a demon when she turned a certain no-good useless man into a troll, either.

It’d been a long time since Anya’d done any magic. Hopefully those cartoons Xander liked to watch - that she’d gotten to enjoy, too, the ones where all the characters had huge eyes and funny names - would help her out and remind her how magic was supposed to work. Willow kept making mistakes, so obviously she must be doing something wrong.

Anya wasn’t going to mess this up. She just wasn’t cut out to be human, mortal, and wrinkly. She was good at raining down vengeance upon men, and she enjoyed it. Vengeance was fun. Plus, D’Hoffryn had a terrific benefits plan.

“The worst part,” whispered Anna, “is that I’m in love with the dummy.” She rubbed at her face with the back of her hand. “He doesn’t care, he just keeps going after that black-haired bitch.”

Anya decided now was a good time to ask. She could feel it. “So, what would you want if you could have him punished for being so uncaring?” She’d learned that some girls had to have it spelled out for them. Cordelia hadn’t been one of them, but Anya had determined that - had she gone to the Slayer instead - such tactics might have been necessary.

The blonde looked like she was thinking it over. Good. Anya appreciated a challenge, particularly in this case. Something really spectacular would get D’Hoffryn’s attention. “I wish Seth Cohen would find out exactly what it was like when people are so uncaring.”

Anya smiled. She had an idea.

She hurried off to set it into motion, leaving the girl crying on the bench. Anna shouldn’t worry; she’d find someone else soon enough.

It didn’t take Anya long to get the ingredients she needed. She knew exactly what she had in mind for Seth Cohen, the perfect place. Technically, she couldn’t create a world for Seth, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t send him somewhere else that had already existed.

Someplace where women were little more than property, and the men were barbarians. Someplace where people didn’t care.

Anya laughed, long and hard.

Reeling the boy in wasn’t difficult. Like all men, his ego and his penis led him. Anya had dressed in a skimpy bikini, and headed down to the marina where she knew she’d find him. Hallie would be standing by to help with that bit, not that Anya expected to need any help. After all, Anya knew she was attractive - Xander had said so, over and over and over again - and Seth would be likely to try for a third girl on his string.

It worked.

She’d smiled at him. He’d flirted back. Words were exchanged. They’d walked off together, since she had an apartment … or so she’d told him.

He had no idea that the guppy he thought he’d hooked was actually a piranha, and she was hungry.

Anya was excited. Everything was going off beautifully. The chanting was in tune, the entrails were bloody, the herbs were stinky, and the smell of victory was in the air. Of course, that could have been the rotting meat. Hallie had ‘borrowed’ Seth’s boat; they were going to need it later.

With the demoness standing nearby, Anya chanted in her native tongue, using a dialect she hadn’t spoken in over twelve hundred years. Last time, she had turned a man into a troll. This time, she planned to turn a boy into a girl … but with a twist.

Luckily, they’d bound and gagged the boy. Usually, Anya enjoyed hearing men scream, beg, and grovel for mercy they didn’t deserve. This time she didn’t want any distractions.

The first part of the curse worked perfectly. He was now a she, and very pretty, too. The female version of Seth Cohen was petite and delicate, fair-skinned, with long dark hair and big dark eyes. Hallie magically clothed the girl in garments more appropriate for a maiden: white and floaty, with a simple necklace. Perhaps they would think her a child of the gods. Hallie then made the girl sleep - she wouldn’t awaken until arriving at her destination - and placed her into a simple wooden boat.

Halfrek pushed the wooden boat out to sea at just the right moment in the second part of Anya’s curse. This was the twist: she was sending the girl-who-had-once-been-Seth-Cohen backward in time. Specifically, in fact, she was sending the kid to about ten minutes or so after she herself had gone to work for Lord D’Hoffryn. Of course, that was assuming she hadn’t messed it all up somehow or another. If the kid was lucky, the villagers would conclude that the gods had sent the former Seth Cohen as a replacement for me. If not, well.…

Either way, Seth Cohen would learn about people who didn’t care.

Anya knew that for a fact.

Vikings had been masters at not caring.

Especially if you were female, and married to one.

Anya smiled again, as she felt the magic begin to work. She nodded to Halfrek, who lit the torch. The flame jumped from the torch to the boat, the Summer, and the spark bounced, snapping shut the temporal portal, taking the wooden boat with it. The female Seth had gone into the past. The second boat, the Summer, sat adrift, in roaring flames, and would adequately explain the boy’s disappearance.

For a while, at least.

After all, this wasn’t Sunnydale.

Now Anya calmed herself for the final bit. It was the most important: a beseeching to Lord D’Hoffryn. She knew he was watching, he followed every bit of vengeance performed by everybody everywhere. He wasn’t a Demon Lord for nothing. Her chanting grew louder and she fought to contain her excitement. Everything had been perfect. She had managed a perfect record until talking to Cordelia Chase, and Anya still believed that someone else bore the ultimate responsibility for that disaster.

“I agree, Anyanka,” came the deep bell tones of the Vengeance Lord. His voice had a pleased sound to Anya’s practiced ears. “You’re just as creative as ever. You’ve been missed.” There was a pause. “Welcome back.”

A familiar necklace appeared on the beach at Anya’s feet. “Thank you, Lord D’Hoffryn.” Even though she was tempted to scream with joy and grab the center of power, Anya was smart enough to mind her manners. She’d spent too long in Her Lord’s court to know the proper proprieties. Not thanking Her Lord first would be both bad manners and would not be good for her continued existence.

“You’re welcome.” He chuckled. “Go, take it. I have lots of work for you.”

Now Anya did scream with joy and grab the center of power. It was now okay because Her Lord had allowed her to do so. Work was good. As she slipped the center of power over her head, Anya could feel the power flooding back through her body. She cracked open one eye to peer at Halfrek, and saw the demoness beaming with pride. She wasn’t certain but thought Hallie might even be crying.

Oh yeah. Anyanka is back in town.

She was a demon again, even though her hands didn’t look any different. There was only one thing she could think of to say: “I love it when a plan comes together.”

Willow didn’t think she’d ever been so tired. Tara was all but asleep on the bed, but they had to do these steps tonight. The two of them were just about at the halfway point in the old spell. She’d thought that soul restoration spell for Angel had been draining, and that had just been a one-time thing. Of course, she’d just come out of a coma, so that might have had something to do with it.

This spell was even more everything than that soul restoration spell, and she wasn’t even sure it was going to work. She and Tara had done the prep work in the afternoon for this evening. By that, Willow meant they’d spent all afternoon prowling the antique shops all over the area looking for a gramophone.

For some reason, the spell required one.

Willow had to admit that it seemed odd that such an old spell in such an old spellbook would mention something like a gramophone. She said as much to Tara, somewhat hesitantly after the way the blonde witch had acted earlier. Tara had been very upset by this spell, convinced that something was just not right.

“I said that before.”

And it wasn’t like Tara to do the snippy ‘I-told-you-so’ deal. She must really be tired.

“Sorry, honey.” Tara smiled. “I’m tired and worried. I didn’t mean to snap at you.”

Willow went over and hugged her girlfriend. It seemed like it had been a long time since they’d touched each other properly. Not something as part of a spell, or a celebration as having survived yet another battle, but a romantic kind of something just for the two of them never happened. Every time they tried to plan such an interlude, well, there always happened to be an apocalypse that week.

“That’s okay, sweetie. I love you.” Another hug, this time one that lingered. Willow decided she might as well enjoy the hug, and groped around a little bit. Tara giggled. No, I have no shame, none at all. Unfortunately, the microwave dinged before they managed to have any real fun.

Willow wasn’t entirely sure about using a microwave here in the first place, but they weren’t using the water per se. The two witches needed some drops of water. Rainwater would have been ideal, but it hadn’t rained in weeks. She didn’t particularly like the idea of using Hellmouth city water unless it was boiled, hence the microwaving. Tara had suggested spring water, but that brought up the issues of what influenced which gods again. They were trying to keep those kinds of influences to a minimum. That way, Willow hoped the spell had a better chance of working.

So, microwaved sanitized water.

It made Willow sad. The water was awful bland. What if the gods are so offended by this yucky bland water that they blow us off? Maybe I should put some herbs in it, something light and unoffensive? She wondered if the idea might work as a good topic for her psychology term paper: The Sanitizing of America , or something similar. The topic needed some work, but the general idea was sound.

Why not? Willow fetched a handful of herbs for the water. Hopefully it would draw the kinds of gods they needed most. One part juniper berries, one part rosemary, and a few drops of olive oil: the combination didn’t smell very good, but it had to work.

“Are we ready?”

Willow thought so. Everything looked ready so they could get started. “Hot water, check.” She pointed to where the large super-sized mug of water - liberally dosed with herbs - sat steaming on the small table. The gramophone was ready and waiting next to it. Willow only hoped the antique worked; she wasn’t even sure how to start it, and she doubted it was electric.

There was only more thing they needed.

It had nearly killed both of them when they’d read ahead to that night’s task, since it was a terrible thing to do. They had argued over it earlier, but Willow had been insistent. She wasn’t going to stop.

The spell called for a sacrifice of an animal sacred to Bastet - a cat - and they just happened to have one handy. They’d decided that shaving their cat would be enough of a sacrifice. After all, neither of them thought the Lady Bastet would have wanted people to kill her favorite animals.

They had two packs of safety razors, and two small electric razors, and hopefully that would be enough. Willow looked over to where their cat, Miss Kitty Fantastico, was curled up into a ball of happiness. Obviously Miss Kitty had no idea what was coming.

Willow and Tara started the gramophone playing a specific tune - one of which she’d never heard and had luckily also managed to find at an antique store - and began to chant in unison. While Tara began flicking water and preparing the razors, Willow got down to business.

She captured the cat. With a deep breath, she used a sedative to knock the animal unconscious. Miss Kitty’s vet had been very helpful, not that he knew the whole story, of course. Tara flicked water, chanted, and shaved. Willow flicked water, chanted, shaved, and kept reminding herself of two things.

Miss Kitty Fantastico’s not dead.

I’m doing this to protect Xander.

Willow kept thinking these things over the whirring of the razors, and hoped it would all work.

Rupert Giles had been happy to close up the shop today. Still no sign of Anya, and Xander was becoming increasingly frantic. Willow and Tara were being rather secretive of late, which was always a good reason for concern. God alone knew what they were doing. He still vividly recalled the fallout from Willow’s will-be-done spell that had gone so awry.

Unfortunately, the Watchers’ Council had also heard about it. Travers still referred to the incident every now and again.

Plus, he’d had his chat with the Skeeter woman. He didn’t particularly like her, but she was a journalist, and it never paid to aggravate them. Nevertheless, the interview had gone relatively well, he thought, in spite of some interesting questions. Rupert wanted to know who her sources were. If that bastard Travers had fed her information, he would feed the Senior Watchers’ Council Member to a dragon.

Lastly, Joyce was coming over for dinner tonight. That was why Rupert now found himself baking a cake. Rather foolish, he supposed, since there was no way to tell whether or not it would be cooled in time to have a piece for dessert. Rupert began beating the cake mixture while he thought.

He had always found cooking to be very soothing.

Not something of which his father had approved. Oddly, there was some comparison between cooking and magic: the ritual, the recipe, the precision in measuring the ingredients, the mixing of the ingredients, and the using of the finished product for a specific purpose. Rupert found the precision and the rigidity of a recipe comforting. Rules existed for a reason.

Cooking also involved patterns. Certain items, like biscuits, could all be made in the same general way. He found patterns to be comforting, too.

Honestly, why did I ever get involved with chaos magic, Ethan Rayne, and all his ilk anyway? Then Rupert remembered. Oh, yes, that’s right. I was young and stupid, and rebelling against my father. Well done.

In any event, the patterns and the soothing rigidity of cooking helped him think, and Rupert needed to do that right now. After Ms. Skeeter’s visit, Rupert had waited patiently for Ron to come to him. The boy was young, not stupid, and he’d seen every bit as much in his life as the children Rupert supervised, if not more, with more responsibility. Eventually, Ron had come, and they’d gone to Ron’s flat to talk.

While it had been difficult at first to concentrate on what Ron was saying with an owl flying in circles around their heads and hooting madly, Rupert had learned the entire story. Ron had eventually grabbed the bird and shushed it rather fiercely, and then proceeded to stroke the bloody daylights out of it while he talked.

Rupert had been horrified by what he had learned. Not in the sense that he blamed Ron, but in the sense that someone, somehow, didn’t intervene to help he and his family mend. Why hadn’t Percy been rescued? Surely the Aurors knew he’d been taken, and certainly Ron could have arranged it somehow so it looked like any other raid. He must have had an outside contact, so surely something could have been arranged. The situation with his sister was a little trickier, but certainly she could have been rescued before she became emotionally entwined with Malfoy, Junior. Rupert wondered if there was a treatment regimen for Stockholm Syndrome, which certainly seemed to be what had happened here.

However, Rupert noted that this Draco Malfoy character might not have been given a choice in this marriage either. The boy’s father might very well have threatened him to do so or else. Rupert supposed Ron didn’t notice that detail; he was too close to the problem to see it clearly.

Still, young Malfoy had protected his wife and child, and he had stayed out of the entire situation (or, at least, as much as he was able without making himself a target). In his opinion, Rupert felt the boy had done smashingly well, all things considered.

None of this helped Ron, however.

Rupert wanted to do just that.

It was too late for Rupert to salvage his relationship with his own family. Now he was forming his own, immediate and extended. Perhaps he could help Ron salvage his own relationships before it was too late.

He poured the very well-beaten mixture into a very well-greased pan, and placed the pan into a preheated oven. Rupert turned to his next task: chopping vegetables for a stir-fry. Yes, that would be perfect.

