Title: Juventus
Author: argante ((ravenedfaithhotmail.com))
Spoilers: Books 1-5, General BtVS and AtS; set about 20 years into the future. Fiddled with the timelines, made HP OotP around the same time as BtVS s1.
Rated: PG, for now. May change later
Disclaimer: All Buffy-verse stuff is Mr. Whedon's; all Harry-verse stuff is Ms. Rowling's. All lyrics from Counting Crows.
Distribution: Want, take, have. Just remember to tell me where it is.
Feedback: Oh, please! I can't get enough of it.
Prologue
well, there's a piece of maria in every song that i sing
and the price of a memory is the memory of the sorrow it brings
and there is always one last light to turn out and one last bell to ring
and the last one out of the circus has to lock up everything
As a late transfer from the Salem Academy, fitting in at Hogwarts was never going to be an easy thing to do. You didn't necessarily like it, but you understood it. You always knew that, even though it wasn't something you wanted to admit you knew.
But then again, when has what you wanted ever really mattered?
It's mostly the scar that kept the students at bay, and you know it. Caitlin once said that scars could have that effect; they either drew people too you or pushed them away (("And I should know. Daughter of the Boy-That-Lived and all.")) You find it amusing ((in a grotesque way, not a ha-ha way)) that a thin, pale line that's barely visible most of the time is all it takes for others to isolate you.
You reach a hand up and run your fingers along as much of the scar as you can, tracing it from just above your left temple to where it disappears into the collar of your robes. It runs along almost the entire left side of your body, and you both loathe and treasure it, for it remains as the symbol of the battle that cost you almost everything you had; your parents, your brother, your best friends and, very nearly, your life.
But didn't you lose your life in that battle anyway? You certainly see very little of the person you were in the person you've been since the battle, and can't recognise anything in this new life, because with the exception of a few belongings you managed to smuggle into your trunk, there's nothing familiar in this new life of yours; you couldn't even bring Epona, your owl, because 'the cause' took her as well, while she was carrying messages between Europe and America. She had been a gift from your father, a 'congratulations' for receiving prefect your fifth and sixth year. He'd been so excited when your Head Girl badge had come in the mail last summer that he'd promised you a new broomstick, since the trusty old Nimbus that had seen you through almost six years of Quidditch had been destroyed in a rather rough match. In your mind's eye, you can still see him; still recall that day in near-perfect detail. His mouth spread wide in a huge smile, his eyes dancing with excitement, and pride shining in his voice as he exclaimed over it to your mother (("Head Girl! Can you believe it, Willow? Our daughter, Head Girl of Salem Academy!")) when he thought you weren't listening. That day will forever be imprinted on your memory. He'd been Head Boy of Hogwarts when he was your age -- apparently to the surprise of almost everybody. He'd always wanted you to go to Hogwarts, to follow in his footsteps, and you can almost choke on the bitter irony of it.
But still, despite the reason for your attendance, you're grateful you had the chance to see the castle your father grew up in. The sight of your father's name on numerous trophies and plaques and boards ((Head Boys, Quidditch Cup, Special Contribution to the School, Academic Excellence... there were numerous)) has given you a small sense of peace, and it has been both upsetting and strangely comforting to catch the loaded looks and whispered fragments of conversation that passed between the teachers who learned with, and in some cases, taught him, and the students who are children of others, those not teaching, who did. When you first arrived, you were quite aware that many at Hogwarts would know your father, and possibly your mother, and you wondered what they expected of you. It didn't take long, however, before the comments began to slip between the Professors and visitors, both to you and within your earshot, (("You must be Miss. Finnegan..." "Spitting image of her father, except for that hair. I tell you, I thought she was another Weasley at first..." "Good man, he was. A very good man. Terrible to hear about what happened..." "I went to school with your father, you know? Same house and everything..." "Oh Draco, don't. Seamus and Willow were wonderful people. They loved each other, and they loved her. It's hardly their fault...")) and you began to realise that your parents, but especially your father, had been very well respected and liked, and it scared you. What if they compared you to him, or expected you to be just like him? And then you found that being you was almost like being him anyway, and so they were all satisfied and you were, for the most part, left alone.
