Author: Indarae
Rating: PG-13
Summary: With Dawn's father absent after Buffy's death, care for the younger Summers falls to one Rupert Giles. However, even as life returns to normal, pieces of his past come back to threaten the future.
A/N: Well, I'm posting now at ff.net, since the fic's original home, Twisting the Hellmouth, is in a state of flux.
Part Two — Mundane Interrupted
July 31
Harry Potter vaguely remembered waking in the midst of the previous night's sleep, but all wrapped up and warm in one of Mrs. Weasley's knitted blankets while the sun shone across his face up in his best friend Ron's room, real life seemed far removed. He didn't have to think about his 'rescue' from the Dursleys by Remus Lupin, or the pain he'd lived with the past month and a half, since Sirius died. He didn't have to think at all.
Stretching, Harry climbed out of his warm cocoon to wake up Ron and go down for some of Mrs. Weasley's amazing food — however, Ron wasn't there. His blankets were still rumpled, but the sun was shining higher than it should be, by Harry's estimation. He glanced to his wristwatch and let out a squeal of surprise (Oh, he hoped Ron hadn't heard that!) before scrambling around to pull on a pair of pants and a relatively clean shirt. They hung off him, but that was nothing new, as almost everything he owned had once belonged to his cousin, Dudley.
He hadn't the time to spend thinking about his blasted relatives, though. It was almost noon! He'd been sixteen for twelve whole hours without realizing it! And today was the day they were to spend in Diagon Alley, just hanging out instead of focusing on school supplies. They were going to see Tonks and Lupin, maybe even Hermione and Luna, if they could make it. Why hadn't someone awakened him? Forgoing shoes and socks for the moment, Harry dashed down the flights of stairs until he arrived in the Weasley kitchen to find three red heads awaiting him. Three rather blurry red heads. "Blast, I've gone and left my glasses — why didn't someone wake me up?"
"Well, we put off leaving for you, dear. You were so upset last night... Accio glasses," a figure, which must've been Mrs. Weasley, said, and Harry caught a blur of motion out of the corner of his eye before the vaguely person-shaped mass moved over and presented his frames to him.
Smiling thankfully, he slid them on. Indeed, Mrs. Weasley stood before him, with Ron and Ginny at the table. The twins, Bill, and Charlie — who were home for good, now — were nowhere to be found. "Thanks, Mrs. Weasley. Er... last night? I don't remember -"
"You woke up screaming like a bloody banshee," Ron offered.
Ginny leveled a glare at him. "Don't swear."
Ron glared right back. "Bloody, sodding, shagging — OW!" He rubbed at the back of his head where his sister had smacked him.
"Don't mind them, dear. Come sit down and I'll make you up some eggs... you woke at about three in the morning, screaming something about You-Know-Who and Severus Snape and Rupert Giles. I couldn't make heads nor tails of it," Mrs. Weasley said as Harry slid into a seat next to Ron.
Harry frowned and tried to remember whatever had happened the last night. Rupert Giles? The name wasn't familiar, at all. Except... and the vision came tumbling back in a flash of pain.
Snape had been stripped of his robes and roughly handled by someone — a bruise and a black eye were visible on his face as a figure forced him prostrate before Voldemort's throne — Harry's throne, as he was inside of the Dark Lord's mind again. He could see only bits of the room — the throne, a polished marble floor, the flickering of firelight, and a circle of identically black-robed figures in white masks surrounding the throne and Snape's prone form. Glancing to the side, he caught sight of himself in the mirror: Voldemort looked healthier than when Harry had set eyes on him in the Ministry for Magic — though his eyes still glowed an unnatural red, he resembled his human form of Tom Riddle more than anything serpentine.
"Poor Severus," Harry hissed, rising slowly from his plush chair before taking a step toward the crumpled figure of the Potions Master. "Your schemes betray you, in the end."
"My Lord, I haven't a clue to what you're referring," Snape said. Though crouching on the floor, he still maintained some of the poise of his classroom persona. Harry, however, could hear the shake in his voice.
He laughed. "Don't bother to protest your innocence, Severus. I've known of your betrayal since Barty Crouch took his post at your school. His loss is lamented — he had the old fool's ear, and Dumbledore told him to respect your abilities as a spy. I'm not as blind as you seem to think."
