Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or Angel. As far as I know, the hospital is fake.
A/N: Now, I hope this isn't confusing, but this story is divided into a second part here. The reason is that the first eight chapters were all set around this very short moment during the first evening of the battle. However, the ninth chapter and so on skips ahead a bit. Hopefully you'll understand what I'm talking about once you finish reading this chapter.
Part 2: The Witchy Woman
Interlude:
Like bees. Buzzing about in their hives, working, moving, constantly. And then suddenly interrupted by a slapping, godly hand. That was the state of the Los Angeles Hospital.
So many bodies, so many wounded. The victims of hell's wrath were many, and those who could walk or be carried were distributed throughout the sanctuaries of LA by the first morning light. Amongst those sanctuaries were the medical facilities; the one closest to the action was the LA Hospital.
The night before, it had been anything but a sanctuary. It had been a buffet for the flesh eaters. Easy pickings: order up a gurney, pour a pitcher of AB-. They tore and slit and ripped to their demon's content as nurse uniforms and open-backed robes disappeared into windowless rooms and closets, praying for a quick end.
Then they'd come, their saviors. And they had pushed the evil past the doors, the windows, and into the coming light of dawn.
IX.
Hermione didn't like the basement. She should have been at home in the hospital library, but she wasn't. It wasn't full of information that peaked her curiosity; it was a tomb where forgotten papers went to die. The air was stale, the main room windowless, secure, and lonesome, which, she supposed, was the reason it and the temporary morgue located next door was so optimal as a center of operations in the hospital.
The basement had the strongest wards over it, ones that Hermione alone had set up over the past two days. The two Wiccans they'd found in the chaos had helped her set up the outer ward around this wing of the hospital. The injured, the dying, those seeking sanctuary, all of them had been shoved into a space that made up less than a third of the large facility. But it was the best Hermione could manage. And it was the only ground her side had managed to regain.
It had left her drained. Tired. Her magic on re-charge. So, it was a good thing that dawn had managed to scare enough of the demons away.
Or maybe they weren't scared at all. Maybe they just wanted a nap before another full night of pillaging and murder.
She winced, pushing the thought away. It had been true, after all. The second night had been as hard as the first. Order was lost. Well, the hospital had found its order. Spike's friend Angel had somehow managed to calm those who remained in the building, and those fleeing from the streets, enough that they'd been willing to work together. They'd gathered food, supplies, weapons.
The box of magic books next to Hermione was enough proof that they'd managed to work together.
"You are not injured."
The witch jumped at the cold tone of the voice. Illyria stood before her, stiff, a statue, her head cocked to one side ever so slightly. She was watching Hermione with intensity.
Hermione ignored the fact that, yes, she had been injured, minorly. But a slew of scratches and bruises did not amount for much in the Old One's eyes.
"No," Hermione chirped. She sat the book she was studying aside and slid off her seat atop the outdated aluminum desk, stretching out her legs. "Why do you ask?"
"I do not." Ilyria's gaze was confused. "Why are you pained if you have no injury?"
Hermione forced a small, chiding smile. "I'm not," she answered.
Illyria stepped forward, watching the young woman. "You lie."
"I'm not physically pained, I assure you," Hermione said. But even as she was speaking she knew that wasn't entirely true. Magic seemed more of a mental ability, but the truth was, it took strength. She had cast more defensive spells over the past two nights than most wizards did during a span of years. "Did Spike tell you to watch me?" Illyria didn't answer. "I'm a bit weak," Hermione finally admitted. "That's all."
"Yet you don't rest," Illyria commented.
Hermione knew that she wasn't the only one. Spike and Angel had left less than an hour ago, deciding their time was best spent in the sewers, tracking the demons down, finding out where they would attack from when night came once more. Spike had talked her out of joining them, pointing at her pile of books. He'd been right. This was where she was needed. Yet, she knew the answer wasn't here.
Did I make the right choice? Should I have tried to leave? Hermione didn't like asking herself that question. But she had to. She'd known the battle she was staying for, but then, at that moment, she'd thought there would be an end in sight. Something to fight towards. Now she wasn't so sure.
Where was the help she was sure would come? Where was the big bad evil that needed to be killed to stop the hordes from flowing forward?
