Title: Bound by Darkness

Rating: PG-13

Summary: Six months after Buffy's death, and some people are having trouble with coping. As they try to move on with their lives, Sirius is plagued with dreams that he believes to be a message from the fallen Slayer. But is she really fallen? Or just…misplaced?

Disclaimer: I don't own any of them. Buffy goes to Whedon, and Harry and everybody in the Potter-verse go to Rowling. If you don't recognize anyone, they're probably mine. I do own the plot, though. Don't sue. Please.

A/N: Thanks to all you wonderful reviewers!

"Put on you're brake lights,

You're in the city of wonder.

No need to think twice,

Because you might just go under.

So if you must falter be wise,

Your minds in disturbia."

-Rihanna, Disturbia


Chapter 2: The Mighty Have Fallen

It was everything he could do not to grab her lifeless body and shake her, shake her until she opened her eyes and laughed at the great joke she had played on the world, on him.

There was so much blood.

Red snow. White snow. It was supposed to be pure, but it was tainted, it was all tainted with her life's blood.

Her golden hair lay across the ground, her ashen face beautiful. He couldn't move away from her, none of them could. They were crying, some silent tears, others had sobs wracking their bodies.

He wasn't. He felt rage build up inside of him as he looked at her still body, at the smear of blood on her cheek, the trail of red leading from her side. He felt queasy, sick to his stomach. He felt sad, but he didn't break down, couldn't break down.

Not in front of saint Potter.

Not in front of the great Sirius.

No weakness.

Instead, he felt frustrated and angry, and knew she would have approved. They had been alike in that way. They got angry as opposed to being sad. They felt violence, for lack of a better word.

He took a step back, not wanting to face the surreal scene again. He knew this was a dream, how could he not? He was too stuck in reality to be fooled by the memories his brain kept throwing at him while he slept.

It was always the same. She was always laying there, there was always so much blood, too much blood for her small body. Everything was exactly as he remembered, with him standing silently aside, face an emotionless mask. Black and Potter kneeling at her side, tears coursing down their cheeks, bleakness in their eyes.

He didn't fault them for their pain, didn't think them weak. They had loved her, and they had lost her.

He heaved a great sigh and turned from it all, stepping back and raising an eyebrow when he saw a duplicate of himself stay in place. Frowning, he looked around in confusion. It had never gone on this long. He had always been able to wake himself from the dream by moving from the spot he had taken in real life.

Instead, a second, still Snape stood in his place, face still an emotionless mask. Everything else froze. Blacks hand was pushed against her side, the desperation on his face frozen, his mouth open in silent words. Potter was next to him, face dazed and hopeless, broken.

Off to the side, he could see more members of the Order, some paused in the act of rushing forward, others had their faces buried in their hands, some just turned away in sadness. They hadn't known her like the rest of them did.

Curious as to why the dream was taking him in this direction, he stepped a bit closer to her body and looked down at her. There was a slight trickle of blood coming out of the side of her mouth. He frowned. He didn't remember that part.

His eye caught something shiny off to the side, and he turned his head, gaze landing on the knife that had killed her. He took a few steps before he reached it and he bent down to pick it up. It wouldn't budge. He crouched down next to it and looked at the small object that had brought the greatest Slayer down.

They knew it wasn't just the blade that had killed her, but the weapon itself. A regular knife wouldn't have made her bleed so much, wouldn't have killed her so quickly. The poison on the blade did that. The curse this knife held was enough.

They all still wondered where it had come from. She had had it on her when she had tried to kill Voldemort. But it had been lost for centuries, no one knew where it had disappeared. She didn't know its history, didn't know what it stood for.

Once again he wished that she had said something, brought it to their attention that she had found it. But he didn't blame her. It was in her nature to keep secrets. She hadn't known, and now she was dead.

Straightening to a stand, he shot one last glance at the knife and turned back to the scene. He paused, breath catching in his throat.

Someone was standing there, someone who hadn't been there before. Long blonde hair trailed down a slender back, a loose cream colored dress brushed the ground. It was her. But it couldn't be, because she was laying on the ground, blood pooling around her body, and yet it was her. She was standing still, as if she too were frozen in that moment.

