Notes: Written for the Shibblings (you know who you are). Takes place the end of The Goblet of Fire in the Potterverse, and randomly at any point after Season 4 in the Buffyverse. Standard disclaimers apply. Sorry my formatting stinks- I can't get rid of those darn lines. Shooga-boom bah, ya'll.
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Bored to tears, I lurk at the foot of Potter's bed, trying to blank out the hideously smarmy conversations swirling around me. My damn arm hurts and I need a drink. And a bath. Nobly, I resist the urge to cross my arms and tap my foot impatiently; the tacit statement would just be uncouth, not to mention totally lost on these gibbering fools. I pass the time contemplating various de-follicularizing potions, and the most circumspect way of secreting them into Black's kibble.
Apparently spontaneously, the mutt transforms and departs, opening the door to the hall with a paw. How cute. I make a mental note to avoid touching the handle. The attention in the room shifts to me, and I am forced to pretend I have been paying attention to dramatic unfolding of events in the Life and Times of Harry James Potter, Superstar (!).
"If you are prepared, Severus…" Albus hedges, his expression somewhere between pity and hope. I scowl down at the Boy Who Lived to Torment Me, and reply, "I am". Spinning on one heel, I depart the room with a particularly magnificent swirl of robes; an effect I'm sure is lost on Potter, as he is without those wretched glasses. Reaching the egress, I simply kick the door open- it slams in my wake with a gratifyingly loud bang
Once in the empty hallway, I cease my swirling and pound my forehead against the chilly stone. I'm not, actually, prepared, having managed to repress up to this point the "little assignment" Albus has requested of me. Unfortunately, the man chooses that moment to enter the hallway as well. His eyes twinkling like epileptic binary stars, he grabs my elbow in an uncompromisingly firm grip and pulls me toward his office. I hope I am in such excellent form when I achieve his extreme seniority. But wait! There's no hope of that ever happening. I am Severus Snape, whipping boy to the rich and powerful. I laugh out loud, a harsh short sound. At least I'm not bitter.
"I'm glad you are so confident of this assignment, Severus," he comments. I scowl; he ignores me. He is not fooled.
Once in his office, he drops me into a chair and pours me a drink. I retract my scowl somewhat.
"You are going to California, Severus, and I want you to find someone called the Chosen One." I almost shoot whiskey through my nose-painful, yes, despite the relative size of my nostrils. "Along with someone known as the Watcher. I suspect those two will know others that might assist you as well." To see the look on his face, he might as well have said, "Severus, we have no milk for tea. Do, please, be a dear and fetch some from the kitchen."
I sigh. If I had known what I was getting into by pledging my condemned and blackened soul to the never-ending battle for Good and Light waged by the Order of the Phoenix-slash-Harry Potter Fan Club, would I have discarded Evil so casually?
"You have got to be joking." I snarl. America? Muggles? The Chosen One? Could it get any worse? The pleasant glow from the whiskey abandons me along with my hope for a bath. "And what, exactly, Albus, are these," I shudder, "colonists going to do for us?"
"Now, now Severus, they haven't been a colony for two hundred years! And we have discovered they may possess a solution to the problem of You-Know-Who." Do the man's eyes never stop twinkling?!
I cradle my head in my hands. "Please, Albus, it is bad enough to hear the children mincing around that name. And besides, I thought that was the job of the Boy Wonder. Couldn't we just aim his head at Voldemort again? He certainly has yet to use it for any other purpose thus far."
He crinkles his eyes at me merrily, the jolly old elf. I decide to sneer on general principle. As usual, he ignores me, and stands up, patting his robes absentmindedly for his wand. Fawkes looks on with a knowing eye-I suspect he is laughing at me.
"Such a dry wit, my boy. Now, I shall send you to roughly the correct location. It will be up to you then to locate these people, and convince them of our plight. You have twenty four hours."
Good lord, the man obviously reads too much historical drama. The mental picture of Albus Dumbledore, All-Powerful Wizard Extraordinaire, enrapt in a nineteenth century bodice ripper is almost too much to bear. I am a hairsbreadth away from smiling. However, I recall my imminent departure, and feel my normal crankiness return in the nick of time. Thank god.
Successfully retrieving his wand, Albus aims the business end at me.
"Wait!" I yelp in a most undignified manner. "How do I know where I am going? Don't you have any more information than 'Seek the bloody Chosen One?'"
"Oh dear, I almost forgot!" Albus smiles. Well, I'm glad we can all laugh about it. He pulls a Magical Map from under a pile of scrolls on his desk. "Good Luck, Severus. We are all counting on you. Oris Malorum."