After readying the vegetables, preparing a clean workspace, and selecting a knife, Rupert settled into a rhythm. He watched the vegetables fall, one by one, piece by piece, into the bite-size portions required by Asian cooking. It allowed him to think, this time about Buffy.

He didn’t want to get overly involved in her love life. After all, it really wasn’t any of his business. On the other hand, Buffy was practically his daughter and he only wanted what’s best for her. She has a past history of having poor taste in boyfriends.

Rupert thought Ron Weasley much better for Buffy than any other of her past choices thus far. The boy had a good job and a good salary. Ron was intelligent, well-educated, and resourceful. True, he had some problems relating to his past, but Rupert could relate. Better still, he could understand.

Rupert’s concern was more focused on Buffy’s well-being, of course. He wanted to make sure that they weren’t going to be courting unless he planned to stay, and yet at the same time he had no real control over that. All he could do was be the best father to her that he could be. That meant being there whenever she needed him.

Buffy couldn’t think of anything to say to Ron. It was more than a ‘having-a-don’t-know-what-to-say’ moment. She just sat there with him, holding on to him, trying to comfort him through that painful story. There might not be anything she could say, but she could hug him. The Slayer sighed. Maybe it would help.

She could hope.

She could admit it, she hadn’t liked Ron much at first. Mostly, Buffy had expected the Auror to be Wesley 2.0, and there was no way in Hell she was going to allow that. Giles was her Watcher, nobody else. So she’d been concerned about the Auror thing, even after Giles had explained it to everybody. Giles had been worried about something - not that he’d said - but she’d seen the ‘Oh Dear Lord’ expression on his face that usually merited their annual apocalypse.

Then Ron Weasley had showed up on their doorstep, and he so wasn’t at all what she had expected. Well, in some ways at least. First, Auror Boy was cute even if he was British. He owned one tweed sports jacket. He drank tea. Second, he hadn’t treated her either as ‘the idiot blonde’ or ‘the Slayer.’ He called her ‘Buffy’, like Giles did, like she was a normal person.

Third, Buffy had to admit Ron had made a point about Spike. All they had was the vampire’s word, and they all knew how manipulative the blond vampire could be. Giles was supposed to be working on that, but she wondered if the Watcher had given the job to Xander.

Fourth, Xander had made an equally good point about Ron. Magic just wasn’t enough, not here. Giles was one of the most powerful sorcerers she’d ever seen - although he rarely worked magic these days, it was too tempting - and yet he could defend himself equally well with all kinds of weapons. Willow knew how to use a sword and a club, but she mostly relied on her magic; she could fight, though, and really well. Xander used a battle axe like a Viking, or so Anya said. Plus, he had kept all those memories from Halloween as a soldier: guns, knives, demolitions, martial arts, etc. Buffy had never mentioned that now she could do really exquisite needlepoint. That’ll really terrify the vamps, won’t it? Picking that dress was not my best decision of the night, looking back on the whole event. And let’s not forget, “Is it a demon?” Buffy sighed. She knew the punchline by heart; Xander never tired of needling her with it. “No, Buffy, it’s a car.” I’m never going to live that down. Everybody, of course, could use the basics: a cross, holy water, and a stake.

Ron was willing to learn, and that surprised her. Now it might have been because Giles told him to, and because Giles was in charge, but Ron had been training with Xander and Giles every day. She knew because she made it a point to watch. Buffy had forgotten how nicely Xander’s muscles looked from Swim Team, and seeing him half-naked and sweaty made her wonder if he’d stayed on the team after getting rid of the coach.

She was still thinking when Ron left. Where he was going, she didn’t know but it wasn’t any of her business either. Buffy suspected that Ron was going to talk with Giles about the same stuff he’d just told her. If that was the case, she definitely didn’t want to disturb either of them tonight. Hopefully patrol would be quiet.

She should have known that wouldn’t be the case.

I can’t get that lucky, Buffy reflected wryly, staking one vampire and throwing another one into the air. Although the Hellmouth had been pretty quiet, which was always of the good, it made her worry about what prophecy or apocalypse she might be missing. Those things were like other people’s birthdays: they sneaked up on you and attacked when you least expected ‘em.

Hence why being the Slayer sucked.

Hence? Buffy grabbed and staked another vampire. I’m definitely spending way too much time with Giles.

She didn’t see any more vampires - or anything else that needed an asskicking - so she continued her patrol. Buffy was on her own tonight with Ron probably still doing the talking-thing with Giles. Willow and Tara had been working on something, but she didn’t want to know what. She really didn’t want to know, not after that will-be-done spell. Eww, married to Spike? That’s disgusting. That’s worse than disgusting. Buffy shuddered. Yuck.

Xander was doing some of her patrol area tonight, and the annoying blond vampire was supposed to be with him. Of course, she didn’t think Spike would help the Scooby if he thought he could get away with not helping. That was why she was going to have to be tougher on Spike from now on, to make it perfectly clear that his unlife rested on their goodwill. And since Spike’s tried to kill us all at some point in the past, I don’t think he passes the Trustworthy Test. Just because we’re the good guys doesn’t mean we won’t stake him.

Thinking about Spike led Buffy to think about Angel. She’d thought him to be her one true love, once upon a time.

Too bad this wasn’t a fairy tale, complete with a fairy tale ending. Prince Charming carried Cinderella off to his mansion where they lived happily ever after, or until he lost his soul again, whichever came first. Thinking about Angel in terms of a relationship and what might have been was depressing. Just seeing Angel these days was tough. Maybe he’d been right to leave; neither of them could have gone forward with their lives if they’d both stayed in Sunnydale.

Angel had made the tough decision and left.

Buffy could see it had probably been the right decision. Of course, that didn’t mean she had to like it, but she was going to have to cope and deal, especially if she wanted to prove that Skeeter bitch wrong.

So - Angel. Buffy put her relationship with the broody vampire in the past. It wasn’t going to be easy, but she’d just have to work on her feelings for Ron. Maybe take that cookie dough I mixed and froze for Angel, and bake it for Ron instead.

I need a better way to describe this.

Riley Finn had been a mistake, too. She wasn’t entirely certain, but Buffy thought she’d been trying to replace Angel with someone else as quickly as possible. After that whole thing with Parker - it still stung - she’d seized the first guy who showed an interest and who wasn’t a vampire. Their relationship hadn’t worked because Riley was far too controlling; he wanted Buffy to be his ‘little missus’ for him to protect, even though she was stronger than he was.

The Slayer-Thing had killed it.

Sort of.

Riley’s perception of the Slayer-Thing had killed it. Well, that, and the fact that Riley felt threatened by Xander Harris. Buffy reasoned it had to be because Xander didn’t trust Riley and had made that clear. Xander acted very big-brotherly, even if he never came out and said so. It was probably why he never really saw Willow at all during high school. Xander thought of her like a little sister. Of course, Xander hadn’t trusted Angel, either, right from the start.

Xander did like Ron. At least, the Xan-Man hadn’t said anything negative since that first day, and that complaint had been handled. The two of them got along and joked like old friends. Buffy felt reassured that the Auror had passed the Xander Harris Test.

But she’d ask him tomorrow, just to make sure.

So what do I want?

Buffy thought about that during her patrol. Luckily, the rest of it was quiet. Good thing, she needed to think. She wanted a man who didn’t have an issue with the slaying. Granted, it was a pain in the ass, but it was her pain in the ass. And, hey! Destiny calls, you’re supposed to answer, right?

He not only had to be okay with the slaying, but he had to be okay with the other stuff, too. Buffy’s strength or agility could not wig Mr. Right. All the mojo flying every which way could not wig Mr. Right. Buffy didn’t see anything that freaky about it anymore. Of course, she’d dated a vampire, Willow had dated a werewolf, and Xander was dating an ex-demon.

And I thought my life was a soap opera at Hemery High School….

Naturally Buffy wanted all the ‘good stuff’ in Mr. Right: a handsome, charming guy with a good job and good prospects. He’s loving, good with kids, smart, funny, polite, and resourceful. She didn’t care how much money he had or what exactly his job was, so long as Mr. Right was happy with what he did and as long as it was legal.

Another important point: Mr. Right had better be faithful, or he’d be scratching his ass through his intestines. Buffy wasn’t going to stand for what her so-called dad, Hank Summers, had put her mom through over that summer. She’d honestly thought the onset of the Slayer power - and, well, burning down the school gym - had contributed to the divorce, but then to find out that Dad had been sleeping around with his secretary!

Buffy’d been tempted to practice her Slaying punches on Hank Summers. She hadn’t, though. Now he was dating some girl her age, which made her gag. It was truly sick-making.

So. Faithfulness. Big issue.

By the time she got done with her patrol, Buffy decided not to go back to the dorm tonight. She needed to talk to her mom, and hopefully her mom would not be in a liplock with Giles. Going to have to get used to that, since they’re getting married. Still disturbing. Bad candy images.

Her mom was there and Giles was not when Buffy arrived. “Honey? Something wrong on patrol?”

The Slayer’s Mom, asking about patrol. It made Buffy smile. Oh yeah, the Watcher’s wife. “No, it’s pretty dead out there.” She entered the house and sat next to her mother on the couch. “This is a good thing.”

“A very good thing,” her mom agreed. “So what’s the matter?”

Mom always knew. “Just thinking.”

“About what?” Buffy watched her mom get up from the couch and walk into the kitchen. “It must be pretty important for you to come here all of a sudden after patrol instead of going to the dorm.” She came back into the living room carrying a tray with two mugs full of cocoa, and sat back on the couch.

Buffy happily took one of the mugs from her mom. She sneaked a quick look inside the steaming hot mug full of chocolatey goodness: lots of little marshmallows and a pinch of cinnamon. “How do you know when you’ve found the right guy?” The question was out of her mouth before she could figure out the best way to ask.

Her mom made a noncommittal noise and sipped her cocoa. “A possible new boyfriend?” She raised an eyebrow. “He has a pulse, I hope?”

Buffy blushed. “Yes, mom, he does, and he’s not from Iowa, either.”

“Good. I didn’t really like Riley.”

“Mom! You never said!”

“You didn’t ask.”

Buffy made a face. “That is such a lame answer.”

“Remember you said that because I certainly will.”

Buffy sighed. “Mom, come on? Tell me?”

Her mom chuckled and took another sip of her cocoa. “It’s just one of those things, honest. You’ll know when you’ve found the right guy.”

“How, though?”

“You just will. I can’t explain it. You’ll know that this is the guy and you won’t want to let him get away.”

Buffy drank some cocoa and thought about that for a moment. “Is that how you feel about Giles?”

Her mom looked at her, all serious now. Well, the conversation had been serious before, but now it was really serious. “Yes.”

“And he feels that way about you?”

“Well, he says so but you might ask him.” Mom smiled faintly.

Buffy knew that her mom still hurt over what Hank had done, even if they’d never really talked about it. Buffy knew how she would feel. “I’ll do that.”

“See you in the morning, Buffy.”

“Good night, Mom.” Buffy would talk to Giles later. After all, he’s practically her dad. She needed to get his opinion … and his intentions regarding her mom.

By the time dessert arrived, Rita had managed to cajole Riley into joining her for dinner. That way, she’d said, they could continue their conversation from earlier, and they’d proceeded to do just that. This time, though, Rita had a specific goal: to find out what Dr. Walsh was hiding. She wasn’t a star reporter for nothing. She would bet her by-line that the psychologist was hiding something; Rita could smell the ink of the headline drying on the page. It smelled so good, like violets blooming in the spring or fresh oranges right off the tree. Rita sighed. It almost brought a tear to a reporter’s eye. This is no time to get sentimental, you daft bird. Focus.

The first thing she learned was that Iowa was located roughly in the middle of the United States. It was a state renowned for corn, wheat, cows, and fairs.

How nice.

The second thing Rita learned was that Riley Finn had to be involved in whatever Dr. Walsh was doing. Not just because he was so conspicuously following her, but because he was from Iowa. When she’d asked him why he’d chosen U.C.-Sunnydale, Riley hadn’t been able to produce a good reason. Or, at least, a reason that she believed. He’d blathered on endlessly about his T.A. position and the California sunshine, but Rita knew bollocks when she heard it.

Nothing he said convinced her that it was all coincidence. Dr. Walsh just happened to decide to take a teaching position at U.C.-Sunnydale when she had much more prestigious universities knocking at her door. Riley Finn just happened to choose U.C.-Sunnydale when it made far more sense for him to have gone someplace else. He left Iowa to go all the way to the pacific coast. If California sunshine was that important to him, why not attend a better known college like U.C.L.A., Stanford University, or U.C.-Berkeley? On top of all that, both Finn and Walsh arrive at approximately the same time. Rita was convinced. They had to be working together.

Most witches and wizards didn’t do very well at figuring logical problems or even thinking in a logical manner. Rita had worked hard to hone her skills in that area. Every good investigative reporter should be able to think logically and make deductions based on the facts.

She’d been trying to decide on the right hook for reeling in Riley Finn. It couldn’t be the truth, but Rita suspected he might detect an outright lie. She wasn’t sure the risk would be worthwhile. So while they talked on a variety of subjects, she listened carefully to what wasn’t said to try to decide what to do. Rita knew Riley knew about Sunnydale’s ‘night life.’

Did Dr. Walsh?

Except for the Hellmouth … and the vampires … and the demons … and, well, and all the accompanying odd things that tended to occur on and around a Hellmouth, Sunnydale really was perfectly ordinary. A slice of small-town America, Rita supposed, if the residents didn’t mind that they lived Halloween twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, 365 days a year. But then, most of the residents are blind to everything they see that’s even the slightest bit out of the ordinary. Rita had read the nickname for the term in the files: ‘Sunnydale Syndrome.’