Snape didn't respond, but the sudden droop of his shoulders told Harry everything — the Slytherin Head of House had given up. Until he'd become aware of Snape's duties in the resistance against Voldemort, Harry would've cheered such a comeuppance. However, despite his dislike of the man, losing even one player trusted by Dumbledore was crippling, especially when that man was the only spy in Voldemort's army. How much information had Snape been allowed access to? How much danger was Harry in, after the interrogations of the man ended?
"There was a list of names in your pocket, Severus. These twelve names are so familiar to me. What would you be doing with a list of those who deserted me?" Harry produced the list in question and stepped forward, pacing around his prisoner in a tight circle. If it was meant to intimidate, it was useless — Snape wasn't looking up. "All but four have little check marks by them, why is that? Resisting is a waste of time — we'll use your own veritaserum on you regardless."
Harry tried to skip past the following scene of senseless bloodshed. Snape refused to talk and a Death Eater — he was fairly sure it was Lucius Malfoy from the strands of platinum blonde hair visible around the mask, despite the fact that Malfoy was supposed to be in prison — stepped forward and beat Snape with his bare fists until the man gave up his answers. Flecks of blood covered the white marble floor at the Dark Lord's feet by the time Malfoy was done.
"Dumbledore wanted to know which of the deserters were dead," Snape wheezed. It sounded as though something in his chest had been cracked. Would he live out the night? "The checks are those I've verified as having passed on."
One of the unidentified Death Eaters stepped forward and bowed low. "My Lord, shall we bring the potion for you?"
"No, no... We'll save that delight for another evening. He has no reason to lie to me anymore... since, the longer he tells truth, the longer he survives. And the more he lies, the longer it takes to die. Lucius, take him to your wife, we don't want him bleeding to death on us. Avery, I want him held somewhere permanently. The rest of you... we have four to track down. Ethan Rayne, Jeanne Kilde, Randall Halliwell and Rupert Giles. I want them all." Harry held up a hand to stop Malfoy from dragging Snape from the hall. "Oh, how forgetful of me. I'd meant to do this earlier... Crucio."
Crucio echoed through every thought, until Ron grabbed hold of Harry's shoulders and shook him back to reality. "Harry, mate, snap out of it? What's wrong?"
"I have to get to Dumbledore," he whispered. Ginny and Mrs. Weasley were paying close attention, but he supposed it was okay if they knew the whole story. "Voldemort has Professor Snape."
"Giles?" Anya shook his arm, snapping him back to task. It was midday at the Magic Box, and though customers weren't flocking in, he thought his little store had carved out a comfortable niche in Sunnydale society. He'd taken to haunting the back room during mealtimes, staring at the rack of weapons that reminded him of her. He should clean them out, before they drove him crazy.
"Yes, Anya? Is there something wrong?" It was after hours, and they were to spend the rest of the evening doing inventory. Dawn was at a friend's home, due to return to the flat before they went out for dinner with Anya and Xander, at some new sushi restaurant that Tara loved. Their plans, these days, were so mundane; so familial — every moment felt as though something would rip his neat and tidy life to pieces.
Anya tugged on his sleeve. "It's a phone call for you. From some man who sounds like he has an entire tree rammed up his ass," she explained straightforwardly. "He was definitely British. Not that you sound like you have a tree rammed up your ass, of course. A stick, maybe, but not a tree. Or if it's a tree, maybe it's just a sapling -"
"THANK you, Anya," he broke in, hurrying for the front room. "Did you get a name?"
"Nope. He's just British. Very British!" she called after him.
She added something else, but he didn't catch it, as he scooped up the phone. "Magic Box, this is Mr. Giles."
Rupert should've known what was coming — and at some level he did, but nothing could prepare him for the crushing fear he felt at what came next. "Ah, Rupert. This is Quentin Travers. We've been awaiting your return."
His breath caught in his throat. Breathe. Two breaths. Long, slow — regain control — "She's gone, Mr. Travers. You don't have any reason to contact me. Please let me be."
"You're still a Watcher, Rupert," came the voice over the line. Anya was right — he sounded as if he had an oak rammed up his —
"Then I resign. I respectfully request that you leave me to live my life. Please don't make me leave her all alone." He tried not to beg, but the waver in his voice spoke volumes he couldn't suppress.
There was a tinny snort of laughter. "I've fielded several calls about you of late. Two old friends, both went to school with you. I could tell them just where you are... You know who I'm talking about, right? The first chap was tall, blonde, dressed like he was right out of Dickens." Lucius, ever the aristocrat. "The other seemed a bit younger. Brown hair, cheeky grin." Ethan, the trickster.
