Disclaimer: I don't own Buffy, nor Harry Potter. They are the legal property of JK Rowling, Joss Wheden and others.
For Malli, who knew what she was doing, unlike the rest of us.
Overture to the fic.
It was a hot summer's day in California. In the small town of Sunnydale, life progressed at a slower pace than usual. Teens lay and sunbathed, or, if they were That type of teen, smoked unorthodox substances behind the bushes in the parks. Fans buzzed and air conditioning units droned, doing their part to keep the nation cool. Dogs slept, or panted in the shade. It was, as the author has already pointed out to you, a hot day.
Dawn Summers looked up from her magazine as the bell above the door to the Magic Shop tinkled. Business had been slower than usual, which suited her just fine. Anya, the shop's usual proprietoress, was out with an unseasonal bout of 'flu, and though Dawn liked working at the Magic Shop at weekends, she didn't quite have the ex-vengeance demon's adoration for money.
The potential customer was a woman in her early twenties, of average height and weight, wearing jeans and a t-shirt. She wandered around the interior of the shop, occasionally picking things up and turning them in her hands, frowning. Everything was put back into its exact previous position very gently, as if it might explode. With at least two of the items that the woman picked up, that was very nearly the case.
The woman's wanderings brought her to the book section of the magic shop, where some of the more popular and mainstream magical tomes lined the walls, while on a table in the centre of the section a figure was bent over the books scattered on the surface, a 'private collection'. As she softly approached, the man's head whipped around.
"What the . . . "
"You? You? What are you ..."The expression on the woman's face had morphed from the benign British tourist ('Oh, hello, good to be over on this side of the pond, what-what. Don't worry, we were on your side in the war. What are all these little dollar thingies, then, oh. Jolly good.') to something that looked more at home on a skeleton equipped with a scythe. You know the one.
"Now I know what you're thinking, and you're mistaken." The man, who had bleached-blonde hair was now standing, his hands in the international position that meant 'Please, please, don't hurt me! I have a wife and kids! Hurt them instead!'
"Am I?" The voice was low and dangerous. It promised of things to come, things that would make your future very interesting, exciting, and short. "Do remember, I have a very good memory." She was holding a long, thin, pointy and above all wooden stick in front of her. It was aimed directly at the blonde's heart. "As do others."
"Now, now, Hermione, don't do anything that you'll regret later."
"Oh, I promise you, I won't regret this. I may even enjoy it."
"He's still alive."
"No. No. You're-"At the three words that the man had softly spoken, Hermione's hardened expression had softened a little. The hand pointing the stick had faltered, only for a fraction of a second, but as any games console player will tell you (often when you don't want to hear, but are just making small talk), a fraction of a second is often all that you need.
When Dawn skidded to the book corner after hearing shouting and things falling to the ground, flashes of light bursting around her ankles, she was greeted by the site of Spike staring at something in his hand, and the woman who had entered the magic shop earlier lying in a crumpled and unmoving heap a little ways off.