Still, it was the only thing that separated Sunnydale from every other little town in California.

Sunnydale had the Hellmouth.

Sunnydale was the Hellmouth.

Rita couldn’t think of any other motive for them to be here. So she decided to ease the subject of conversation to Sunnydale’s night life, and do it in a manner that wouldn’t scare Riley away. Of course, the diner’s meager supply of real tea had ended. Rita didn’t particularly like coffee. It figured. “So you’re familiar with Sunnydale’s night life?”

“Unfortunately.” Riley stared at her.

Rita tried again. “So you don’t like what you find out there?”

“Not at all.”

Interesting. “No. There’s a lot of yobs, some of the certain kinds of night life, if you know what I mean.” She glanced at Riley. “The world might be better off without them.”

After a moment, he said, “Will you meet me tomorrow for lunch?”

“Are you asking me on a date?”

Riley sputtered. “No! I mean, not exactly, I mean, well….”

“You are!” Rita couldn’t believe her luck. Maybe he’s going to tell me everything!

Riley sputtered a bit more, but finally managed to spit out actual words. “Just meet me here tomorrow at noon. Okay?” The teacher’s assistant stood, paid his bill, and left. Rita left not long after; she had a lot of work to do that night.

Eager to hear what Riley wanted to say, Rita was waiting at the diner before noon the following day. She’d spent the whole morning organizing her notes from last night, and seeing where they fit in with her possible stories. That little exercise showed her what bits of information she sorely lacked.

It was amazing how informative the vampires and demons were last night. They had told her all the current rumors in Sunnydale, some of which were just a bit too odd to be believed, even for the Hellmouth. One concerned a vampire that had turned traitor, openly aiding the Slayer to kill other vampires and demons. Rita wondered if that had been the blond vampire she had spotted in Restdale Cemetery the other night. She had thought it prudent not to ask at the time, however; the topic of Spike seemed to be a volatile one. The rumor about ‘Room 314’ was intriguing, and bore out her theories regarding Dr. Walsh’s motives.

Rita could freely admit that she was a bit nervous. I have no idea what these people are doing. They don’t like vampires or demons. Who knows how they feel about witches or wizards? It reminded her uncomfortably of Professor Binns’ History of Magic classes. America had not been a nice place for wizarding folk, or even anyone they suspected of doing witchcraft. Now the country was a magical wasteland that happened to house a Hellmouth.

She figured that couldn’t possibly be a coincidence.

Lowenstein’s Law of Magical Similarity, perhaps?

So she was looking forward to whatever Riley’s big secret was. By the time he finally arrived, Rita had drunk three cups of tea and eaten most of her lunch. Riley was fifteen minutes late, and that was a kind estimate.

Lateness counted against him.

“Ready to go?” Riley looked and sounded nervous, even though he was trying to be like nothing was wrong, and that got Rita’s attention.

“You haven’t eaten.”

“I ate already.” He looked away, which was just as well in Rita’s opinion.

“Why’d you invite me to lunch if you were going to eat before me, then?” Men were so annoying. She frowned at him, knowing that her famous glare had been known to set brooms aflame, make children cry, and cause mirrors to shatter. Or so she’d been told, anyway. Or maybe it was ‘make children shatter, cause mirrors to flame, and make brooms cry.’ Rita couldn’t quite remember how it went, but no matter. It wasn’t really that important anyway. The important bit was that sometimes those horrible rumors could be useful once in a while.

Riley snorted like a hippogriff. “Look, you ate lunch when I wasn’t here, and now you say something like that!”

“Because you’re late, you inconsiderate sod!”

“Fifteen minutes!”

“It might as well be fifteen bloody hours!” Rita resisted the impulse to throw the cup of pseudo-tea at him. Perhaps I should do a story on how the hell Americans drink this horrible stuff.

Now he laughed. “You’re exaggerating.”

“Like hell!” Rita saw him sigh and shake his head, looking around at the small crowd they were gathering inside the diner. Americans and their trashy tabloids, they were so much worse than the British version. Apparently, the Americans loved nothing better than to see the show in person. Riley obviously wasn’t comfortable being on stage, which made Rita grin in shark-like fashion. Here, she had the advantage; she was used to being on stage. “I’m a reporter,” she bellowed, “and, my time is money….” And, now for the punch line….

Rita flicked the empty teacup in his direction, without bothering to care if Riley caught it, and trilled, “Sweetie!” She stormed out of the diner to the sidewalk. She was triumphant. She, also, had no idea where Riley Finn was supposed to be taking her, but that was easily remedied. “Well?” Rita called out to him, who was presumably still hiding in the diner. “I’m waiting.”

It was a good thing she’d left enough money for the bill, and left it prominently displayed so the waitress wouldn’t think she’d been dashing out on the dine. That just wasn’t done. Rita Skeeter didn’t do nasty things like that. Of course, she wouldn’t have been surprised to hear that Lucius Malfoy had done such a thing and called it ‘credit.’

Why Narcissa Black had married that man, she would never completely understand. Rita had her theories, of course, but nothing solid on which to base them. Since no one really wanted to discuss that time period anymore, there wasn’t a great deal she could do. Rita might want to know the truth, and the public might deserve the truth, but the people just didn’t want to talk about the war.

They just wanted it to go away.

Rita could understand how they felt, honestly, she did. Everyone had healing to do. Every family had lost someone, whether it was a family member or a friend. No one in the wizarding world had gone unscathed.

But so many questions were still unanswered. Some would probably never be adequately answered. No one knew what had happened to Voldemort’s remains - except that there hadn’t been enough left of him to put in a cigarette case - or even how Harry Potter had finally vanquished his greatest foe. Even now, years later, the Ministry of Magic gives the same response they did immediately after the event occurred: ‘no comment.’ Rita was still trying to break that story. The facts were out there, she just had to be a smart witch, and piece the bits together.

Riley exited the diner, led her to a black SUV, and they drove off together. He didn’t say a word. Rita didn’t particularly care what he thought. If he couldn’t handle the truth, then she didn’t want to be dating him anyway. Her career would always come first. Why I am even thinking about going out with him anyway? I have to get control of myself, or I won’t have a career at all.

That was when she realized they were pulling into the Lowell House parking lot. “Your big story is to show me your etchings? The history of your society house, perhaps?”

“That’s ‘fraternity house,’” he corrected. Oh yeah. Riley Finn was distinctly annoyed. Well, boo-hoo. If his voice was any stiffer, it’d begin to show signs of muscle strain.

“Whatever you say, luv.” Rita knew she sounded a bit like that horrible Auror woman with kaleidoscope hair - Nymphadora Tonks - but Americans appeared to love the low-class Cockney accent. Personally, she didn’t understand the appeal. On the other hand, Americans were strange. Why else would they drink horrible tea and spend so much money on saccharine entertainment like Disney World?

She glanced up at Riley. He flushed.

Definitely strange.

Rita followed Riley into Lowell House, and down a series of long twisting corridors. She watched as he used a small card to open a door. That was when everything got strange. The door opened, but it opened elevator-fashion.

That wasn’t normal. At least Rita didn’t think it was normal. Who could tell with Muggles? Elevators usually move downward, don’t they? Still, Rita thought there had to be a story here. She just hoped she didn’t become part of it, while trying to run it to ground, especially if the rumors she’d heard were true.

“So who are you really?” Rita knew a whole bunch of questions were about to be answered, she could feel it. Her antennae were quivering again. “You’re not just a teacher’s assistant from Iowa.”

“No.”

“I’m waiting.”

“You can just keep waiting.”

Rita laughed and mentally sharpened her fingernails for battle. “Aren’t you supposed to be giving me a tour?” She pulled out her Quick-Quotes quill and a scroll. “Maybe answering some questions? Like, perhaps, shall we say, who you are?” She could almost see him grind his teeth. This was such fun.

“My name is Lieutenant Riley Finn, and I am the military head of this base, second-in-command overall. This base is commanded by Doctor Margaret Walsh.” His voice was low-pitched but calm. “And I really am from Iowa.” The elevator door opened. “Ready for the tour?”

She looked at him in abject disbelief. “Aren’t you a little young to be the military head of a secret project?”

“My credentials are all in order, I promise.”

Rita gazed at him knowingly. They hadn’t seen much of anything yet, save the elevator, certainly nothing that smacked of secret military maneuvers in the dark of night, but she had already figured out some things. First, it had to be military-funded, no matter what she did or didn’t see. Second, Doctor Walsh was definitely involved up to her eyeballs, just like she’d thought. Third, the university probably didn’t include this on their ‘activities and clubs’ brochure.

She also decided not to comment further on Riley’s age in relation to his rank and position. As far as she could figure, the real reason he had this job was because he was young, stupid, followed orders without asking questions, and would make excellent cannon fodder in case the entire secret project went belly-up. To be blunt, Riley Finn was expendable in the eyes of his military. Not that it was her job to tell him that. If he had anything resembling brains instead of Christmas pudding, he knew it already.

The tour passed without incident. She asked plenty of questions, and learned quite a bit even though she was certain parts of the base had been deliberately avoided. Riley had claimed that some portions were off-limits for security reasons, but she didn’t accept that answer as an entirely truthful one. Granted, they had the right to security, but there had to be more to the real reason than that. Otherwise, they wouldn’t have invited her here in the first place.

Some things about this Initiative Project - or was it Project Initiative? - bothered her. Seeing the vampires and various species of demons caged in their tiny cells felt so odd, since Rita couldn’t understand why anyone would keep a creature like that. There was never a reason to starve and torture any creature, no matter what it had done or who it served. Especially since these mad scientists didn’t seem to know what they were doing. Rita could admit that she knew very little about demons, but some of these creatures the soldiers had captured didn’t appear particularly frightening. According to the vampires she’d interviewed at Willy’s, even the non-combatant demons were being targeted by the soldiers.

Now it looked like those vampires had been right on the money. That frightened her more, perhaps, when vampires are scared enough to tell the truth.

Rita hadn’t found the Room 314 they’d mentioned. She wasn’t sure she should try. Knowing what Dr. Walsh’s scientific specialties were, well, who knew what the woman might be building in there? And assuming she could find it, in beetle form, Rita might not be able to get out again. If she could, on the other hand, that would be another story.

So to speak.

“One last thing.” Riley smiled. It was a small secret smile.

Rita didn’t like how that smile looked on the soldier; it made her suspicious. “Oh?” Scratch that, lots of things made her suspicious. It was part of her nature. “What?” She followed him to a private interrogation room. He unlocked the door and ushered her inside.

Inside the room, she saw a blonde female vampire strapped to a chair. There was also a plain-looking table with a chair at either side. It has the distinction of being the plainest room Rita had ever seen, all white walls and stark silver metal. Her hotel in Romania had been far more comfortable, and it was only rated one-broom in the Fantasy Travel Guide for Europe.

“Remember our conversation?”

“Yes,” the vampire hissed at Riley.

Rita glanced at him, wondering what the bloody hell he meant. He had obviously planned this ahead of time, because he gave her a big grin that made her wonder why she’d found a blasted American attractive in the first place. She tried to keep her mind on business. “Mind telling me about the conversation?”

“Sure.” Riley waved a hand nonchalantly at the fuming female vampire. “This is Hostile 1371. Say hello, Hostile 1371.”

“Bite me.”

Rita laughed. At least the vampire had managed to retain a sense of humor while imprisoned.

“Its job,” Riley continued as if the vampire hadn’t spoken, “is to tell us what we want to know. If it does that, it gets to leave.”

The vampire eyed Riley suspiciously. “No chip?” Rita really couldn’t blame the poor creature. Merlin knew she wasn’t going to begin a fund to protect vampires, but why torture them? Just kill them or avoid them, and be done with it! And this chip business was quite a matter she wanted to examine further. The implications couldn’t be good.

“No chip,” agreed Riley.

The vampire appeared to be thinking over the offer, but then noisily sighed in a put-upon way. “Oh, fine,” she exclaimed, “whatever. It’s not like I have a choice or anything, you know.” She smiled at Rita. “I’m Harmony Kendall, and you are?”

“Rita Skeeter. I’m a reporter with The Daily Prophet .”

“That is so cool. You’re going to interview me?” The vampire named Harmony froze in horror for a moment, but gave another noisy sigh. “These stupid men! If I’m going to be interviewed, I have to look nice for my pictures. Duh!” The former cheerleader gave Rita a surprisingly sweet doe-eyed expression. “I mean, you and I,” she gestured with a strapped-down hand at herself and Rita, “we’re both women, we understand what it’s like.”

Rita had a sudden sense of déjà vu. “Do you, by any chance, know Cordelia Chase?”

“Do I?” chirped Harmony. “I went to high school with her. That’s how I wound up like this,” she gestured again, this time toward her chest, “on Graduation Day because of one of the Mayor’s hired lame-ass vampire geeks.” She looked down at herself with a shudder. “God, do you know how impossible it is to get blood stains out of silk?”

So, Rita thought, Harmony knew Cordelia, who knew the Slayer and her group. Perhaps Harmony knew them also, and could fill me in on their most recent doings. Rita smiled at Riley in a beguiling way. He smiled back at her. “Riley, be a dear, and get Harmony some cosmetics, fresh clothing, the usual.” She glanced up at his face and saw that he was confused. Well, Riley was a man. Rita didn’t really expect him to understand. “Don’t worry.” She winked at Harmony, who grinned back without showing a hint of fang. “We’ll make you a list.”

Which was exactly what they did while they talked. The Quick-Quotes quill took copious notes. By the time Riley returned with the supplies, Rita had learned plenty of tales about the Scooby Gang during their school days. Old dirt. Recent dirt. All the dirt. Harmony Kendall was a gold mine of gossip. Rita had also learned about Harmony’s ex-boyfriend Spike.