He took a hesitant step forward, the thought that this was a trap crossing his mind before he dismissed it. This was his dream, after all. His mind playing tricks on him. It wasn't real, she wasn't real. She was dead.

He stopped by her side and looked at Buffy, the alive Buffy, not the dead one. The fake Buffy. She was staring down at her body on the ground, a frown gracing her delicate features. He reached a hand out to touch a smooth shoulder, wondering why his mind was doing this to him. Why it had to lie to him this way, tease him.

She looked up at his touch and he quickly dropped his hand and took a step back.

"This isn't right," she said, frowning once again and looking at her body.

"What?" He asked in a whisper before clearing his throat. "What?" He asked again, in a louder voice, looking at her small body on the ground, the two people kneeling at her side, his body standing off to the side. It was all too eerie.

"Me. I'm not right. Her, " she pointed at her body, then herself. "Me."

"You're dead, Buffy," he said, looking at her. "You're dead," he repeated, as if he were trying to convince not only her but himself.

She laughed then, and it was the laugh he remembered, so fresh in his mind he closed his eyes against the pain. "Don't be silly Sev," she told him. "You know it never sticks. I always come back," she said matter-of-factly.

Severus frowned, looking at her hand, which had come to rest on top of Black's head. They were all still frozen in place, and she was still dead. "I don't understand," he cried out, desperation clogging his voice.

"No matter," Buffy said, sighing. "You'll understand soon. But…it isn't over. It's never over. He may be gone, but something always takes its place. You'll remember, won't you?" She asked, turning to him.

He nodded silently, confused.

She smiled, but it was a sad smile. "I have to go." She turned and began to walk away, and he tried to yell at her to stop, but the words wouldn't come, they were stuck in his throat. She stopped and turned to him, the smile still in place, but a little less sad, as if she knew a secret he didn't. "Do you remember that talk we had, that one day at Hogsmeade?"

He nodded again, and felt stupid.

"I meant everything I said, Sev. You're a good teacher, a good person. Teach what you want them to know, show them everything you have to offer as a person. Don't be afraid."

She took a step further away before stopping again. This time, instead of turning to him, she bent down and grasped the knife in her hand. She stood up straight and looked at him.

"I don't think you should do that," he warned, though he didn't know why.

She moved her eyes from his face to look at Black, and she once again smiled gently. "Tell him I love him."

She simply…fell away, for lack of a better tem. As if she hadn't even existed. He felt a tug and found himself laying in bed, eyes wide open, breathing heavily.

Standing up, he threw on a robe and shoes before rushing from the dungeons to the office of Albus Dumbledore.

Outside a storm raged, and lightening cut though the sky.

"Don't be afraid."

Her voice followed him, her last words haunted him.


It wasn't long after Severus told Albus of his dream that they discovered the knife was gone. It had been wrapped in a golden cloth and tied with a piece of unbreakable string. All that was left was the string.

"Where could if have gone?" Severus asked the Headmaster, showing his confusion.

Albus sighed tiredly, sitting behind his desk once again. "I do not know Severus. The mysteries of that knife are not well known. Yes, it can kill, as we have seen, but the secrets that lie behind that deadly blade are its own to know."

"Albus, does this mean that it was true, that my dream was true?" Severus looked at him, his face once again an unreadable mask, refusing to feel anything.

"It could have meant anything, Severus. It could have been trickery of the mind, of an outside being. We can't know for sure, not until something happens, not until we can prove that it was really her." He rubbed his eyes, and Fawkes came flying over, landing on his shoulder and rubbing her head against his cheek. He smiled at her tenderly.

"Do we tell the others?" Severus asked, meaning the Order and, more specifically, Black and Potter.

Dumbledore shook his head no. "Not yet. Not until we know. We can't get their hopes up, not when they have finally started to breathe easier. If we tell them, only to find out that it is not truth, then I don't know how well they can recover again. It was a devastating loss, one that I'm sure many of us are still dealing with. No, we shall keep it to ourselves."

Severus nodded and stood up, turning to make his way out of the room.

"Oh, and Severus?" He stopped and looked at Albus. "If you have anymore…strange occurrences, you will let me know, correct?"

The Potions Professor nodded before leaving the room, and a troubled Headmaster, behind.

End Part.

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