"That's it!" Hermione hissed, and immediately blushed when she realized she'd associated Illyria with 'big bad evil.' "Illyria, Spike tried to explain to me your. . . origins," Hermione began. "You were--are," she quickly amended, "a powerful being, so perhaps you'd better understand my problem."
"Continue," Illyria said, sounding somewhat bored.
Behind her, a nurse helped a brittle-looking old man find a clear spot to sit near the library doors. The woman shot the strange pair a look of fearful respect before quickly turning away from their conversation.
Hermione ignored the audience and watched Illyria's expression for a moment more before concluding that the Old One was, so far, pleased with the way she'd been addressed. Spike had warned Hermione to watch her tongue around the being. In fact, he'd actually said something along the lines of "don't talk to her at all," but Hermione would, for now, ignore that advice.
"There's a dimensional opening that the demons are coming through--that's why their number is continuously increasing. Obviously, if we can close that opening, we'll be able to fend for ourselves more easily and concentrate on the barrier keeping us in this city." Hermione paused, taking a breath. "I've been concentrating so hard on finding a way to close the opening, that it didn't occur to me that it's probably taking as much power to keep the opening, well, open, as it is to keep the barrier up. One person wouldn't be able to perform such an intricate spell. Do you know of any way that this. . ." Hermione still had a hard time believing that it was a law firm at the root of this chaos, "Wolfram and Hart that you're fighting could possibly be channeling that much energy?"
Illyria straightened. Her arm shot out, cold fingers gripping on to Hermione's wrist.
"What are you doing?" Hermione snapped, trying to pull free. She stared at the creature with sudden panic. Perhaps I should have heeded Spike's warning after all. . .
"Take me to the barrier," Illyria demanded.
Her grip loosened slightly. Hermione stared at her.
"You can answer my question?" Hermione slowly asked.
Illyria glared at her. "The barrier."
The witch quickly nodded, gripping her wand in case the situation turned violent. She searched her mind, remembering the "Welcome to Los Angeles" sign that she and Spike had found themselves at when they'd attempted to escape the city.
A second later, a loud popping sound dissipated at their arrival in the grassy median between the two sides of the highway. Hermione blinked away the shock of bright sunlight in her eyes and took in her surroundings. They were alone, neither human nor demon had ventured so close to the impenetrable barrier. Illyria had not moved, staring at the open space before the wall, looking up, then down, as if she could see the wall itself.
The Old One reached out, touching the barrier with an open palm. A wave of blue electricity seemed to crackle against the invisible wall, crawling upward and out as if it were spreading like spilled water, and then it disappeared. Illyria pulled away from it, staring straight ahead at the outside world.
Hermione followed her gaze. The gas station she and Spike had been trying to reach that night still remained. But it had a new name on its faded sign and the building itself was different, dismal, abandoned. And it looked as if it had been that way for a very long time, judging from the skeletal vehicles littering its main drive.
"What is this?" Hermione asked, confused by the sight.
When she had first stared past the barrier, she'd seen a highway, trucks pulling off away from the city. But the vision before her was not remotely the same, and it wasn't just the daylight that had revealed this new truth to her: trucks were, indeed, on the roadway, but they were crammed amongst other vehicles, all of them empty of occupants. One was overturned, blacked from a fire long burned out. A skull sat on the pavement a few feet beyond the barrier, bleached by the sun and separated from the body down in the ditch. A spider's web had whitened one empty eye socket. It didn't belong to a human. There were spiraling horns protruding above each ear hole.
Hermione felt the thought coming. She tried to push it down, deny it merit. "This isn't real," she insisted. "This isn't what we saw two nights ago. This isn't… home."
Illyria didn't look at her but answered nevertheless. "Here is the reason, your answer. I could see through these weak glamours. I have been here once, before you kind was even a flicking tail in the primordial stew. This was a promising world then, for those of my. . . origin."
Suddenly it made a terrible sort of sense. The whys were answered, making room for even more questions. Hermione couldn't breath.
"Oh, Merlin. The city, all of us here," Hermione realized, "we've been brought to another dimension."
End Notes: Ok, sorry for the lack of Spike in this chapter, but don't worry. The next one is all his, and I'll also tell you more about what happened between the events of chapter eight and this chapter.