“You should talk to him, really. He’s got so much dirt on Buffy’s ex-boyfriend that’s it’s ridiculous.”

“Where can I find him?” Rita watched Harmony carefully paint her nails a shade of delicate pink. Watching Harmony apply her makeup and do her hair earlier, without a mirror, had been a study in precision.

“He’s got a crypt in Restdale Cemetary.”

“So do lots of other people and vampires.” Rita thought for a moment. “This Spike, is he a short vampire with short blond hair?” Perhaps this had been the one with the Harris boy. The idea was an intriguing one, but why would Spike work with the Slayer?

Harmony nodded. “He’s British, too. You might know him.”

“I doubt it.”

Harmony didn’t look particularly convinced of that fact. Rita was quite excited about it all. Hopefully she’d be able to track Spike down and interview him. Even if nothing else came out of this trip, she’d gathered enough interview-with-a-vampire-or-some-other-creature-of-your-choice feature story for the next decade. That wasn’t even counting the feature story with Angel.

Angelus. Whatever.

Rita wondered how vampires kept their identities straight. Of course, how many of them were sane? Some were just more obviously insane than others were. Case in point: Drusilla. Also known as ‘Drusilla the Mad.’

After finishing the interview, Rita took some pictures of Harmony Kendall. It would have been better if they had been outside, on the Hellmouth, but Riley was very clear on that. “Bye, Harmony, dear.”

“Bye!”

Rita thought she heard the sounds of a struggle outside the interrogation room as Harmony was being led away, but that was foolish. Wasn’t it? Riley had promised that she wouldn’t be chipped … but he wasn’t likely to keep a promise made to a vampire. After all, the soldier didn’t view vampires or demons or anything else that was even remotely supernatural as non-human.

But that didn’t include witches, did it?

After all, he was flirting with her, wasn’t he?

Riley came back into the room - his face was bright red and sweaty, so maybe he had been struggling with Harmony - leaned in toward Rita and kissed her. It was a passionate kiss that sent quivers from her bright red painted toenails all the way up to her elaborate pin curls (bespelled so none of them would fall down even after the most difficult day, perfect for the working witch). Her muscles shook, like someone had swished and flicked out all the bones in her body.

Rita melted against Riley’s body, kissing him back. Strange, how he tasted like mint. They slid down the clean white wall and onto the clean white floor, rolling toward the plain wooden table.

More kissing led to other things, which eventually led to something neither party had really been prepared to indulge in, what with unsafe sex being in such poor taste. However, Rita didn’t care at this point. She was just glad she had both showered this morning and chosen to wear the bright red thong panties. It had been entirely too long, and she wasn’t getting any younger.

It didn’t occur to her until later that the two of them had probably given anyone watching in the observation room - and there probably had been someone watching - a good wank. Oh well. Rita had to get her end away where she could.

She had a lot of work ahead.

A match made on a Hellmouth, oh yeah.

Ron stared unhappily at the line of screens that were supposed to be telling him where to go. So far all they did was mock him. He’d driven down to LAX - the gigantic interdimensional demonic gateway posing as one of Los Angeles’ airports - only to get hopelessly lost while trying to find a short-term parking area. Was his car parked in a short-term parking area or was it parked in a long-term parking area? Ron hadn’t the slightest idea.

He’d gotten even more hopelessly lost trying to figure out what terminal he was supposed to be waiting at. Maybe that was supposed to be, which gate at which terminal? Ron hadn’t the slightest idea. Apparently LAX had its own bus system to ferry people around the place. Why LAX didn’t have tour guides he didn’t understand, and, for that matter, why he hadn’t had this problem on arrival? Maybe he just hadn’t noticed, what with his jet lag and the irritation over his stuff and all. Ron supposed it had something to do with the demons that ran the place. In any event, while Ron was trying to get this sorted, he’d wound up in this terminal … wherever he was.

Of course, Harry and Hermione hadn’t told him which flight they were going to be on, but that in itself had to have narrowed it down some. He knew their tastes enough to guess what kinds of flights they’d probably pick. There couldn’t be that many flights, could there? Ron went in search of International Arrivals/Customs. When that didn’t work, he went in search of someone who could tell him where to find same.

At this rate, they weren’t going to get back to Sunnydale until after midnight, and Ron wanted to avoid that scenario if at all possible. He had enough matters to discuss with his friends … well, he hoped they were his friends, even if things would never be the same again.

“Pardon me,” Ron stopped a ticket agent, “could you please give me directions to International Arrivals and Customs?” He tried to look as confused as possible, and it wasn’t much of an effort. “I’m afraid I’m totally lost.” He’d also learned that American women loved European accents, and nine times out of ten would do anything he wanted just to hear him talk.

Buffy told him the accent was sexy.

Ron didn’t understand it at all, since everyone sounded more or less like he did at home. Moreover, the idea of his former Potions professor or Draco Malfoy being described as ‘sexy’ made him want to vomit. He supposed it might be a ‘girl thing.’

After a near-escort to International Arrivals/Customs - it turned out he needed to go to Tom Bradley Terminal - Ron thanked the agent and settled down to wait. He didn’t see either of the pair, and the miserable screen listed another direct flight from London due in less than an hour. Good. No one had contacted him. Wonderful things, cellphones. Much better than the floo. Can’t exactly tote a fireplace about. Hermione wouldn’t have hesitated to page him at the airport had they happened to arrive early; in fact, she’d said so in her last letter when she and Harry wrote to take him up on his invite.

Inviting them to Sunnydale probably wasn’t too bright. It was asking for trouble, he was sure. Sirius Black would have a stroke, his god-son and hopefully future-god-daughter-in-law on the Hellmouth? Ron didn’t care. They needed to start somewhere, didn’t they? That meant sharing news, especially if it might be good news. Of course, he had no idea how they’d view his news, but Severus had stated that pain was part of the healing process.

Truer words had never been spoken.

Ron wanted to introduce Buffy to Harry and Hermione. After all, he’d met her friends, even if it was mostly work-related. Buffy had mentioned something that froze his blood: the dreaded first meeting of parents. In this case, parent-singular, since Buffy’s father was out of the picture, and Rupert was planning to take the absent man’s place in that picture. Buffy had hinted that the ‘dinner’ might be soon.

He thought he’d rather snog Pansy Parkinson. On second thought, Ron decided he’d be happier with that hippogriff of Black’s, the one he’d flown away from Hogwarts on so long ago. Snogging a hippogriff or Pansy, he doubted he’d be able to tell the difference. Especially if he had his eyes closed.

What worried Ron more was whether or not Buffy expected some kind of reciprocation. He couldn’t picture introducing her to his own family. Not because he was ashamed of her, far from it, Ron thought Buffy was wonderful. She wasn’t perfect, and neither was he. Both of them had made errors in judgement, stupid mistakes that had seemed the right thing to do at the time.

No, he was more concerned about his own family’s reaction to the news, and Buffy’s reaction to that. Ron had a fairly good impression that there would be bloodshed. He could see it happening, plain as day. He’d introduce Buffy as his date and girlfriend, and one or both of the twins and or Charlie and or Bill would say or do something stupid or both and then Buffy would kill them. If they were lucky, only hospitalization would be required. Hopefully, the house wouldn’t be too badly damaged. No doubt Mum and Dad would get annoyed. Buffy would be defensive about the whole thing.

Ron wondered if prisoners in Azkaban were allowed to have conjugal visits.

Would a Slayer even qualify to be imprisoned in Azkaban, as a magical creature?

Since a Slayer is a magical creature, could Buffy and I even get married if we wanted?

Ron needed to stop thinking about this topic before he gave himself a stroke. Perhaps he’d discuss it with Rupert, but certainly not at this early point. Merlin, they hadn’t even met each other’s families yet, and he was worrying about marriage! Ron firmly told himself to stop worrying about that - after all, he might discover something terrible about her, perhaps she snores or something - and to worry about his guests or the upcoming ‘dinner.’

“All that California sun has rotted his brain.”

“Harry! Shhh -“ In spite of her scandalized tone, Ron could hear Hermione laughing at him. At least that hadn’t changed.

He greeted her with a grin, took her left hand and examined it carefully before giving an exaggerated sigh. “I see you’re still hanging around this cheeky pillock even though he’s not bothered to give you a ring, eh, ‘mione?” Ron stood up and hugged her. She laughed, the same old laugh that warmed his heart.

Merlin, it brought back memories, good ones this time.

She looked good, better than good. Hermione certainly wasn’t the bushy-haired schoolgirl any longer. Now she dressed like the young professional she planned to become, she looked like that young professional she planned to become, if she ever decided she’d finished university. Personally, Ron doubted Hermione would ever be completely finished with university. She loved learning too much.

But she looked good.

“No ring yet, but soon enough, I hope.” She sounded good, too.

“When the Cannons win the Quidditch World Cup,” decided Harry.

“It had better be sooner than that!”

Ron laughed. He’d missed this.

He turned around to greet Harry and saw that his oldest school friend was wearing the stupidest-looking hat Ron had ever seen. It was green felt with brown leather and trimmed with long brown feathers. All he needed was a stein full of beer and a pair of lederhosen, and he’d be ready for the Oktoberfest during Greek Week at U.C. Sunnydale.

“Isn’t it great!” Harry said proudly, “They’re all the rage now.”

“I suppose,” Ron managed to say. After all, he wanted to be truthful. “But it’s not really to my taste. It looks like you’re deeply in need of a pint.”

“See?” Hermione gave her boyfriend a sidelong look. “I told you. Bad taste.”

“But it’s in style.”

The witch sighed. “Just because it’s in fashion does not necessarily mean it’s tasteful. In fact, generally, stylish equals bad taste unless you shop using the fashion essentials that never go out of style.”

Now Ron was curious. What the hell was Hermione talking about? Of course, he was afraid to shop with Buffy. He’d seen her, Willow, and Tara get ready to go out and shop; the trio treated it like the wizarding world had treated the war with Voldemort. They prepared like they would be gone for months; and from the sheer number of bags they’d brought back, maybe they had been.

“What fashion essentials?”

“Harry, I’ll show you, okay? I’m sure they have a mall here.” He could hear Hermione muttering about chinos, pleats, creams, tans, sweaters, colors, neutrals, ‘the perfect jeans,’ and ‘the right fit.’

Ron nodded. “Several.”

After picking up luggage and getting something to eat - it was unavoidable now - there was no way they’d get back before dark. That being the case, they had might as well enjoy themselves. At least in America, it was possible to get authentic American food - BBQ, Tex-Mex, burgers, and the like - whereas in London only the British version of American food could be had. Ron found the real thing to be far superior. Buffy enjoyed introducing him to new American food styles, as a surprise, commenting that ‘each bite was a step away a life of non-blandless.’

It had been pretty funny to watch his friends’ expressions to BBQ. Real American BBQ.

Buffy would be annoyed she missed it.

While on the drive back to Sunnydale, Ron figured he’d better warn them about the dangers they’d be facing in town. After all, the Hellmouth wasn’t exactly as the Ministry of Magic had advertised. He certainly hadn’t expected that hand-to-hand fighting or experience with weaponry would be demanded of him. “You’d best be careful in Sunnydale.”

It was Harry who laughed first, not surprisingly. “Ron, you git. After everything we’ve faced, how much worse can Sunnydale be?” Even Hermione didn’t look particularly perturbed.

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

“Look,” interrupted Hermione, “why don’t you explain what Sunnydale is really like.” She paused for a moment. “Or the two of you can continue acting like a couple of idiots, for all I care.”

Ron snorted. Harry kissed her.

“It’s worse than the Ministry says. Vampires, demons, creatures I’ve never heard of.” He decided to be completely truthful with them as far as the Hellmouth situation went. Their lives might depend on it while they were visiting. Plus, who knew what might happen? Ron instantly decided he shouldn’t have thought that. What he should have thought was something about his friends and Buffy’s friends would hopefully all be friends. “The death rate in that town is staggering, the rate of weird is even more so, and no one notices a thing.”

“The rate of weird?” Hermione laughed.

Harry smirked. “I told you, it’s all that California sun.”

Ron blushed. “Almost everyone speaks like that here, it’s rather infectious.” He was sure Buffy would hear about this ‘speech-infection.’ So would Rupert. He was doomed. “Getting back on topic” - and ignoring the snickers of his companions - “there’s also a shadowy military group in town, grabbing nonhumans for examination.”

“I don’t like the sound of that.”

“No, we don’t, either,” Ron agreed. “I patrol nightly with the others in the Slayer’s group. Under Rupert Giles’ tutelage - he’s Buffy’s Watcher - I’ve been undergoing hand-to-hand, martial arts, and weaponry training.”

Hermione and Harry glanced at each other. “Buffy?” they said, as one voice.

“Yes … that’s the Slayer’s name. Well,” he corrected, “actually, her nickname. Short for Elizabeth.” Ron knew they weren’t going to give up on this.

She smiled at him, in that annoying way of hers, when she knew all the answers in Potions class and no one else had the slightest idea, like that nightmare he’d sometimes had. Hermione tsked at Ron in mock despair. “That’s not an acquaintance-saying name, Ron, or even a workmate-saying name. That’s an ‘I fancy her’ lovey-dovey ‘let-me-breathe-down-yer-neck’ name.” Harry nodded in agreement.

Ron stared at her in shock. “That is the most ridiculous piece of nonsense I’ve ever heard.” He glanced at Harry. “You agree with this?”

“You think I have a choice, mate?”

Ron had to concede that point. “I’m not buying any of this nonsense.”

“But you don’t deny it.”

“There’s nothing to deny.”

“Yet.”