Had the Dark Lord tracked Ethan down, then? If so, why wasn't he already dead? "What do you want me to do?" he whispered. Rupert caught sight of Anya at the edge of his line of sight, frowning in some combination of confusion and compassion.
"That's the spirit now, Rupert! I won't call you back to England, not yet... we want you to stay there in Sunnydale. We'll be Calling a new Slayer, soon."
It took only a minute for Travers' words to click. "You're going to kill Faith," he responded. She would be nearly helpless in prison. He wasn't fond of her, of course, but he didn't want her to die... but without Buffy, there was no Slayer. The Buffybot (which he refused to set eyes on) was slowly decaying under the heavy use. Without Buffy... he and the others were doing their best patrolling. He was even making himself put up with Spike's presence, since Dawn seemed to adore him so.
"That's none of your concern," Travers said, breaking into his thoughts. "When the new Slayer is Called, we want you in Sunnydale to greet her. She can stay with you until her Watcher arrives. You'll like him, Rupert. He's very much like you were as a twenty-something. Oh, but minus that tattoo. I'll be hearing from you."
The line went dead. He tried desperately to control his breathing, but it was no use. Somehow, somehow, Travers knew everything. It seemed insane, but there it was — truth. If he didn't do everything the Council of Watchers said... but then Faith would die... there was no one left to trust...
Or was there?
"Anya, could you give Willow a ring, and ask for Wesley Wyndham-Pryce's phone number in Los Angeles, if she still has it? Or Angel's number, if she can't find Wesley's?" He set down the phone and made a beeline for the restricted texts. "I have some reading to do." There had to be a spell there, a spell he could do wandless that could protect Dawn from whatever came after her. It was life and death.
Anya was there first, cutting him off. "Who's killing Faith? And who's Faith, for that matter? I don't know these people."
There wasn't much time... but explaining to Anya in order to obtain her help was probably a better use of it than running off half-cocked. He was acting like a damn fool Gryffindor. "Faith is the other Slayer. Did Xander mention her? The one in prison."
"Oh!" Anya's face brightened. "Yes! The one he had sex with. He said Faith was the Slayer with a capital 'S' and Buffy was the slayer with the lowercase 's' since Buffy's death hasn't Called another Slayer. Is that right?"
Rupert blinked, mind trying to wrap around the concept of Xander producing a viable explanation for Faith's existence. Maybe the boy saw more than he'd thought... "Er- not quite the explanation I'd have given, but I suppose it's enough. You know who Angel is, of course. And Wesley was Faith's Watcher, and Buffy's for a time — entirely ineffectual, but he should be informed. Someone has to do something. I can't just let the girl die."
"Why don't you call those people? I don't know them. I have the money to count. Or I could look for spells or something — do we have to break her out of the slammer?" Anya was halfway up the stairs before Rupert called out to her.
"I need a protection spell. For Dawn. I'm not sure what the Council will do when I refuse to return." A valid fear, though the fear of the Ministry and the Dark Lord trying to track him down were far greater. He didn't hear Anya respond, already paging through his old Watcher diary. It was useless now, and he felt as though he should ship them off to the Council... but each page was a memory of her presence in his life, however regrettably short it was.
Wesley's number should've been there, somewhere, but Rupert found himself distracted by accounts of her deeds. He had known her for only five short years... but she redeemed him. Aiding her, falling in love (however doomed) with her mother, adopting her sister... he felt as if he'd made a difference, small though it was; a contribution to the greater good he'd once tried to destroy. She was the daughter of his heart.
His number was up in the corner, scribbled across the account of the Council's visit and their revelation of Glory's godhood. A picture of Ben's face as he died at Rupert's hands flashed across his vision before he grabbed up the phone and dialed Los Angeles. The ex-Watcher's familiar, pinched tones answered in a blessedly familiar British accent. "Hello?"
"Wesley, this is Rupert Giles." He waited for the inevitable stunned silence, and wasn't disappointed.
"Er- yes, hello, Mr. Giles. Is there something I can do for you?"
Did they know about her death? He thought Willow had rung them up — but he couldn't be sure. "Since... since Buffy is... gone, the Council wants to Call a new Slayer. They're planning to murder Faith."