Before I can voice further protests, the Headmaster's chambers are obscured in a puff of pink, cotton candy-scented smoke. I am doomed. Damn it.
Giles polished a chunk of amethyst listlessly. When he had purchased the Magic Box from the estate of the previous owner (in a roundabout, cold-blooded way, another favor owed to Spike), he wished they would have warned him how tedious small-business ownership could be. With Anya to do the bookkeeping and general hustling, he was left to lurk in a proprietary sort of way, and pay the bills of course. Ah, well. He put a last bit of elbow grease into the stone. It was better than working on top of the Hellmouth, he supposed. Hormone-addled teenagers were bad enough without the influence of the immeasurably evil.
Tucking his rag into a pocket, Giles ambled towards the back of the shop. Inventory would kill a couple hours, then maybe Buffy would show up, and they could train for a while.
In the contemplative silence, the front door burst open, causing the string of bells to clang wildly. Giles spun around, surprised. In stalked a tall, black-clad figure of a man who paused on the edge of the first step as if looking for something. Grabbing the nearest cross (a satisfyingly large wooden one) Giles flung it in the baleful face of the stranger. Anya meeped uselessly and ducked behind the counter.
Instead of backing away, hissing his discontent, the man briefly crossed his eyes to focus on the affront to his personal space. Slowly, he raised a pale hand and tilted the offending cross aside with one long, elegant finger. The now-unobstructed glare focused with laser-like intensity on Giles. Had he just been complaining of tedium? So, obviously, the man was not a vampire. Odd-looking and more than a little intimidating yes; blood-sucking fiend, no. The fact that it was usually next to impossible to tell the difference in Sunnydale was probably best left unsaid. Giles tamped down the adrenaline surging through his veins, and mentally prepared an apology, with an extra helping of groveling.
Before he could stutter out the first "I'm so sorry, it's a reflex action," the man spoke- a deep, cultured voice, dripping with- was that scorn?
"You must be the Watcher." He eyed Giles dubiously, and cast his gaze around the store, frowning. "Damn Dumbledore," he mumbled. Belatedly, Giles recalled that the phrase 'may you live in interesting times' was considered a curse in some parts of the world.
Once I am through with this blasted "little assignment" I am going to ensconce myself in my beautiful, dark, cool dungeons and obliterate with alcohol the memory of this bright, hot, tacky, pustule on the arse of human existence. Whose idea was California anyway?
Having successfully located the Watcher, I now sit at a table in the back of his quaint little apothecary-I could have been impressed, until I spied the collection of unicorn candles in a display case. I am unsure how a fellow Englishman has come to be trapped in this wretched locale. Some horrible curse no doubt. Luckily for him, the large pot of tea sitting at my side has erased any animosity I bore for the rudeness of his greeting. Rule, Britannia.
We are waiting for the Chosen One to arrive. Mr. Giles expects her momentarily. The shop girl is ostensibly dusting, but she is doing a slapdash job of it, as she insists on keeping one eye on me at all times. I tap my fingers on the arm of the chair. Finally, I can stand no more of her behavior.
"What is it?" I bark in my best evil-potions-master voice.
As if it were an invitation to chat, she comes right up to the table and sits down beside me, staring like I am some sort of appetizer or sideshow. I lift an eyebrow at her.
"So you're not a vampire?"
I realize that tact as well as domestic skills has been sadly neglected in the course of this girl's education. She would make an excellent Gryffindor.
"No." I say shortly, hoping to drive her away by one-upping her poor manners.
She continues to sit and stare, and I suspect another insipid question is percolating to the forefront of her miniscule cerebellum.
I am saved from her imitation of a basilisk by the chime of bells on the front door.
A gaggle of laughing children troop in to the shop, calling out for Mr. Giles. They neglect to honor him with the appropriate prefix, however. A chill of foreboding creeps through my gut at their familiarity.
The Watcher Apparates from where ever he was hiding. "Ah, Buffy, we have a guest."
As a unit, the quartet halts and looks questioningly at him. Before they can mark my presence I scan them quickly. Three female; one each of blonde, red and brunette. That's handy. One male; dark. All under twenty -one, the brunette probably not even sixteen. This is a cruel cosmic joke. Surely one of these wispy things is not the Chosen One, the one Albus seems sure can help us with The Problem That Is Not Potter?
Mr. Giles steps aside, and the group is afforded their first view of yours truly, in all of my tepid glory. As I stand, I struggle to keep my expression free of its habitual sneer. Bowing deeply, I introduce myself. "Severus Snape, at your service." The bow and the accent always have a pleasantly awe-inspiring effect on Americans.