Ron wondered when he’d lost control of this conversation. Had he ever had control of the conversation in the first place? What had they been talking about, anyway? It had to have been more important than his love life. Then he remembered something else he should mention. “Oh yeah. Rita Skeeter is in Sunnydale.”

Harry groaned. “Turn this damned car around and take me back to the airport. When’s the next flight to London?”

Rita Skeeter had enjoyed a productive day. She’d met Spike - a.k.a. William the Bloody - the night before for an interview. Riley had wanted to come and offer ‘protection’, but she’d absolutely refused to allow that. After all, she didn’t want Spike to feel like he was under threat, or otherwise make him uncomfortable, especially seeing how the vampire had been chipped.

Not only had Spike been willing to talk, he’d been absolutely delighted by the idea. Of course, the vampire’s response might have had something to do with Rita’s casual comment about having talked with Angel in Los Angeles and wanting to get Spike’s side of the story.

Well, the comment might not have been so casual after all. That was a reporter’s prerogative, though, Rita was certain.

Rita had gone fully prepared: her Quick-Quotes quill, plenty of scrolls and ink, her wand, a cooler of human blood for her guest, and a thermos of tea for herself. She had debated on whether or not to bring food, but had decided that might be a bit much. They had discussed almost everything Rita had hoped for: his experiences inside the Initiative cage, what he thought the Initiative might be planning, about the ‘old days’ as part of the Scourge of Europe, and about the current Slayer. Interestingly, both of them followed greyhound racing. Who knew? They’d talked … well, argued, really, about that topic, too.

She’d noticed Spike didn’t provide any details about whom he had been before he’d been Turned, but then she hadn’t asked. She supposed that if a vampire wanted to play the ‘mysterious past’ line, well, that was all well and good. Looking at him, though, Rita was convinced that Spike had to be somehow related to the Malfoy family.

Spike was Lucius Malfoy with short hair.

It would probably be difficult for most people to tell them apart otherwise. Of course, Spike was shorter. Hmm, fangs, demon, vampire, no pulse…. And Lucius Malfoy is dead. Are you sure there’s a difference? When was Spike turned again?

While she was thinking about the implications of that, Rita bumped into Riley on the street. “Fancy meeting you here.” She greeted him cheerily, and he peered at her throat. “Quit that! He was a gentleman … well, gentlevamp,” she corrected, “I got my story and everything went well.” Rita wondered absently how long it took for insanity to begin forming while a witch or wizard stayed on a Hellmouth. Perhaps she should have checked with St. Mungo’s before she left for the United States.

That might make a good sidebar, provided she wasn’t a bloody raving lunatic by the time she got back to London.

‘Safety Tips for Those Mad Enough to Travel to the Hellmouth (and Actually Visit the Cursed Place).’

The wizarding world prided itself on a certain amount of inherited insanity. Perhaps it was the lifestyle. Rita hadn’t the slightest idea, and - to be honest - she really didn’t give a damn. A headline like that would send the wizarding public to their travel witch or wizard in droves just to see what gave the Hellmouth such an evil reputation. Some of them actually would be mad enough to visit.

Mad-Eye Moody, for example.

“So where are we going?” She asked Riley. They appeared to be walking together somewhere, so maybe he’d decided on a plan. Of course, with her luck, he’d already told her where they were going while she was herb-gathering.

Riley glanced at her. “You didn’t hear a word I said, did you?”

Typical. “I was thinking.”

“Don’t hurt yourself.”

Rita grinned nastily. “I’m sure you’ve had plenty of practice, Riley, dear. Eventually your superiors will let you go on real maneuvers.” She could feel him flinch as that hit home. He might be a warrior with weapons, but no one knew how to wield words as weapons like a writer did.

“I said,” he snapped, “that I thought we’d go back to your hotel and talk.”

“Oh?” Rita wondered what he wanted to talk about.

“Yeah -oh, the hotel -oh, to talk -oh,” the soldier hissed back.

“There’s no need to be so stupid about it,” she began. Rita was a bit put out by this juvenile behavior. “Honestly, the way you’re carrying on, I don’t know what to think.” Actually, it made Rita wonder if Riley was related to the MacNairs. On second thought, Riley was far more intelligent than that clan, seeing as how he could spell his own name and count to twenty without removing his shoes. “I can’t imagine what would be so important that we’d need to talk in private.” Well, she could, but surely Riley wouldn’t discuss that with her.

Would he?

Their eyes met.

For a brief moment, all sound faded away, and all Rita Skeeter heard was the pounding of her own heart, loud in her ears. She wanted to bask in the glory of that moment of perfect understanding between a man and a woman - so rare, so sought after - but work needed doing and only Rita Skeeter could do this story.

She firmly gripped his hand, and smiled tenderly at him. “What are we waiting for, luv? Let’s go!” She smiled again when she felt Riley grip her hand. It had been a long time since she’d walked down the lane, any lane, holding hands with a young man.

That was what had been on her mind when Rita bumped into the tosser taking up most of the sidewalk, but what else could you expect of bloody Colonials, anyway? Rudeness, loud music, and terrible tea. Only when Rita actually glanced at the pratt did she realize who it was.

It was Harry Potter. Wearing the most godawful ugliest hat Rita had ever seen in her whole life and, as a reporter, by Merlin’s beard, Rita knew ugly. The battered brown hat with feathers stuck in the band was a German beergarden hat if she’d ever seen one. All little Harry needed was Lederhosen, suspenders, and a full stein of beer to make the image complete.

Actually, the image was rather peculiar.

And there was Hermione Granger on the left, and Ron Weasley on the right: the Golden Trio had reunited in Sunnydale. Standing next to them, arrayed like a warrior for battle, was the Slayer. Her Watcher waited off to the side. Rita hoped the girl didn’t have any knives on her person today. Although, if she was reading the girl’s expression right, Buffy Summers looked much more likely to be aiming the knives at Riley Finn than at anyone else.

The break-up had been much messier than Riley had admitted, if the stories Spike had told her were even remotely true.

Still.

The Golden Trio, together again? Had all their hatchets been buried? Rita’s antennae just quivered with excitement, indeed she might even go so far as to call it ‘journalistic ecstasy.’ This would be a scoop! The scoop of all scoops! Her editor would like it even more if there was a sudden tragedy - if it bleeds, it leads - but perhaps there would be an unscheduled apocalypse while all of them were in town.

One could hope.

In any event, Rita was going to take full advantage of this unexpected encounter. Hopefully, she had extra scrolls. Chances were that they would refuse to talk to her, but it was far more likely that an argument would erupt. Either way, she planned to record the event for the public. Like it or not, the Golden Trio were public figures. That simple fact gave Rita Skeeter and other journalists the right to report their activities.

And, like it or not, the show was about to begin. She could tell from the red burn slowly flushing the Auror’s face that Mount Weasley was about to erupt. That wouldn’t be good. It was only her civic duty to prevent the Auror from doing something silly, wasn’t it? “So the Golden Trio are together again, eh? Any comment you’d like to make to the public?”

Ron Weasley made a strangled wheezing noise. It rather sounded like he’d swallowed a Fwooper, and since the African bird’s song drives its listeners insane, Rita considered it an apt analogy. At least he hadn’t shouted anything rude.

Yet.

“No,” said Hermione Granger, in a sharp tone. Clearly her temper hadn’t improved over the years. Mr. Potter said nothing, and just glared at her.

Rita pressed forth. “Buried the hatchets between you?”

“I know where I’d like to bury my hatchet,” muttered Auror Weasley.

Rita ignored him.

“It’d break,” Mr. Potter whispered back.

She was going to ignore that vile insult, too. That didn’t mean, however, that she had to leave the field of battle defeated. “So, no comment, eh? That’s fine. I understand.” Rita Skeeter smiled widely, showing off her gold dental work. She put away her scroll and Quick-Quill as she spoke.

“After all, no doubt you’re here working on those long-awaited wedding plans, eh?” She caught the Granger girl’s eye and winked broadly, ignoring the other girl’s horrified expression. “So we’ll just be off and leave you two lovebirds alone then.” Rita thought they’d gotten away clean, until it registered that she’d automatically taken Riley’s hand to leave.

Apparently the gesture registered with the Slayer, too, because she screeched like a banshee. “Riley! Why are you touching her?”

“Why do you care?” Riley wanted to know. “We aren’t together anymore. I can see whomever I want.”

“You’re dating her!”

Rita Skeeter suspected her editor had heard the Slayer’s shriek. Quite possibly everyone in the bloody world had heard it. Even Riley appeared somewhat disgusted with the girl’s overreacting. Rita wondered if the girl always acted this way. “You seem to have moved on yourself, Miss Summers, to Auror Weasley, if I’m not mistaken.”

“That’s none of your damned business!”

And there goes Mount Weasley.

“I’m a journalist,” Rita raised an eyebrow and smiled slyly, “everything is my business.”

“Especially when it lets you stick your big ugly nose into things that don’t concern you,” hissed the Slayer. She looked very angry indeed. Rita was very glad it was daytime. Still, she couldn’t let that insult pass, and Spike had provided gobs of juicy details he’d learned while safely ensconced chez Scooby. Now might be a good time to use one.

After all, one catty insult doth bequeath another. All’s fair when two women fight over a man.

Rita Skeeter hadn’t grown those claws just because they looked stylish.

“Now, dear,” she began, cutting her eyes to ensure that the Watcher stood nearby. He was, no doubt, waiting for the inevitable fight. “At least I’m a natural blonde.” Rita fluffed her ringlets in a haughty fashion. “Too bad you can’t say the same.”

“What!”

“Oh, come now. Don’t be coy. You’ve heard the expression, I’m sure. ‘The drapes don’t match the rug.’” Rita gave Buffy a superior sniff and cut her eyes toward Riley. He looked utterly terrified. She thought he looked sexy.

She could have used the far lewder expression, but there was no way she was going to lower herself to such standards of low behavior. This … this was merely pointing out a fact. The Slayer had thrown the first insult, after all.

“You bitch!” Buffy’s shout was cut off as her Watcher pulled her into the Magic Box.

Rita just laughed at the entire situation, laughed as the little group glared at her while they filed into the magic store, and laughed as she walked down the street with Riley toward her hotel. After all, she was still holding his hand in her own. He’d admitted that he was seeing her, Rita Skeeter, to his old flame, Buffy Summers, and didn’t that make her feel all gushy inside?

Huh.

“Darling?” Rita just wanted to make sure she’d heard right. You can’t be too careful these days.

“Yeah?”

“You really dated that blonde chick?”

“Uh-huh.” He snickered. “Even though she’s not a natural blonde.”

Rita preened. It was a good day. “Riley, I am a natural blonde.”

“I know. I remember.”

“Are you sure?” Her voice purred out a total lack of subtlety.

She saw his eyes widen slightly, then narrow as he caught on to what she meant. “Some reminding might be nice.” Rita smiled. A very good day, indeed.

Finally, they had reached the last ritual in the super spell. Willow had never been so grateful. She’d been tired after doing the soul-restoring spell, and she’d been really worn out after Graduation, but this was a whole new level of sleep-deprivation she hadn’t thought existed. Even Tara-bear was feeling the strain. They couldn’t wait until it was all done, and then they could sleep sleep sleep.

First, though, they had to complete this one last thing, and it all had to be done just exactly so. If one of them got something wrong, then everything they’d done so far would be for nothing. Or worse, it might backfire. Willow didn’t want to think about that possibility. It brought back memories of the will-be-done spell, memories that were better forgotten, or better yet, covered in chocolate-chip cookie dough and baked. This last ritual was a doozy, too. She wasn’t looking forward to any of it, except its ending.

Willow had to admit she was a bit apprehensive about that, still. Would the god or goddess or plural gods or goddesses arrive right then? The spell didn’t say. Maybe it took a few days, since deities had to clear their schedules the way doctors had to do. She had no idea. They’d just have to wait and see.

And hope.

Praying might be a good idea, too.

Of course, they didn’t know toward which deity or deities they had managed to attract, so they didn’t know to whom they should pray. Was there a pagan god of lost causes? Willow didn’t think Saint Jude would approve of something like this.

This was the ritual that tied the entire spell together, so this ritual empowered the spell. Thus, Willow had to be real firm on exactly what she was seeking. It might be now that the particulars of everything were decided. No, the fact that both of them were so tired couldn’t be good. Willow sat and watched Tara dress in careful preparation for the spell.

Tara grimaced while she dressed. Willow could understand why. The Cinderella dress had been pretty before, and Tara had looked just like a princess. Not anymore. Now the dress was covered in turkey blood, feathers, and gore - the result of having sacrificed the bird weeks earlier - and it had dried with all such ickyness intact. Plus, the dress stank worse than a corpse-eater. That was bad, even by Hellmouth standards.

While Tara had to wear the stinky dress, she had to stand there skyclad while Tara painted her blue. Willow wasn’t pleased about this part of the spell in particular. She was going to look like an oversized Smurf. Why is it that so many spells - whether they backfire or not - wind up with me being painted blue? Do the Powers That Be have a Blue Willow Fetish? She hated the way woad smelled. The spell hadn’t called for this particular thing by name, but had instead been a riddle turned sideways. Tara had figured out what it meant and what they’d had to do. Willow trusted her lover to know her stuff, even it meant she wound up blue.

“Are you ready?”

Willow glanced up at Tara, and gave her a tired smile. “As I’ll ever be. I just hope the woad comes off in the shower.”

Tara laughed softly. “You’d make a cute Smurf.” She glanced over at Willow and giggled.

“Hey!”