The uncomfortable silence was there again. "Yes — I'm... er, I'm very sorry about Buffy, Rupert, but there's little I can do for Faith. I'm not a Watcher anymore, and she's in prison -"
"She's just a girl. She can't die, not at their hands," he snapped, unable to control the pain and anger rising in his voice. "Faith did terrible things, yes — I'm not sure if she can be redeemed or not, but she deserves the chance to live." Rupert thought back to those first few months in hiding; of confessing his sins to his father and begging forgiveness. He'd wanted a chance to live, and the Council had given it.
"Am I understanding you correctly? You wish for me to break Faith out of prison and hide her? Somehow help her to find redemption while keeping her secret from the Council?" Wesley's skepticism was audible.
Rupert winced. Putting it all that way made it sound... impossible. "Yes," he hazarded, cradling the receiver on his shoulder in favor of cleaning his glasses.
"This is madness. There are things in LA I'm dealing with — I have no time to baby-sit a psychopathic killer! Why don't you break her out and redeem her?"
He stole a glance up to the book annex, where Anya was hunched over a large stack of volumes. Rupert lowered his voice anyway. "I'm in trouble, Wesley. I need your help. Give me just a few hours — is there somewhere I can drive up and meet you? Some halfway point? Or I could drive all the way in..."
Another pause. "Alright. I won't promise that I can help you, but if it's important... find a pen, I'll give you directions to a coffeehouse out in the suburbs. I'll be there tomorrow night at seven. If you're later than seven-thirty, I'll be gone."
He grabbed up the nearest scrap of paper. "I'll be there. Give me the directions."
August 1
It was very early in the morning that a knocking on the door of her apartments in the staff wing awakened Minerva. She slipped on her tartan dressing gown before rubbing the sleep from her eyes and opening the door a crack to peer out. "Headmaster?"
He was clad in a long white sleeping shirt and stocking cap, not even sporting slippers on his feet, and the expression on his face was one of a man decades his senior — grieving and resigned. "Let me come in, Minerva."
She stepped aside without question, helping Dumbledore to the closest chair — her grandmother's, in an understated McKenzie tartan — before taking the seat across from him. Her wand was tucked away in the dressing gown's front pocket, and she waved it at the empty fireplace. "Incendio. There, toasty warm... what's happened?"
Minerva wasn't sure what she'd expected — a story of dead Muggleborns or more of Fudge's infuriating stubbornness, perhaps — but the Headmaster's response elicited a gasp of worry. "Severus was Summoned just after supper, the night before last. He hasn't returned. Sometimes... sometimes in the last war, it would take him a day to get back. I've given him a day... but he's still not here..."
"Maybe- maybe he's discovered something particularly pertinent?" She tried to control the racing of her heart, but the shock of knowledge kept her babbling.
"I fear for him," the Headmaster whispered, crumpling in on himself. Ancient — he looked simply ancient. "I've lost him. I should never have sent him back..."
"You had no way of knowing this would happen..." It was a transparent lie. She was sure Severus had insisted on stubbornly fighting his way back, even after the signs suggested he'd be unwelcome... but they all should've seen it.
"And that's not all," Albus murmured. "Moody's just brought word — all of the Death Eaters incarcerated after Fudge relented have disappeared from Azkaban. Imagine Lucius Malfoy, half crazed after a month at the hands of those terrible Dementors... Minerva, all we've been gaining seems to be crumbling."
She shook her head. "Not crumbling. We're still ahead — he doesn't have the prophecy, and Severus promised to finish teaching Harry Occulmancy." She cut herself off. "He'll be back," she went on. "He'll be back, just to torture the poor boy."
Albus' face was buried in his hands. "I've sent him to his death," he insisted. "I failed him, as I failed the others... James, Lily, Sirius, and Cedric... Frank and Alice..."
Sobs entirely uncharacteristic of the usually unflappable Headmaster filled the room, and all Minerva could do was watch.
He'd spent the afternoon shopping with Dawn — or, as it inevitably became, following Dawn and Willow around as they tried on every outfit in the expensive stores along the main street. Willow had found some high-paying computer programming job over the summer and wasn't afraid to flaunt it. Though she and Tara were still angry over Rupert's decision to sell the Summers home, they were doing well enough living in Willow's parents' home. Her parents were seldom in residence anyway — last he'd heard, they were touring the South Seas until the holiday.
Rupert was unable to explain the reason for his trip up to Los Angeles other than "Watcher business," to which Dawn had thrown a temper tantrum worse than he'd ever had the misfortune to witness. She'd seemed three years of age, rather than fifteen. It had ended with Dawn refusing to speak to him and Spike showing up to guard the 'little bit' to Rupert's distaste — but there was nothing to be done. Without Wesley's help, someone could find him at any time.