The blonde steps forward, flanked by the boy and the redhead, identical stunned expressions on their vacuous faces. My lip curls reflexively and I sit, waiting for the inevitable, dreary protestations and accusations. The youngest one wanders off, apparently not possessed of enough innate intelligence to be curious.
Buffy, the blonde, I am assuming, since the notion of polite discourse has apparently evaded this continent, whirls around to face Mr. Giles. "Giles! Is he, I mean, does he, uh, you know…"
The pained look on Mr. Giles' face is almost amusing. Realizing she will get nothing from the Watcher, the girl turns on me, visibly girding her pathetically malnourished loins.
"Alright, what's the deal here, whatever-your-name-is? Do you suck blood? Hang out with demons? Avoid direct sunlight?"
Frankly, yes, to the last two, but that's really quite irrelevant. I find the situation almost humorous. Giving in to my sadistic side, I comment, "I eat death only, I assure you. I do not drink blood to live."
"You eat death, huh?" The boy jokes weakly. "What's that taste like? Chicken?"
The females both turn slightly to stare at him. Mr. Giles leans against the till, shaking his head.
"I doubt you would care to find out." Trying to move things right along, I launch into my prepared statement about Voldemort, Evil, The Boy Who Lived Despite Assiduous Attempts To The Contrary, et cetera, and end with "My employer, one Albus Dumbledore (curse his pointy little head), seems to think you people have a way to defeat Voldemort."
In the pregnant pause that follows, I try to keep the hopeful look off of my face-expectation ever garnered disappointment.
"So," the pale girl begins slowly, I nod to encourage her, like a slow student. "This Voldemort is a powerful magic user, wants to live forever, and needs to kill things to do so." She turns to Buffy and the boy. "You know what this means."
They groan and roll their eyes. "Research."
Six hours later, I am still alive, having proven that one cannot, technically, die of boredom. My body lives, but I fear for my mental faculties. At regular intervals I must stop my hand from slowly extracting my wand from my cloak and plunging it through my eye socket to relieve the excruciating pain.
Buffy, Willow (girl), Xander, (boy), Little Girl, Shop Girl, and the unfortunate Mr. Giles have plowed through a veritable mountain of tomes searching for the solution to our "plight".
Buffy is slowly looking through a demonology text; lips forming the words, whilst Xander surreptitiously flips through a book on nymphs and fairies- the half-clothed, female, winged kind. Only Willow has persevered in the real search.
Suddenly Buffy slams her book shut. "Why don't you just take me to this Wal-de-mart guy, and let me kick his ass. I AM the Slayer, you know."
Xander snickers. "Isn't that French for 'death to small rodents'?"
"You guys!" Willow objects, glaring out from her book.
I stiffen in horror at the exchange. Mentally, with much trepidation, I draw round spectacles on the Chosen One, curl her girlfriend's hair, and color the boy an unattractive shade of redhead. Merlin's Buggered Shade- it's Potter, Granger, and Weasley.
Aghast, I shoot a glance at Little Girl. She is sitting on the counter, swinging her legs and looking innocuous in a vaguely dangerous way: Ginny Weasley. My skin prickles into gooseflesh. Mr. Giles approaches the table with a pile of books, and begins to lecture the gathered children in a fatherly way. I give him a beard and twinkling eyes-Dumbledore.
There are bright purple splotches dancing a tango in front of my eyes. I pinch the bridge of my nose, and squeeze my eyes closed. I am simply overtired, I am not insane. "There's no place like Hogwarts, there's no place like Hogwarts." I mumble to myself, comfortingly.
I wonder if Mr. Giles keeps anything stronger than tea.
"We should really find Spike. He may know something." Willow says in a small voice, as if she is knowingly saying something extremely unpopular.
In complete synchronicity, the others pull various faces of disgust-truly fascinating.
"It worked last time, didn't it?" She pouts to the table. I find myself almost interested in meeting the person that could evoke such a response from these dull people.
There is a loud crash from a back room, and a figure wrapped in what looks like a blanket hurls itself into our midst.
"Speak of the devil..." Mr. Giles mutters, and inches towards the till, making sure it is locked tightly.
The figure casts off the steaming blanket with a howl. "GAH! There has got to be a better way to travel." A very pale young man dances around the table, slapping out gray wisps of smoke on his black clothes. He halts abruptly by my chair in the corner and gives me the once-over. The cheek! I stand, and am glad to note that I am at least six inches taller than he. The bow, the introduction-he raises an elegantly scarred eyebrow at me.
Mr. Giles gives him a brief rundown of the situation at hand.
"Pale, English, dressed in black, and you're not a vampire? What's this bloody world coming too?" He turns away and sits down on the counter next to the Ginny Weasley girl.