With a sigh, Willow tried to hold on to her dignity while Tara painted her with the woad. They chanted the required verses, burned the herbs gathered that first night, and danced around the fire. Willow chanted alone, mixing a group of herbs that she’d had to poach from Giles’ private supply and pray he didn’t notice. She really didn’t want to know what dragonsblood incense, toe of dog, mummy’s dust, hope’s ashes, and the root of the weedy herb Sagapen were. She’d never even heard of Sagapen, and the other two she’d only thought existed in the mind of William Shakespeare.

She poured the herbs into an iron cauldron and put it over the fire. Willow added a portion of olive oil and a sprinkling of finely pressed persimmon seeds. The spell hadn’t said how many seeds or from how many fruits, so she had done the best she could, especially considering how this was a not-asking-Giles-about-this situation. The potion bubbled, boiled, toiled, and hopefully, there’d be no trouble.

Xander had better appreciate this.

Grind and stir, mortar and pestle. Willow worked more herbs and the dragonsblood incense together and added it to the mixture, with another portion of olive oil and persimmon seeds. More chanting and dancing, more bubbling and boiling, and then the potion turned a ghastly yellow-green color. It was high school gymnasium green.

The bubbling roared a crescendo in a spray of blue lights and thick pink smoke. Fiery sparks flew everywhere.

When Willow could breathe and see again, she realized nothing had happened. Well, nothing out of the ordinary, that is.

She felt cheated. What a gyp! Tara glanced over at her, and their eyes met over the cauldron. “I can’t believe all that was for nothing.”

Another explosion of pink smoke and blue lights issued forth from the cauldron, knocking both of them down. Willow hadn’t the slightest idea what had happened for a moment, until she remembered the damned cauldron … and there was a weight on her legs. It must be Tara.

Only Tara wasn’t wearing black leather pants. Tara certainly wasn’t a man. A very wide awake man staring at -

Willow screamed, and teleported herself back to the dorm. I’m naked, blue, and there’s a strange man staring at me! Oh my Goddess, there’s a strange man alone with Tara!

Giles is going to be really pissed.

After ten minutes, Willow had absolutely no doubts that Giles was pissed. So far, the Watcher had used words like ‘irresponsible’, ‘foolish’, and ‘immature’ numerous times, and those had been some of his more pleasant remarks. Giles continued this tirade for some time.

Under his questioning, Willow confessed to what they’d done and why they’d done it. There was no point in hiding anything. Not now. She made an effort to be as precise as possible, including any substitutions or changes they’d made to the spell. Their unexpected guest still acted like he was in shock, and Tara was keeping an eye on him. It was a good thing. After the eyeful he’d gotten of her, Willow was super-uncomfortable around the guy, even though it wasn’t his fault.

And, dammit, she still had streaks of blue going through her hair and everywhere else. It would take forever to fade. She’d spend the next twenty years hearing Smurf jokes from vampires … right before she fried them with a fireball or something equally painful.

Three hours later, matters had turned from pummeling the witches to reassuring their guest. Either that, Willow decided, or Giles was taking a break to think up new and depressingly cutting remarks to make. Some of the slang he’d used earlier had been distinctly Ripperish - which was so not of the good - and even though she wasn’t entirely certain what he’d called her or what he meant by it, she figured it was probably safer not to ask.

The worst part of the whole thing was that the guy she and Tara had somehow yanked from somewhere wasn’t even a god. He was a human astronaut named John Crichton.

Willow definitely felt cheated.

She had a feeling, however, that if she aired that thought, Giles would not be pleased.

Of course, she tried to keep in mind that no matter how skeeved she was by this whole disaster, Mr. Crichton had to be a whole lot more annoyed. Willow wondered how he was going to explain this to NASA. For that matter, she wondered if she’d be able to explain any of this to NASA.

That brought up more problems.

“Mr. Crichton -“

“John,” he corrected.

Willow smiled charmingly, trying to forget that this man - however cute he was - had seen her naked and blue. “John, you said that you had been on a space mission to explore a wormhole -“

“More or less. Actually, it had to do with saving fuel.”

“Very practical,” Giles interjected.

“That’s what the NASA geeks said.” John Crichton grinned at them, then scratched his head and looked around the back room of the Magic Box. He appeared to be taking it all in, with some careful consideration, like a man who had seen many things, most of which he still didn’t believe. “I’m still not sure how it happened.” He paused. “You’re sure this is Earth?”

That got Willow’s attention. Giles, too, apparently, since the Watcher sat straight up and his chair, stopped glaring at her, and began paying strict attention to John. Not that Willow minded, of course. “Yes, quite sure,” Giles answered.

“Great!”

“So how many aliens did you meet?” Willow wondered if the astronaut would admit it. Doubtful. The last thing she needed was a visit from the Men in Black, and with this blue ‘do, they’d probably mistake her for an illegal alien. So to speak.

An illegal alien from the planet Smurf.

John Crichton’s eyes narrowed. “I didn’t say I met aliens.”

“You asked if this was Earth,” Willow explained. “See, that kinda implies you’ve been places other than Earth, with peoples other than Earthlings.” Men were so stupid. “Especially that part about if we were sure this was Earth which makes me think you’ve been made to believe you’d made it back to Earth before … only it wasn’t.”

Tara beamed at Willow.

Willow beamed back.

John Crichton scowled for a moment. “Something like that,” he agreed, and looked at Giles. “Perceptive girl you’ve got here.”

“Indeed.” Giles’ expression when he looked at Willow held a mixture of emotions to her eyes: fatherly pride, frustration, and other things too. “Unfortunately she has not yet learned either patience or moderation.”

Ouch.

Willow wanted to change the subject. “Giles, don’t let Xander find out about the aliens.” He gave her a questioning look. “Do you really want to know? Trust me on this. Do. Not. Tell. Xander. About. The. Aliens.”

Since Xander had been proven correct about the existence of aliens, it meant she owed him a lot of money. They’d made that bet when they were six years old for fifty dollars - a huge fortune for a first-grader - so that plus running interest over thirteen years. Willow didn’t want to do the math.

“Yes, well, that brings us to another question.” Giles obviously didn’t want to dwell on the idea of Xander and aliens. That was dandy with Willow, as long as the topic didn’t swing back to her and Tara’s prior actions with magic. “If you were exploring a wormhole when the spell … er, removed you to this place, then there is still a problem of quantum physics to answer.”

Willow didn’t like how that sounded. She glanced at Tara, and reached for her girlfriend’s hand. Tara squeezed hard. She squeezed back, and it made her feel a little better. “What’s the problem?”

“Is this his Earth or not?”

“Why wouldn’t it be his Earth?” Tara asked.

Giles sighed. “A wormhole is rather like a black hole that hasn’t quite collapsed into a singularity, and instead opens out into a separate region of spacetime. It can join two sections of the same universe or two different universes.” He paused. “One problem is that a wormhole should collapse so rapidly into a singularity before anyone has a chance to travel through it. The second problem is, of course, that this is a Hellmouth. It has the ability to effect quantum mechanics. Recall, if you will, Marcie Ross - the Hellmouth twisted the perceptions of others around her. People perceived Marcie as invisible, so invisible she became.”

Well. That certainly cast a pall on the conversation. It didn’t improve any when Anya arrived in a puff of smoke. Willow had a bad feeling about this.

“Anya, where have you been?” Tara was braver then anyone thought. “We’ve all been worried about you.”

“Oh, you know. I had to get back something I lost.” The throaty rasp didn’t sound like the Anya they knew. This was Anyanka, the Vengeance Demon. Saint Anyanka, Patron Saint of Scorned Women.

Willow looked up at her best friend’s girlfriend in time to see the ripple of demony power flash over the … woman, or whatever exactly she was now. The idea of Anyanka having her powers back was terrifying, and, oh goddess, poor Xander.

“It wasn’t easy impressing D’Hoffryn, but I did it, and he gave me my power center back.” She smiled, or at least Willow thought it was supposed to be a smile. On Anyanka, a smile looked about as comforting on her as it did on a great white shark. “It’s all of the good, but it does mean that I have to break up with Xander, even if he is a Viking in the sack.”

Willow couldn’t stop herself on Xander’s behalf. “You bitch!”

The demoness shrugged and vanished in another puff of thick smoke.

“A friend of yours?” John Crichton looked to be taking all of this in stride. Maybe he’d fit right in on the Hellmouth.

“That is a long story,” Giles muttered. “One I would rather not discuss at the present time.” Willow really didn’t want to talk about the Wishworld either, or her VampWillow self. “I have determined that this spell is not a real spell - or, at least, the author did not intend it to be.” Giles pushed the old spellbook forward onto the center of the table. “This tome dates from the 13th century. It is very unlikely that any spell written during that time period would make a reference to a gramophone.” His eyes sought out Willow’s and held them.

“I thought that was strange.” It was Tara who answered.

“Yes, well, a gramophone is the Victorian equivalent of a record player.” Giles took his glasses off and began to clean them with great care.

“Spike.” Willow was going to stake that undead peeping vamp.

“I expect this is his idea of a joke.”

Buffy had learned not to make wishes, and so far the first-meeting-of-family was going great. If all that was true, why do I feel like I’m going to be sick? She felt like she’d gone six rounds with the Judge, the Mayor, Spike, Dru, Angelus at his worst unsouled self, and Faith combined into one big evil Scream Team.

She had a new shimmery silver dress, plus new shoes to match. Mom had passed along her mother’s silver pin-brooch for her to wear in her hair, swearing it was good luck. Family history swore up and down that Grandmother Ethel had been wearing the silver pin-brooch both when she’d survived the wreck of the Titanic and when she’d met her future husband. Buffy thought the silver pin-brooch looked like a sad relic from the 1920s, especially with its battered eighteen-inch peacock feather now draped over her head.

Of course, Mom had liked Harry’s hat, too.

Buffy thought he looked like he was a man in search of a Greek frat party. They ran Oktoberfests every year … or so she’d heard around campus. Not that she’d been asking, or anything like that. Nope. Not this Slayer.

Ron, Harry, and Hermione had come for dinner. Mom had made dinner, while Buffy had been panicking over her clothes. Buffy thought that was a better idea than her trying to cook dinner; no one wanted another kitchen fire. She still didn’t know how that pot holder had burst into flame. Didn’t that only happen in movies?

‘Course, before the Slayer thing happened, she’d have said that vampires and demons only existed in movies, too. Which would have been so wrong.

Still, she liked Ron’s friends. Better yet, she thought they liked her. Hard to tell, though. She could hope. Best of all, Mom had given her the thumbs-up sign; she liked Ron! Buffy tried not to give a visible sigh of relief at the dinner table. Definite score! Besides, for once they were talking about normal-life stuff, rather than Hellmouthy stuff. At least it was as normal as dinner party conversation could be for a Slayer, a Slayer’s mom, an Auror, a witch, and a wizard: music, sports, school, books, work, and just general stuff.

Buffy thought her mom was happy to see her acting normal. Not Slayery. Like a normal college-going eighteen-year-old. Buffy had to admit it was nice to act normal for a change.

Even better, for a change, nothing Hellmouthy had happened.

The phone rang.

Yet.

Buffy sighed, and listened to her mother talk to whomever it was on the phone. It had to be Giles. Who else would call at 6:30 pm? Besides, her mom hadn’t given up the phone yet, so she had to be talking to Giles. Buffy couldn’t quite voice the words ‘talking to her boyfriend’, not when it was in relation to her Mom and Giles. I mean, well, they even made kissy noises into the phone.

Not that Angel and me ever did that.

At least not that I’d ever admit to it in public.

That was the whole center of the problem, wasn’t it? Buffy needed a guy she wasn’t afraid to be with in public, and it needed to be a guy who wasn’t afraid or intimidated by her in public or in private. She hadn’t been able to be in public with Angel, and Riley had been threatened by her abilities. Ron was perfect. Mom approved of him, Giles approved of him, and Xander approved of him. Willow and Tara approved of him. So that meant -

“You’re not going to believe this.”

Buffy wasn’t sure she wanted to answer her mom. She could believe an awful lot, unfortunately. “Try me.”

Her mom laughed. “Willow and Tara did a spell they found in one of Rupert’s older spellbooks, without his knowledge.”

All Buffy could think of was the will-be-done fiasco. “Oh, no.”

“Things didn’t go well?” Harry was sympathetic, and Buffy appreciated it.

“They pulled a person from another universe to here, and Rupert isn’t sure whether or not it’s possible for him to get back there.” The room became absolutely silent. “Furthermore,” Joyce continued, “the spell they used wasn’t a real spell at all, but was instead Spike’s idea of a practical joke.”

“Spike is so dusted!”

“And -“ Joyce said.

“There’s an ‘and’?” Ron had every appearance of a man on the edge. Buffy had seen that expression on Giles’ face before - like when her Watcher had met Angel and Angel’s vampirism had been revealed, for example. It was stronger than an ‘Oh Dear Lord’ situation, marking an imminent apocalypse. Buffy wondered if these facial expressions were something British people learned at school. “Do you realize that already what you’ve said nets me a hundredweight of paperwork?”

Buffy steeled herself. “What’s the ‘and’?” It could be anything on the Hellmouth.

“Anya has her power center back, and is Anyanka again. She also told Willow to tell Xander that she’s sorry but she has to break up with him now that she’s a demon again.”

“I knew she was no good for him!”

“A demon again?”

“A hundredweight of paperwork in triplicate.”

Harry laughed. “This place’ll keep you out of trouble, Ron. You won’t have to worry about Hermione or me, it’s this place that’ll keep you hopping. And you thought our school years were rough.”

That made everyone laugh, in spite of the bad news from Giles. Buffy saw plenty of truth in what Harry had said, too. Not just because she could identify with him somewhat, from the stories Ron had told her, but because it was true. The Hellmouth would certainly keep Ron busy, just like it kept Buffy busy.

So they’d be busy together. Trite, but true.

No one seemed upset about Ron being there.

