"Everybody run," Grey wheezed. "Now."

            "Aww, c'mon. We can all play," Willow said in her mock little girl voice.

            Neither Giles nor the wizards moved.

            "See. Told you they want to play," she said.

            "Willow?" Giles asked tentatively.

            The pale witch scrunched her eyebrows, pretending to think. "Hmm. Not so much." She pretended to think again. "Nope. Definitely not." She flicked her hand at him; tentacles of green energy flew from her extended fingers and slithered along the forest floor. They ensnared Giles' limbs, binding him fast, then spread and locked up the two wizards next to him. "Next contestant?"

            "Cut the crap, Will," Grey said from the floor. He was starting to get light-headed from loss of blood. He knew he was in reach-her-quick-or-not-at-all territory. "I'm bleeding here, and I could use some help."

            "Uh huh. And I'm supposed to do what, exactly?"

            "Are you a witch or not? Heal me already."

            Her left eyebrow went up. She pulled a strand of hair in front of her eyes. "Okay, black hair. Check." She inspected her hand. "Pale, veiny skin. Check." With a come-hither motion, she summoned both Remus' and Sirius' wands into her hand. "Big-time dark mojo? Check." She looked down at Grey. "What's the puzzle here? I'm. A. Bad. Girl. We don't heal, as a rule. You saw Amy, right? How is the socket where her arm used to be, by the way?"

            "You did a bad thing. No denying that here. But you aren't evil. Not yet. You're just pissed off and guilty, and making bad excuses for losing control. Suck it up and deal, will you?"

            Her black eyes glowed and her nostrils flared.

            "Frendo," she said, closing her hand into a fist.

            A ghostly fist appeared all around him. When it closed, his scream pierced the Hogwarts night.

            "Fuck me," he gasped, the pressure turning his open cuts to fiery burning pits. Baiting her – not the right strategy, he thought as the pain coursed through him. After thirty seconds, she released the spell.

            "Was that good for you too?" She cackled evilly. Grey knew he was losing her. He wasn't about to give up, though. He loved her too much. And I'm not losing another one, he thought forcefully. Not while I'm still breathing.

            "You don't want to fight it. I get that. If you do, you have to accept what you did. But torture me all you want, Willow. I've been there before. I can take it. I'll just wait it out and get you back after."

            She knew he meant it. The steel in his brown eyes would have told her so, even if the weight of history and the tone of his voice hadn't. But none of that stopped her. Neither did the certain knowledge that Dumbledore and Tara and the rest of Hogwarts would stop her if she did anything worse. She didn't much care about them.

            What stopped Willow was her sudden vision of Grey hanging on Jess' wall, stakes through his shoulders and the black-haired witch laughing at his pain. A vision crafted of memory, rather than imagination, except that in Willow's mind, she didn't see Jess laughing.

            She saw herself.

            She fell from the sky to her knees and threw up. The retching continued for more than a minute after she emptied her stomach. When she looked back up at him, her eyes were green and shiny with tears.

            "Grey… oh goddess …" She scrabbled across the dirt, wrapping him up in her tiny arms and letting her tears drip down onto his scalp. "I'm so sorry."

            "No big," he whispered. He knew everything would be fine now. "Love you." Then he let himself pass out.

            Alone in his office two days later, Dumbledore put his head in his hands and indulged in a quiet moment of despair.

            His efforts to combat Voldemort were, if not quite in shambles yet, then certainly falling apart. The Slayer, supposedly his ace in the hole, was under siege from something so powerful that God had chosen to banish it rather than destroy it. Willow, until now the most powerful weapon in his arsenal, had brought Grey into the infirmary and promptly sworn off magic for good. His school, once the only true sanctuary against Voldemort's power, had been violated for the fourth time in a year, and now he had to find a way to repair defenses that had stood for a thousand years. How Voldemort had managed to siphon them into a spell that breached the veil between life and death, Dumbledore had no idea. But he had done so, and his cleverness had opened the school to his wrath.

And Harry … Harry's almost uncontrollable anger over the pain inflicted on Ginny and Hermione was frightening to behold, and the talk that they were about to have would only make things worse.

            The tiny pinches from Fawkes' clawed feet brought Dumbledore out of his reverie. Perched on his left shoulder, the bird leaned its head against Dumbledore's and gave a drawling hoot.

            "I know, my friend. Somehow we will survive, as we always do. Somehow."

The bird cawed softly, but to him it seemed cold comfort.

            Dumbledore was still seated at his desk stroking Fawkes' tail feathers when the knock came at the door five minutes later.

            "Come," he said.

            The door opened; Harry, Spike, and Giles entered together. Sirius trotted in behind them. When the door closed, he reverted to his natural form. He looked more haunted than Dumbledore had seen him since his return from Azkaban. They had already discussed what was about to happen, and though Sirius had initially resisted, he knew the importance of telling Harry the truth. He had insisted on being present, though, and Dumbledore had readily agreed.