Sighing, you sit back on your seat, your gaze sweeping the empty compartment before turning to the window to gaze out at the passing countryside. Suddenly, the train jerks, almost like a stalling car, and your rucksack and guitar case topple down from the rack above your head. You pull back, ducking as quickly as you can in order to avoid a concussion. As soon as you've steadied yourself you bend down, gathering your bag and throwing the spilled items back in. when your hand brushes a cool metallic object you grasp it, pulling it out slowly. When you realise it's just your Discman, you roll your eyes at yourself and push it onto the seat, by the guitar case. You pull the string on your rucksack and clip it closed before lobbing it back up onto the rack. Exhaling loudly, you turn your attention to your guitar case, clicking it open and breathing a heavy sigh of relief when you realise nothing's been damaged. Gently, you lift the guitar from its case and strum at it a little, fiddling with it here and there, tuning it for the first time in a long while. You haven't touched it since you arrived at Hogwarts, the memories of late nights with your mother and Salem firesides with your friends so deeply ingrained in it you can almost feel them seep from the strings and frets into your fingers.
You slide your earphones into your ears and hit play, your breath catching when you realise that Maria left her Counting Crows CD inside. You strum along with the music, your fingers finding their own way, and start to sing the lyrics softly, your mind drifting back to the times at Salem when, gathered around the common room fire, she made you play songs from the CD because no electronical equipment worked at the school. It's because of her that you have almost every Counting Crows song ever sang committed to memory.
"I never go to New York City these days
Something about the buildings in Chelsea just kills me
Maybe in a month or two,
Maybe when things are different for me,
Maybe when things are different for you
You know all of this shit, just sticks in my head
Is there anything different these days?
The light in her eyes goes out
I never had light in my eyes anyways
Maybe things are different these days"
There's always been something about music that drew you to it; there's a freedom to it that everyday life lacks. You could always count on it for escape, and now, when you desperately need the distraction of the strings beneath your fingers and the chords and lyrics running through your head, it's no different.
"It's good for everybody to hurt somebody once in a while
The things I do to people I love shouldn't be allowed
Something about the buildings in Chelsea just kills me
Something about the buildings in Chelsea just kills me
Is there anything different these days?
The light in her eyes goes out,
I never had light in my eyes anyways
Maybe things are different these days."
Different. Different and nobody knows how, nobody really knows why. You detachedly wonder whether you should congratulate yourself or not. Everyone knows about the battle, of course, knows you stood toe-to-toe with the last remnants of Voldemort and his protégé, knows about your parents. But know one really knows. They don't know about the way Maria's tears and fears and so many other things had been written, clear as day, across her face as she pulled at the manacles helplessly, or the way Leo's body had lain, bent and broken and lifeless, his beautiful clear blue eyes dark and cloudy and crying blood. They don't know what it was like watching Dawn collapse when you told them all what had happened, what it was like to feel yourself die a little more on the inside as you stood alone in the middle of the lobby of the Hyperion Hotel, isolated and untouchable and numb, the calm in the raging sea of their emotions. They don't see Buffy and Angel clinging to each other in desperation and shock every time they close their eyes, and they won't ever know the look on Fergus' face when he died, his eyes when you both realised that sometimes you were there 'just in time', but it was always balanced by 'a moment too late', and now was one of those balancing times. And he knew it, and there was surprise in his eyes, but the surprise wasn't that you were late or that he was dying, but that you were there at all. That look will stay with you forever, of that you're sure.
"I dream I'm in New York City some nights.
Angels flow down from all the buildings
Something about an angel just kills me
I keep hoping something will
Is there anything different these days?
The light in her eyes goes out,
I never had light in my eyes anyways
Maybe things are, maybe maybe maybe
Maybe things are, maybe maybe maybe maybe things are different,
Maybe things are different these days
The light goes out
I never had light in my eyes anyways
Maybe things are different......these days."
You strum the song out, calming yourself and revelling in the silence of your empty compartment. The song ends and you stop the CD, pulling out your earphones and winding them around the Discman. You stand and spin, packing your Discman back into your rucksack, focusing on the everyday, mundane task in an effort to keep your head above the water, pulling at the last threads of your control.
You're so focused on just breathing in and out, in and out, on making it through this minute, that you don't notice the small crowd at the door being shooed away by a tall, pale blonde. He turns and regards you, standing frozen with your hands resting on the rack above your head, just breathing slowly, before turning sharply on his heel and hurrying back down the corridor.