Buffy certainly wasn’t. She wanted this relationship to work, and at the very least she wanted to try. The way adults do, in the real world, and all that. It wouldn’t be easy, but she was supposed to be acting like an adult. That including making adult decisions, and she could always count on her mom and Giles’ help if she needed it.

She had made a decision. Buffy was going to date Ron, in a serious adult way. Maybe the Hellmouth had made it so. She was afraid to ask, and she sure as hell wasn’t going to wish upon a star.

Rita Skeeter had been writing furiously for three days. The Initiative, Doctor Walsh’s mad project, the implications of it all, Spike, Angel, Doyle, Cordelia, the barman and his patrons: she had so much material that it was heartrending to cut anything out. On the other hand, having an overabundance of material meant that she could write many stories instead of just the one her editor wanted. Of course, that didn’t mean the bastard would accept any of them except the one he’d asked her to write in the first place. Sometimes the bastard didn’t even take the story he’d asked her to do.

She’d gone ahead and prepared all of the stories, just in case. A good journalist - a professional - was prepared for anything. Whatever he said, she’d be ready for it.

That was why, if reporters were vultures, newspaper editors were jackals.

What she needed now was an owl. Sunnydale didn’t have owl post. Rita supposed they might fall easy prey to vampires or demons, and it wasn’t as if this was a wizarding community. She hadn’t seen a copy of the Prophet for weeks. How Muggles managed this their whole lives she just couldn’t understand. They must be mad, the whole lot of them.

She had already learned what not to do when preparing a magical fire in a Muggle hotel room. It tended to set off the fire alarm - not exactly the proper way to remain incognito. Since that very embarrassing incident in Rome, Rita had tried to develop a safe method of preparing a magical fire without a fireplace. Clearly, the Prophet wasn’t going to plump for a suite with a fireplace, and Rita certainly didn’t want to spend that kind of dosh on something so foolish, not when there had to be another way. If she was willing to go outdoors, well, that would be one thing, but she wasn’t.

Not here.

For one thing, their conversation wouldn’t be private, and the scoop was everything. Rita wouldn’t put it past those tabloids to have sent spies. For another thing, Rita didn’t want to take excessively stupid chances with her safety. Vampires might not prowl during the daytime, but some demons did. Worse, some of the ‘night life’ set traps to catch day prey in the more secluded areas as night-time take-out. So setting the fire outside was a bad idea. She didn’t want to get caught in some stupid demon’s dinner trap while trying to call her editor.

Damn Hellmouth.

It took Rita several minutes to prepare a mobile fireplace of a sort; it would funnel all heat, light, and waste products back into itself in a recycling-format. While this spell used fewer source materials to start up, it had a limited burn time. Rita hoped it would be long enough to do what she needed, and hopefully she would need it. This was a very potent spell - and restraining an even more powerful one, a magical fire.

Rita didn’t want to think about what might happen if something went wrong while she was doing these spells on the Hellmouth. It wouldn’t be pretty. Instead, she focused on what she had to tell her editor. What she’d learned. What she’d found. What she’d found out.

Finally she got through to him, but what he had to say in response to her news was far from what she had hoped. “What do you mean, ‘It’s old news’? I just finished seeing the place myself with my own eyes.” It hadn’t been easy getting in and out of the Initiative’s underground bunker as a beetle, either. Rita had gotten the goods on the Room 314 project that had so terrified the Hellmouth’s usual residents, and she could see why. Even with insect-sized eyes, the why was very obvious.

“Rita, luv, the Ministry of Magic and the Watchers’ Council are fully aware of the dangers posed by the Initiative and the Room 314 Project. They’ve already dealt with it.” His head bobbed complacently in the fire. “Haven’t you read the Prophet lately?”

“I’m over here on the bloody Hellmouth!”

“True.” He sipped at a cuppa.

Rita wanted him to choke on it. “Look. What about this story? I also got an interview with Angel, formerly Angelus, one-fourth of the Scourge of Europe, now cursed with a soul and running a private investigation agency in Los Angeles.”

That caught his attention. “You’re sodding kidding me.”

“Or an interview with Spike, a.k.a. William the Bloody, another one-fourth of the Scourge of Europe. Or interviews with the drunks of Willy’s - the local demon hangout - to see how the Slayer’s opponents feel about life, death, and, well, everything.”

“Send them to me when you get back to London.”

Just like that, the bastard was gone. Rita seethed quietly. Somehow, somewhere, someone had scooped her. She didn’t know how they’d managed it, unless it was the damned Aurors themselves. She considered that … it was completely possible. After cleaning out the Initiative, the combined forces could have easily issued a prepared statement to the Prophet and it would be broken in one fell swoop.

After all, she’d already noted that she was working with professionals. Rupert Giles, for one.

The thing was, though, that Riley Finn was also a professional. Well, he was supposed to be a professional soldier. Sometimes she had her doubts. If the Initiative had been raided by the Aurors at least one or two days ago, why didn’t Riley tell me? He knew I was reporting on this … or maybe that’s why he didn’t tell me. Rita deactivated the mobile fireplace, and packed it away for future use.

In any event, Riley had to know the Initiative no longer existed, and he hadn’t said anything about the raid. Rita decided the time had come to seethe not-so-quietly.

She found Riley Finn late that same night outside the Bronze, some sort of local pub for the teenage set. Rita didn’t even give him a chance to speak, let alone explain. She didn’t want an explanation; they weren’t her thing, as the young people said. A stupifying spell did the job nicely, laying the soldier out on the ground like a sack of potatoes, and a lightening charm proved very useful so she could carry him somewhere a bit more private.

One thing she’d learned from Spike: crypts come in handy when you don’t want to be disturbed during private business. Restdale Cemetery had plenty of them. Rita picked one that was unoccupied by an undead resident, and bound Riley’s extremities. She didn’t want him to get away until she was finished punishing him. When she’d done wrong, as a little girl, her father had spanked her bare bum with his hand. As she’d gotten older, her punishments had changed, but she still remembered the stinging slap and how she’d had to eat dinner standing up more than once.

Her brothers hadn’t been so lucky. They’d gotten spanked up until they moved out of the house. She exposed his bare arse, something she figured would wake him from the stupifying spell faster than anything else. After all, it wouldn’t be any fun if he wasn’t awake, would it?

Rita gazed down at the pale globes of muscle, commonly known as the gluteus maximus.

“Of course it would!”

The night rang with the sound of slaps, a heavy female hand joyfully ringing out vengeance on a male’s bare buttock. A male voice raised in vain protest against such childish treatment. A female voice angrily argued the justification of such treatment. Eventually, anger led to discussion, which led to sex.

Much later, Rita decided not to go to London right away. The feature pieces can wait. After all, it’s not as if the bastard editor was all excited about them. She’d ship them via floo or a real fireplace when she got somewhere more secure. Now that she’s in America, she might as well visit some of it.

A road trip sounds like a splendid idea.

Surely there must be hundreds of deliciously juicy front page stories out there!

And Riley? Rita’s not worried about Riley Finn. She’s learned to trust her antennae about these things. She’s got a feeling she’ll run into him again somewhere along her journey.

Ron felt pretty good about the state of the Hellmouth at the moment, in spite of the fact that he still had half a hundredweight of paperwork, in triplicate, left to finish. The Initiative was gone, thank Merlin. The surviving soldiers were going to be reassigned, or so Rupert had indicated was likely to occur. After all, he imagined there was no way the United States government would admit to what had happened in Sunnydale, even if anyone other than those who had been present at the battle actually knew about the Initiative and what had gone on there.

It had indeed been quite a battle. Even with the Aurors, the Order of the Phoenix, the Department of Mysteries - not to mention the Minister of Magic himself - all waiting anxiously for his operations report, Ron wasn’t going to rush. He intended to make certain that everyone involved got the credit deserved. Doctor Walsh’s creation could have been a major problem, had they not defeated it in time with the help of a ‘Primal Slayer’ spell, and the psychologist would have to be carefully watched. He would have felt better about the whole thing if she’d been sent to Azkaban, but the Watchers’ Council wouldn’t even consider the idea.

They’d attacked the Initiative at the same time as the demons mounted an offensive against the military bunker. It was eerie to see two demon species in particular working together against a common enemy, especially when the two species in question normally fought to the death on sight. To see such a thing on this scale was positively terrifying. Worse yet, the demon offensive wasn’t particular about whom or what they fought.

It wasn’t like the Slayer was on their side.

But she was, this time.

Ron had never seen anything like that Primal Slayer spell. Essentially, it combined Rupert’s mind, Willow’s spirit, Xander’s heart, and Buffy’s body into a super-charged Slayer in order to defeat A.D.A.M. He stayed behind to protect their bodies, which would be defenseless, while the super-charged Buffy-Primal-Slayer went to work. It made him think that perhaps he should have taken the advanced potions classes, after all. Damn. Too late now. Ron concluded that life on the Hellmouth would be strange, indeed. A good kind of strange.

With Anya gone, Tara had taken over her position as store clerk at the Magic Box. Apparently Rupert didn’t mind her working hours flowing around her class schedule. Ron had to admit it was a sensible plan, since the blonde witch spent a great deal of time there in any event. His only regret was that he never got to meet Anya; everyone said how lucky he was that he never had to. Ron felt that he was missing out on something interesting.

Rupert and Willow were busy setting up a new identity with all the trimmings for John Crichton. No record of his existence had turned up in Willow’s computer searches, magical and otherwise, thus confirming the possibility that this was not his Earth. Since John had been through a wormhole, from his Earth to another galaxy or to another part of the galaxy or simply to an alternate Earth, there was no way to know how to find the right Earth. There was just no telling.

John Crichton was stuck here. Ron figured Willow would be scrubbing glass beakers and iron cauldrons for a long, long time. Rupert had indicated that they would research the problem - one possibility might lie in vengeance demons, like Anyanka, that dealt in alternate worlds and dimensions - but he’d told Ron privately that he deemed it doubtful. Possibly the astronaut would stay for a while, until he got used to living on Earth again. Ron honestly didn’t know what John’s plans were.

Harry and Hermione were still in town. They even took part in the battle against the Initiative, which made Ron laugh. It hadn’t been funny at the time, of course, but it certainly was now. Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, went to extreme lengths to avoid Auror training or anything else remotely related to fighting the Dark Arts as a career choice, and now he wants to go fight the Initiative, vampires, and demons. Ron had half expected Hermione to hex her boyfriend into oblivion, but instead was treated to the same lists of logical reasons why and why not that she’d used to win arguments when they’d attended Hogwarts. Now, of course, Hermione was subtler. Apparently, he’d miscalculated, because the next thing Ron knew, his two old friends were part of the attack force.

Ron was just glad it was over. He was also very glad everyone had survived. No fatalities. It had felt wonderful to be able to write that, for a change, on his operations report. Take that, Black, you sod. He glanced over to where Harry and Hermione were busily researching something for Rupert, and a sudden thought made him grin ear to ear. Five years. They’ll be married in less than five years, with two kids, and be living here on the Hellmouth as part of the group. Betcha.

“What’s the funny?”

Damn, he hadn’t even heard Buffy enter the shop. “Nothing, just thinking.” She stood at his elbow, looking torn between punching the heavy bag nearby or the wall. From the several patches in the wall of the back room, Ron could tell she’d lost control and had done that in the past.

“Spike’s gone.”

From her tone, Ron could also tell she’d wanted to punch him more than a few times. The patches wouldn’t have helped. “Good.”

“So’s Rita Skeeter.”

Those were beautiful words. “Hallelujah!” Ron thought seriously about praying to Merlin for holy deliverance.

“Thinking little thoughts?” The Slayer pulled up a chair and sat down next to him.

“As many little thoughts as I can handle.” Ron smiled at Buffy, and took her hand. “See, I have a big job, and my girlfriend - my darling beautiful girlfriend -“

Buffy laughed.

“ - Has a really big job, and I think she’s just smashing.”

“Oh yeah?”

Ron kissed her. “Indeed. Even though your whole family is positively barking.” He waved a hand toward the other members in the shop, where the rest of the Scooby Gang had gathered.

All, he realized, except for one.

“Has anyone seen Xander?”

Xander Harris pulled his Uncle Rory’s blue so-called ‘chick magnet-mobile’ onto Hidden Creek Parkway to wait. The long road hadn’t been very well named, in his opinion, but then that depended on who or what you asked. While thick woods surrounded the dirt road, everyone knew where it was, even if no one used it very often. That was why the town had never bothered to pave the road; there was nothing out here but woods.

There wasn’t even a creek, hidden or otherwise.

Nor was there a park of any kind.

It was, however, a popular parking and petting spot for Sunnydale’s teenagers, and that made it an equally popular feeding spot for Sunnydale’s nightlife. Again, no one used the road for much - unless you were on a date or looking for a bite to eat, depending on your state-of-unliving.

Xander had figured there wouldn’t be anyone here yet, not this early, and he was right. It would be a nice private place to meet someone for a talk … about things. After all, a lot could happen in the meantime until they would see each other again.

That might be a long time.

Xander had spent the morning packing his meager belongings in secure boxes. It was amazing how little a person really needed when your space was limited, but there wasn’t a lot he really wanted to keep from Sunnyhell anyway. His better clothes, some photographs, his journal, a cache of first-edition comic books, some sci-fi geek collectibles, some favorite movies, a huge book by Tolkien that Willow had given him five years ago that he still hadn’t read: everything fit in two suitcases and a bunch of taped-up boxes. He was bringing his acoustic guitar, too. Xander would have liked to have a case for it, but he didn’t. It couldn’t be helped, though, and there was no way in hell he was leaving it behind.