            "You wanted to see me, Professor?" Harry asked. The rage rolled from him in waves. Sirius stood behind him as he took one of Dumbledore's chairs, resting a supportive hand on Harry's shoulder.

            "Yes, Harry, I do. I asked Spike and Professor Giles to join us – I feel that they need to hear what I am about to tell you."

            "That's fine," he said. He hesitated, then added, "I'd like to keep it brief if we could, sir. I don't like being away from Ginny."

            "I understand. If this wasn't of great importance or urgent, I wouldn't have called you away. How is she?"

            "Still not saying much. She sleeps, mostly. Hermione, too."

            "They'll be fine, Potter," Spike said. "First time for torture's not like the first time at anything else, but it passes."

            "How comforting," Giles muttered. In a louder voice, he said to Dumbledore, "This is about the man Spike fought in California, isn't it, Albus?"

            "In a roundabout way, Rupert. Has Harry …"

            "I know it's an angel after Buffy," Harry confirmed. "Or ex-angel, rather. Professor Giles spoke with us in the infirmary."

            "Then I won't waste time with explanations of that." He paused, running a hand through his flowing white beard and examining Harry carefully. The boy had dark circles under his eyes, his hair was entirely mussed, and his robe had the limp, wrinkled look of a lengthy wear. His unkempt appearance made Dumbledore feel even more guilty about what he had to do, but the elderly wizard had long since grown accustomed to completing tasks he found distasteful. "Harry … it is time for me to tell you something that I believe you should have known long ago. I wish that I could avoid placing this burden on you, but the time has arrived for you to know the full truth of the matter. I only ask that you have patience and here me all the way out before you respond. Can you do that?"

            Harry nodded. The bottom suddenly dropped from his stomach. Whatever Dumbledore had called him in for, this was it, and it looked big.

            "I would caution you not to repeat this to anyone else." Harry agreed. Then Dumbledore took a deep breath, and, his penetrating gaze never wavering from Harry's green eyes, he told him of Sybill Trelawney's prophecy. Of Voldemort's attack on his parents' house. Of their mingled destinies. When he finished, Harry said nothing for a long moment.

            In his mind's eye, Harry watched a kaleidoscope of memories flash by while Dumbledore spoke. He saw a green flash cut off his mother's strangled cries, then another snuff the life from Cedric Diggory. He saw the shades of Voldemort's victims billow out from the evil wizard's wand, then helpless students collapse as a whirling maelstrom of debris struck them down in the Great Hall. Then he saw Hermione and Ginny wriggling on the ground, their screams trapped in their throats as Grindelwald tortured them. Three days ago I would've been pissed at Dumbledore for keeping this from me, he realized. He could even see himself in an imaginary version of Dumbledore's office, screaming and tossing things about as he raged.

            Now he raged, but not at Dumbledore. The Headmaster had given him a gift. He, and no one else, could punish Voldemort. No one else could finish the dark wizard once and for all. No one else but him.

            He was so angry at what had been done to Ginny and Hermione that the thought of killing a person didn't even bother him. Instead he felt detached. Almost hollow. The only thing that seemed real was the vision of the girls lying in the infirmary.

            Sirius felt Harry tense under his hand.

            "Thank you, Professor," Harry said quietly. He rose from his seat. "I think I should be getting back to Ginny now."

            "Not just yet, Harry," Dumbledore said, surprised and concerned by Harry's apparent lack of emotion. He had never been one for cold rage, and his lack of a reaction to Dumbledore's tale worried the Headmaster greatly. "We have not yet discussed the reason I have told you this."

            "I should like to point out, Harry, that prophecies are dicey things at best," Giles said. The boy's unnerving calmness concerned him as well.

            "Frankly, Professor," Harry responded, his green eyes like ice, "he deserves a lot worse than death."

            "Killin' a person's a big step, Potter," Spike said. "You're right peeved now, an' you should be after what the berk did ta your friends, but you need ta think about what Rupes here is sayin'. Death's a big black line to cross."

            Harry nodded, vaguely realizing he might feel differently about this once he had calmed down, but Ginny's bed-ridden form consumed his thoughts.

            Sirius could see that Harry was not himself at the moment, and that the full weight of this would crash down on him once the girls had recovered a bit more. He silently vowed that he would do everything he could to help him live with that weight.

            Rather than say so, though, he said, "Tell him the rest, Professor."

            "There's more?" Harry asked.

            Dumbledore nodded. "And this, like the prophecy, you cannot share with anyone. Is that understood?"

            Harry nodded. He wasn't sure if he wanted to share the prophecy or not, but he wouldn't.