"How is this cretin supposed to be of any assistance?" I wonder aloud, trying to work out in my head how long I have been here, and what my chances of survival and continued employment would be if I return to Hogwarts and Dumbledore empty handed.
Buffy purses her lips, and begins to explain, speaking slowly, as if I were the one in need of remedial tuition. "Spike is a vampire. He used to be a bad ass, but, due to an close encounter with a scalpel and some silicone, now he's just an ass." The two exchange insincere, toothy smiles.
Before I cast the Imperius curse on the silly little git, Mr. Giles interprets for me: "Spike is indeed a vampire, but he can no longer feed from humans. Therefore, when it suits him, he lends a demon's perspective to our, uh, undertakings, in return for nourishment."
"And entertainment." The creature adds.
"He's sooo helpful." Xander mutters to his nymphs, flipping pages spastically.
The vampire makes an incredibly rude gesture behind the boy's back The Weasley girl giggles and I am hard pressed to keep my eyes from rolling.
Of course. How could I have been so foolish? Whither goest a Potter, there too shall one find a Malfoy; overly-refined, far too blond, and as snide as the day is long. I endure a spasm of almost lukewarm sentiment for my little Slytherins. I long to inflict them upon America. This thought gives me a nanosecond of pleasure, as I picture them decimating California, beach house by beach house. Watch the tanned bodies fly!
I am pulled from my reverie by the unmistakable sounds of a row. How delightful. It seems the ridiculously named vampire is trying to convince the humorously appellated girl of something. Ah, they are discussing weapons. This is promising. There is much wild gesticulating and threatening words. One by one, all the members of the little coven are pulled into the fray. Maybe if Mr. Giles is lucky, the unicorn candles will be destroyed in the resulting brawl.
My nostrils twitch as a hated, familiar, nauseatingly sweet smell wafts in my direction. If I were a man of less robust stock, and given to such ostentatious displays, I might sob with relief.
"Enough!" I roar, as I surge to my feet. Giving my cloaks a superfluous billow and waft, I am pleased to see that the gathered cretins fall quickly silent. "I am almost out of time." I grind my teeth as I attempt to be polite. "If you have something that could be of a use to my cause, please, give it to me now."
Buffy casts a general glare in the direction of the Watcher and vampire. They both turn away, obviously washing their hands of the entire ordeal.
She stomps to a wooden chest against one wall of the store, yanks it open and pulls an object from its depths. "This is the most useful weapon I have for dealing with Big Uglies. I know it doesn't look like much, but I think it will be exactly what you need."
She stands in front of me now, both hands behind her back. I must admit some trepidation. What devilry could she be concealing? Can it be trusted to that nincompoop Dumbledore, or, shudder to think, Potter the Rotter? A pink wisp floats in front of my eyes.
"Yes?" I say expectantly and hold out my hand.
"I call him 'Mr. Pointy," she says, and drops an unadorned, sharpened wooden stake into my grasp.
I am too stunned to form words. I stare from the glorified stick to her vapid face as the pink smoke rises to wrap around my body.
"Good luck!" Willow calls, with a smile and a wave. Xander does not look up from his gratuitous seelie nudity.
Is it possible to slit one's wrists with a honed twig?
Dumbledore has a good laugh at my expense when I appear in his chambers.
"Those Americans! So wonderfully innovative! I knew it was a bad idea to send all the enterprising, adventurous sorts to the New World, but no one would listen to me! 'Get them the hell out of England!' they said!" He chuckles fondly, turning the stake over in his hands.
"Merlin's shorts." I growl. "How bloody useless. Of all the harebrained, addle-pated, dunderheaded fools from whom to seek succor…" I stop. Why waste my breath? Might as well try to convince the man that the Boy Who Lived, Alas, is a juvenile delinquent and Fawkes an obese glandular budgie. The man will have his favorites; Severus X. Snape obviously not being one of them.
"Well, thank you, Severus. That will be all."
I stand abruptly, glowering furiously at the dismissal. My knees crack in protest. "He has his reasons." I mutter to myself as I head to the door. "I may not comprehend them, but surely, surely, they exist."
"Oh, and Severus, would you please ask Harry to come to my office as soon as possible?"
In shock, my stride is broken, but I am proud to say, only briefly. I resume my stalk to the exit, biting out a "Fine, Albus," as I push through the doorway.
"Ho ho ho. Mr. Pointy." He chuckles again, vastly amused. No doubt his eyes are all a-twinkle. The door shuts behind me, and I bellow for Harry, The Bane of My Very Existence, Potter.
A sharpened stick, a senile git, and an adolescent halfwit. I am sure the three of them will be very happy together.