He’d have rather been at the Magic Box taking part in post-battle party vibes, but there wasn’t a good way to do what needed to be done. Xander had gotten that dream job he’d applied for, and the only thing that kept it from being absolutely perfect was the fact that he needed to leave town. Immediately, if not sooner. Plus, he had to leave town without telling anyone what exactly his new job was going to be.

There were fairness issues, for lack of a better word.

If they had learned about it, Xander knew a restriction like that would instantly set off the Scooby panic alarm bells. To be honest, it had set his own ringing, too, until he’d learned more details about the job. So he had decided it would just be safer to say as little as possible. It would be tough to not tell Giles and his girls where he was or what he was going to be doing, but he’d make sure to leave a note for them. Xander figured he’d mail it from one of his stops on the way to his destination. He didn’t want to rush things.

They’d probably even be a little happy, now that Xander stopped to think about it. No more slaying for Xander, just what they’d always wanted. Of course, the trade-off meant that he had to permanently leave and never return, except for short visits during the off-season. How was I supposed to stay in Sunnydale and not slay with the rest of them? Why didn’t they understand that simple fact? As far as Xander was concerned, everything had worked out. He doubted that Willow would agree with him.

No, Xander wanted to be far away from Willow Rosenberg learned the news that he had to give her. Preferably somewhere impervious to attack via mental, magical, mystical, physical, astral, or otherwise. He wouldn’t put anything past Willow when she got nasty. After all, he’d seen her PMSed before, and was convinced God had invented Midol purely for Willow Rosenberg’s use. Cordelia Chase at her bitchiest had nothing on a PMSing Willow Rosenberg sans Midol. Cordy just had never witnessed it. Xander was certain that had Cordy ever had the misfortune to do so, assuming she survived the experience, Willow might have assumed Cordelia’s crown as Queen of the School. At the very least, Willow might have been accepted into the Cordettes on sheer bitchiness alone. In fact, that cheerleader version of Willow would send Angelus at his worst crying home to Mommy sucking his thumb.

The combined images made Xander laugh.

“Hey.”

The sudden voice startled Xander so much he nearly leaped out of Uncle Rory’s car. ‘Nearly’ because the seatbelt caught him and whiplashed him back into the seat, whanging his head on everything possible along the way. All in all, Xander concluded that the experience was a very painful one and not one he wanted to repeat. He also concluded that, while seatbelts were important for safety reasons while actually driving, they weren’t quite so fabulous when parked.

Nor were they so damned terrific when your friendly neighborhood werewolf snuck up behind you and said something typically zen-like, thus scaring the hell out of you.

“Sorry, man.”

Xander just nodded in response. He felt that if he opened his mouth, his heart would leap out and make a desperate bid for freedom. The redheaded werewolf didn’t look any different, but it was obvious that he wanted to leave town in a hurry. Xander could understand; Oz had been in a pretty humiliating position, caged in the Initiative’s compound when the Scoobies attacked and broke him out. After that, the werewolf had come out fully, and had taken no prisoners. Now, Oz just looked worn and tired, sitting in the passenger seat … and he was hiding something bulky in his shirt pocket. Oz’s familiar green van was parked right next to his own car. Xander hadn’t even heard him drive up. Way to zone out.

After a couple moments of convincing his bodily organs to stay where they were supposed to be, Xander decided to get right down to business. “I just wanted to say goodbye.” A raised eyebrow from the werewolf. “Not that I might not ever see you again -“ that sounded weird, but he pressed forward - “but you’re the only person who’s likely to understand why I’m leaving.” No comment. “And not kill me for even bringing up the subject,” Xander finished. He hadn’t wanted to admit that … which was the only drawback about talking with the werewolf.

You tended to admit things you never meant to say. Something about Oz just made you blurt them out.

Oz smiled. “Destiny?”

“I suppose.”

“Karma?”

“You could say that.”

“Oh?” Now both eyebrows were raised. It was possibly the highest degree of expression Xander had seen on the werewolf’s face since they’d known each other. Look up ‘stoic’ in any dictionary, and chances were there’d be a picture of Oz there. Xander would bet on it.

Now he had to think fast: how to explain to Oz without breaking his contract? There were those pesky fairness issues again. “I got a new job,” Xander began. “With dental.”

“Nice.” The werewolf almost sounded envious.

“I’m not allowed to tell anybody about what I’m doing exactly, or where exactly, or for whom exactly.” Xander waited for Oz to go on Scooby High Alert. He might have left Sunnydale for a while, but he was still a Scooby and he knew what constituted weird. Xander knew it. This time, Oz really looked at him and raised an eyebrow. Xander sighed. “Now, I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking, ‘Xander, stop being stupid. It’s a trap, you idiot.’ But really -“

“That’s not what I’m thinking.”

Xander stared at him. “It isn’t?”

“No.” Another pause. “I think you’re an adult and can make your own decisions.” Oz shrugged. “You were a Scooby before I was.”

It had to be the most number of words Xander had ever heard Oz say all at once in the entire time they’d known each other. Plus, it was nice to know that his friend had that much faith in him. If he was being a sappy mushy chick-flick-watching tea-drinking-with-the-pinky-finger-up candyass, well, he might go so far as to name his current feeling as heartwarming.

Xander didn’t, though. Just like he wasn’t going to acknowledge the tears streaming down his face. If he didn’t see them, they didn’t exist.

Oz snorted, and wiped the tears away for him. “Here.” He handed Xander an envelope, which had his name written on it. “Read it later.”

The bulky something in Oz’s shirt beeped, and the werewolf did something completely unexpected. He handed Xander the keys to his van. “Take good care of her.”

Xander was almost speechless. He knew Oz was going to leave town, but how was he planning to leave without his van? “You’re leaving town?”

Oz nodded.

“Won’t you need her?” At least his Uncle Rory wasn’t the only guy who talked about cars like they were women. When he was five years old and had overheard his Uncle Rory cooing at his car like it was a girl, Xander had been convinced he could get cooties from cars. Naturally, he’d told Willow and Jesse about it. He’d gotten the worst spanking of his life when he’d refused to get in the car to go to his grandmother’s house because he ‘didn’t want to get cooties.’

“No.” The werewolf got out of Xander’s car and walked to the passenger seat of the van. He retrieved a black duffle bag, an electric guitar case, and an amplifier. Next to these three pieces of luggage, Oz placed two items: a towel, and a book. Xander noted the book’s title: Don’t Panic.

Sound advice, he decided. “You’d better come visit.” It wasn’t until after Xander spoke that he realized how stupid that sounded, since Oz didn’t know where he was going to be working. How was he supposed to visit, you zeppo?

He nodded. “New snow tires.”

Xander stared at Oz, who stared back in a completely unruffled manner. This was not a contest Xander was going to win. He suspected the werewolf held staring contests with himself and a mirror as a form of daily training. It was time for a tactical retreat. “Yeah?” Oh, good one. Way to be tactical.

Oz nodded serenely. “Later.” The werewolf and his luggage was gone in a flash of light. There might have been white sparklies, somewhat reminiscent of Star Trek special effects.

For a brief moment, Xander wondered if he’d been tricked into Candid Camera, but then he recalled that the program had been cancelled. Maybe he was hallucinating or had been struck in the head once too often. Maybe he had a fever and was actually, right now, this very moment, writhing on sweat-soaked sheets while a bevy of blonde beauties attended to his every need.

Xander considered that last possibility a moment longer before discarding it with a regretful frown. It wasn’t likely to happen in my lifetime. Unless, of course, the blonde beauties are Tara, Anya, and Buffy. Still super unlikely. And who the hell are you? Who’s goddamn sickbed fantasy is this, anyway? What? You’d rather I added Joyce to the list of blonde beauties adoring you?

Xander sighed and hastily ceased all argument with the voices in his head; he couldn’t even win an argument with himself. He couldn’t speak for the others - and, honestly, he really didn’t want to know any details - but that super bizarro dream after the Primal Slayer spell was more than enough. It had just been too strange to see himself being all Mrs. Robinson with Mrs. S. Definitely not of the normal.

And, goddamn, what was it about him that made every woman want to rip his heart out? Cordelia, Anya, now this First Slayer girl, and he hadn’t even dated her.

Women.

Xander decided to read Oz’s letter. It was a real eye-opener. Thinking back, Xander supposed he should have guessed that Oz was just visiting the planet Earth. No real human could be so stoic.

Look at Spock.

According to Oz’s letter, he was just visiting. His real home was a planet in the Sirius constellation, and the Oz-wolf was actually his natural shape. One of the functions of his guitar was to record audio and pictorial images of what he heard and saw, in conjunction with special sunglasses. The only problem, of course, was that he couldn’t tell what he’d recorded until he watched the playback; while actually recording, Oz was virtually blind and deaf.

Xander thought it explained a lot.

It certainly explained the Dingoes’ music. Or lack thereof. (And Oz had been the best musician of the band.)

Oz swore he’d be back; he just wanted to visit a few more planets listed in his guidebook before it got too out-of-date. There was a guidebook to the universe? Like Disney World? Xander wondered what the entry for Earth said.

He’d have to ask.

By the time Xander’d transferred his boxes, luggage, and acoustic guitar from the car to the van, he’d discovered there certainly were new snow tires on the van. It even had a full tank of gas. He shifted the van around, so that it headed down the road.

Of course, there had been another reason Xander had chosen Hidden Creek Parkway; the road was long and straight and went on seemingly uninterrupted for miles. Officially, this road was what the alleged ‘PCP gangs’ used to ship their ‘product’. Xander grinned, bending over to wipe some sparkly goopy salve on each van tire. It didn’t take him long to slather it on the hood, undercarriage, rear trunk area, and around each window.

After all, Hidden Creek Parkway would make an excellent runway.

Xander glanced up at the sound of jingling bells. My ride’s here. He tried to look nonchalant as the five-reindeer team, all antlered and belled in traditional Christmas gear, soared down from the sky and trotted over and around to where the van waited. He didn’t know their names yet, but he’d learn them.

It wasn’t everyone who got chosen as heir and apprentice to the Big Man in the Red Suit. When Santa Claus retired, Xander would take his place. Until then, though, he had a lot to learn.

The magic of Christmas would only be a part of it.

His hiring-notification letter had explained how to handle ‘the girls’ when it was time to leave, and how to attach their harnesses to his vehicle. It had also detailed some important rules and the reasons why, such as the secrecy one. It had even explained the reason the witchy duo had been giving him the funny looks the other night; all applicants were granted immunity from all prior magic. (After all, Santa’s helpers needed to be fair and just.) Most importantly, the letter made clear how much responsibility he would be taking on as his life’s work. It was making children happy, giving them hope. That was almost as important as making children safe.

Maybe more so.

Xander finished setting the rings in place, using the salve as a goopy glue. The instructions insisted it would hold the D-rings magically in place until the antidote was applied. When the salve was applied to surfaces, it made the objects lighter and aided in flying. It was, more or less, a flying potion.

The reindeer bobbed their heads, stamping their feet and snorting. Xander pulled the reins inside, one in through each side window, using the instructions he’d been sent. Bells jingled. ‘The girls’ were eager.

Maybe California was too warm for them.

Real snow, Xander thought, what a concept.

It was nearly twilight, dark enough to cover his leaving. Even if anyone did see him leave, this was Sunnydale, where no one ever saw anything, and certainly never admitted it. Nevertheless, Xander wanted to be discreet. He also wanted to be out of Sunnydale before nightfall.

No more dawdling.

It wasn’t getting him any closer to the North Pole.

Xander Harris hopped into the van, took up the reins, snapped them firmly, and shouted, “Home, girls!” The world flew by in a flash of light, the speed of a child’s dream. He couldn’t wait for Christmas this year. The Scooby Gang would have terrific gifts if he had any say in the matter … and he had an inside line that said they would.

Xander laughed with glee. He couldn’t resist.

“But I did yell out loud as I drove out of sight
‘To those on the Hellmouth don’t have a good fright!’”

Challenge Number One: the Rita Skeeter and Riley Extended Mega Challenge of Death was posted by muchafraid to the Twisting the Hellmouth website on December 6, 2003. This is pre-crash, unfortunately, so the challenge isn't listed any longer.

It reads as follows:

I have been enjoying reading odd pairings -- and my friends and I were trying to think of some of the more -- shall we say "difficult"? -- pairings possible. Rita Skeeter came to mind, as she is a completely delightful character, and also completely horrible. Who could she be paired with? The possibilities are virtually endless, but my mind goes straight to Riley. They have so little in common on the surface, but oh, the passion that boils just beneath the surface. Rita and Riley. Both their names begin with 'R'. Mere coincidence? I think not. Clearly, these two are meant to be together.

The only absolute rule is that both Harry and Buffy must make at least a cameo appearance. Include feathers in their outfits and you get a cookie.

Extra Points given for including the following words: Cinderella, poultry, prison riot gear, gramophone, snickerdoodle, tulle.

Extra Extra Points given if you can work in the following actions: baking a cake, shaving the cat, and calling Buffy "that blonde chick".

You are a complete crossover god if you plausibly include with the following accessory characters in your story: John Crichton (Farscape), and Seth (The O.C.).

You may do to Riley as you will, but if you give him a spanking, I will kiss your feet.

The gauntlet has been tossed. Takers?

Challenge Number Two: the Buffy/Ron Challenge was posted by Kamali to the TtH site around the same time. This challenge also no longer exists on the site. It reads:

Posted this on the other forum, thought I'd post it again here. If someone could write a Buffy/Ron Weasley fic, I would love you for life.

I have a few ideas, like Ron is an Auror helping to rebuild the Watchers' Council, but any type of concept that is not stupid is acceptable.

The only thing I ask, however, is that Harry and Hermione be paired. Anything else is of your choosing.

What do you think? Did I complete them? Let me know. Don't forget to feed the Muses.

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