There it was — the Java Jive (what a ridiculously cliché name) right off the motorway, as Wesley explained. He was only a moment behind schedule, but Wesley's car pulled in just behind him. The younger man looked a little worse for wear as he climbed out of his car and waited for Rupert to do the same — but he cut to the heart of the matter. "Explain why I have to rescue a killer."
He hazarded a glance around — not enough people were in the coffeehouse to provide safety and he'd owned his car for too long... it could be bugged... "Is there any possibility that your car might be wired?"
Wesley's eyes narrowed, but he jerked open the door and slid back inside, shaking his head. Rupert yanked open the passenger door and followed, slamming it behind him. "Wizard, Squib, or Muggle?" he demanded first of all. The Council was made up of a combination — and Wesley's comprehension could be measured by his answer.
"My father was a Squib and a Council member, my mother a Muggle with a Squib grandfather. How is this important?" He was losing his temper, Rupert noted.
"I was simply trying to gauge how much you know about Lord Voldemort — obviously you're not a follower, which makes this much easier for me..."
Wesley's eyes had popped open with Rupert's mention of the Dark Lord. "Good Lord, Rupert, don't say his name!"
Ah. One of those. He couldn't help his sneer. "Honestly, it's just a name..." There was a lecture threatening to break free, but he sighed and shook his head, forging onward instead. "I don't know how much contact you've had with the wizards since moving to America and leaving the Council, but he was resurrected, somehow."
"Impossible," Wesley blurted. "Magic can't bring people back to life! Besides, how would you know?"
Reigning in a sigh, Rupert settled in for the long haul. "White magic cannot bring someone back to life, yes. But Dark Magic can — and Lord Voldemort was, as you very well know, the Darkest of wizards. With help... and he had many followers in many walks of life, Wesley, don't underestimate him... with help, he could use any number of spells to aid in resurrection or constructing a new body, or whatever was necessary after he faced Harry Potter. I wouldn't doubt his reappearance."
The younger man's eyes had narrowed again. "Answer the second question. And then tell me what this has to do with me, and with Faith."
There was no tactful way to do this... "I'm going to show you something, and then I'm going to explain. Please give me the benefit of the doubt for just a few moments." Hopefully his fellow Briton wouldn't go running for the authorities as soon as he bared his arm... but, regardless of consequence, it was the best way to explain his situation. Rupert unbuttoned his sleeve and rolled back the fabric carefully before turning his forearm so the hideous red skull and snake were visible to Wesley.
Predictably, the man jerked away, fumbling for the car door. "Oh my Lord — you're one of them -""No. Listen," he snapped, grabbing Wesley's shoulder. "I was a follower, yes. I fled. My father hid me until the fall of the Dark Lord, whereupon I joined the Watcher's Council. But now that he's back... he's looking for me, Wesley. I don't know what you know of his followers, but he sent Lucius Malfoy after me. I may not have much time before he finds me."
Wesley seemed unable to tear his gaze from the blank eyes of the skull. "Why is this my problem?"
Rupert let out a hiss of despair. "Buffy's mother died about six months ago. Then Buffy died, followed only a few weeks later by Buffy's father. Dawn — Buffy's little sister — had no one left to care for her. I'm all she has left. In addition to caring for a child, I'm all there is to guard the Hellmouth — myself, Willow, Xander, and Xander's fiancée. If Voldemort finds me, he finds the Hellmouth. If Voldemort finds the Hellmouth, he uses the Hellmouth, as without a Slayer, we are too weak to guard it. By hiding me and by breaking Faith out of jail, you are able to both confuse the Council and guard the Hellmouth itself... because if Lord Voldemort uses the Hellmouth, you can only imagine the horrors that might follow."
A loud swallow filled the car, followed by Wesley's eyes flickering from the Dark Mark to Rupert's face. "What all must I do?"
"Rescue Faith and help me perform a spell that will make me invisible to those who hunt me, unless you tell the secret. It doesn't require a born magic user to activate the other end... and no one will know what you've done..." He took a deep breath and fumbled in his coat for his wand and the hastily scribbled directions for the spell. They could perform it and be gone before an unauthorized use of magic was registered at the American Bureau of Illicit Charm Use, if all went well. "It's called the Fidelis Charm..."