A/N: heyhey, sorry for the cliffie. Dunno Spike's real age so settled for an extreme approximation. I think he's about 120 to 150, but 180 gives it the "from now 'till I'm dust" feel a bit better.
The vampire slammed the door behind him, brushing the last hints of fire off. Angel's eyes searched the rooms he could see. He then stalked a few paces out.
"Where did the kids come from?" he called out loudly.
"'ey Poofter," a familiar, irritating voice called out. He turned for his bleached-blond Childe, but found only two brunet boys in the direction of the sound, a couch. The curly mop to his left was startlingly familiar, however.
"William?" he asked, disbelieving. Both boys turned. "Xander?"
Each nodded to his name, clearly amused by the old vampire's surprise. "But you're human, and you're . . . a whole lot younger."
William and Xander shared a glance, then nodded to this as well.
"Hello Angel!" Willow called out from the kitchen. "I know this must be very bewildering, but see, there was a spell, and a component went slightly wrong, and now . . . we're all eleven years old again."
"All?"
"Yeah, Buffy, Giles, and Anya too."
Tara peeked out from behind the redhead. "Hi."
"Hello," Angel said distractedly.
"Why are you here, Sire?" a cool, aristocratic voice asked him. Angel jumped – just his Childe, teasing him again.
"Er, there was a demon infestation . . . but I suppose the Scoobies really wouldn't be a whole lot of help as eleven year olds, so, uh, I'll just go."
"No, it's alright, you can stay," Ripper told him, twirling his wand idly about his fingers. Angel winced, the implement of magic was a bit too stake-shaped for his pleasure.
"Can I talk with my – with William? Alone?"
The others obligingly left the room. Will looked up at his eyes, the same, damnably innocent eyes on him that had brought about the creation of a new Childe.
"Yes, Sire?"
"Childe, be careful. I know you're moving to a different place. Keep safe, I want my boy back."
William bit back an angry reply, he had no defenses in this young, fragile body. But oh, he wanted to scream the denials, to inform his cruel Sire that while the vampire may possess his blood by command, as was his Sire's right to do, it was Buffy he belonged to, heart and soul, eleven or one hundred and eighty.
"I'll take care of myself."
Angel left, running for his sun-proofed car and trying not to fry. Specs watched him go from the front lawn, confused by the swirl of feelings telling him be this -- be that -- be angry -- be happy.
He settled on returning to the indoors.
Not two seconds later, however, the doorbell rang. He opened it again, wondering who could possibly have managed to reach the door in the amount of time between turning around in the yard and closing the front entrance behind him.
"Hello. You must be William. Er, William Leigh?"
Specs nodded. "You're the professor?"
"Er, yes. Professor Vector, Arithmancy. You'll be attending?"
"Yes, everyone will."
"And, er, where are the others?"
"That's Xander. Xan, where's everyone else?"
"Um, upstairs," young Harris answered without taking his eyes from the television.
"Come with me, both of you. It's time to go, Xan." Xander got up reluctantly.
Both boy and man followed the mop-haired, bespectacled youth, and he led them quickly to the rest of the Scoobies.
"Guys, this is Professor Vector. Rip', you know 'im?"
"Ah, Professor Vector! I remember your class."
"It will be a strange thing, to teach a student twice."
"Well, I probably won't take Arithmancy again . . . having already passed it, you see."
"I suppose that does make sense. Well now, shouldn't we be getting on? Everyone, gather around. For you Muggle-borns – that means raised non-magic – this is a portkey. Portkeys can be made out of any object, be it a crumpled newspaper, an old sock, or a yogurt cup. Usually they're made of something small, innocent, and that looks like trash, so the Muggles don't pick them up and get accidentally sent somewhere. Now all of you, touch the hat and we'll be off in five, four, three . . . two . . . one!"
The Scoobies felt a jerk at the navel and suddenly they were in Diagon Alley.
"Now Rupert, William, Anyanka, if you three don't mind sharing, we can get the shopping done a lot faster."
Specs shrugged, and Ripper grimaced. Anya, however, was torn between helping her friends and keeping all her lovely money.
It had, after all, six hundred years of interest, not to mention the odd deposit she left.
"I'll share, but not a whole bloody lot, y' understand? I got seven years to go. This is for convenience only and I expect repayment, because this is a loan. Maybe if yer nice it'll be reduced price and no interest," Specs told them.
"I, however, will charge interest. It's more economical!" Anya smiled brightly.
Ripper shifted uncomfortably. "Er, I really haven't got much of a fortune. It might manage to cover two people's expenses reasonably comortably, but without further income, it seems highly improbable that another er, student could be funded by, um, my meager savings."
"Don't worry. You'll all be reimbursed for school supplies later, this is entirely for convenience."
"Well all right then," Specs smiled.
"I suppose," consented Anya.
"Yes, that should do it."
The visit to Gringotts was dull – the vault owners took their borrowers down with them, money was removed in varying quantities, there were threats of loss of body parts for late refunds.
The group split up after that, to better purchase their new supplies. Anya took Xander with her, vowing to show him all the wonders of Diagon Alley. She hadn't mentioned orgasms yet, which he supposed he should be thankful for. Since it would be rather difficult to perform at this age.
Willow and Tara wandered off to muddle through it together. Tara had a basic understanding of this Wizarding Hub, but some store names were unfamiliar. She had, after all, only been acquainted with their American counterparts.
Bright, happy Buffy allowed Specs to lead her about the mini-mall. He's cute, her eleven-year-old mind observed. And sweet, and funny.
Specs smiled at his charge. She's so cute with her hair like that . . . that smile's so radiant, and her eyes . . . oh, they're burnin'.
Dawn followed the two lovebirds in disgust. Eleven and there still at each other like this.
Ripper had no trouble navigating the Alley alone. He had visited the place not long before becoming Buffy's Watcher, and the memories of the place were firmly set in his mind.
---
Oz followed Professor Lupin silently. They had just traipsed halfway across London without speaking a word.
Finally, the boy could no longer disguise his curiousity.
"Werewolf?"
He saw the man's back stiffen and knew he had struck a nerve. Knew he was most likely correct.
"Yes, Daniel, I am."
"Ok."
"That doesn't . . . bother you?"
Oz shrugged. "Why? Three nights a month you become a vicious, cold-blooded man-hater, but so do women."
Remus Lupin laughed uproarously. "God, boy, no one's pulled off a joke like that about lycanthropy in years."
"Who?"
"My best friend. Sirius was his name."
"Dead."
"You're bloody observant, boy, anyone ever tell you that?"
Oz shrugged. "See the body?"
Lupin looked outright appalled. "I watched him die, yes."
"Not my question."
"No. He fell through a . . . veil, I suppose the word is."
"Probably not dead."
"Well – what?"
"Ok. This "veil" had Sirius pass through but not come back out, right? It stands to reason, then, that it's not really a veil, but a portal – to a different dimension. I had a friend go through a portal to a Hell Dimension. He got back out, but it was centuries there, just a few weeks here. I'm -guessing- this veil went to another dimension, and you're friend is there. You don't have to worry about the rules on resurrections, because he's most likely not dead." Oz fell silent after that, impressed with his speech.
Lupin blinked. "So a finding spell would work all the same."
"So long as he wasn't killed in the other dimension, yes. But he sounds to be a smart man."
"Yes, well. I only wish he USED those brains of his more often. Would you mind telling me how you recognized my . . . condition?"
"Was one."
"And you . . . aren't now?"
"Bad spell. Can't feel the wolf."
"Ah. D'you mind . . ."
"Sorry. Don't even know."
"Er, alright then."