            "Since the last term ended, Spike has, for his own reasons, been seeking a soul." Harry nodded. He knew this already, and told Dumbledore as much. "His quest has, it seems, become entangled with the angel who is menacing Miss Summers in Sunnydale."

            "It has?"

            "Yes. No creature without a soul can slay a spawn of heaven."

            "Tested that one thorough-like," Spike added. "Sword in the chest didn't get it done."

            "Wow" was all Harry could say. He would not have wanted to be on the receiving end of Spike's sword under any circumstances.

            "Yes. At any rate," Dumbledore continued, "the vampire who possesses the secret of ensouling Spike has requested a rather steep price for it. He seeks the blood of Voldemort's mortal enemy."

            "Which," Harry finished, putting it all together, "is me."

            Dumbledore nodded.

            "We only get one shot at him, Potter. We need to bloody well get it right the first time," Spike said. "We … I … need ya to come with me to meet with the Don, an' let him take some o' your blood."

            "Wait a minute!" Sirius broke in with a shout. "The deal was for a vial of Harry's blood, not to let that damn leech take it from him straightaway."

            "It won't work, Sirius," Giles said. "We don't know how much he'll need. We don't know how fresh it has to be. We don't know anything."

            "Not. A. Chance." Sirius growled. His hand hovered inches from his wand. "No way are we putting Harry in danger just so Bloodlust here can shag the Slayer. Sod that."

            They stood frozen that way, Sirius and Spike trading angry glares, Giles and Dumbledore looking on silently, for nearly ten seconds until Harry broke the stalemate.

            "I'll do it," he said calmly.

            "No, Harry, you won't," Sirius replied. "Your parents charged me with protecting you, an' that doesn't include letting you get bit by a vampire."

            "And a spiffing job you've done so far," Harry spat. Sirius cringed, knowing Harry was right. "Four times I've had to fight off Voldemort – more than my parents, that's what Professor Dumbledore said. Spike gets a soul, an' he can sort out this Prince o' Lust guy hunting the Slayer – that's a big win for us, Sirius. An' we're a bit short of wins at the moment. Besides," he added, his voice calming a little, "I like Buffy. She helped me when I needed it. If I'm the only one who can help her, I'm not going to shy away. You think my parents would want me to do that?"

            Sirius seemed to be searching for a response. Spike clapped him on the shoulder. "Hero gene, Puddles. What'd I tell ya?" He turned to Harry and added, "Thanks, mate."

            "I'm going along." Sirius' voice was still rough with anger, but he knew he could argue with Harry until the end of time and still not win. His godson would just agree and then promptly sneak away. "He gets hurt an' the Slayer'll be hooverin' you up afterward."

            "When do we leave?" Harry asked.

            "Soon's the sun goes down," Spike said. Dumbledore and Giles both agreed. "We'll take Faith along. She's itchin' for some action."

            "No change?"

            "Nuh uh." Jess shook her head. Her shoulders rested on the wall beside the entrance to Willow's room "Tara's in with her now."

            "What do you think?" Grey asked, his voice quiet.

            "Honest? I think she meant it. She's not hurt or angry or anythin'. She's scared. An' scared is a bad place to be with magic. It paralyzes you, makes you feel like you got no control. Then, 'cos you feel like that, you can't control anything."

            He didn't really understand, but he nodded anyway.

            "What'd Dumbledore say?" Jess asked.

            "The kindly British wizard version of I've got other shit going on right now. He's confining her to Hogwarts and slamming the lid on it. He doesn't want a Ministry inquiry that'll end up with Willow in Azkaban."

            "What's more important than this?"

            Grey shrugged. He was just glad Willow wasn't being imprisoned. Dumbledore was taking a huge risk in handling her himself, but, Grey reasoned, she was a key player in the fight with Voldemort. The exigencies of war sometimes changed the rules.

            "You gonna try and go in there again?" When he had first returned from the infirmary, Willow had refused to see him. When he ignored her and moved closer, she had hurled him out the door and slammed it shut by force of will.

            "Yeah. It's been almost 12 hours. She's gotta be calmer by now."

            Jess reached up and cupped his chin, turning his eyes to hers and inspecting him carefully.

            "I know you, hon. You're not as calm about this as your actin'. What gives?"

            He removed her hand from his chin. "Me getting upset about this helps nobody. I'll be upset later. Right now Willow needs me."

            "I never got that," Jess admitted. "Not the Willow part – that's obvious. I mean, I never got how ya could jus' put aside how you're feelin' and save it for later. When I feel stuff, I jus' feel it, y'know?"

            "Yeah, I know. I do what I have to, I guess." He reached for the door. "I've gotta go now."

            She nodded, then impulsively slipped her arms around him and gave him a tender hug. "You be careful in there."

            "If I need you, you'll know it," he said, answering her unspoken offer. Then he bid her goodbye and gave Willow's password to the portrait over the door.

            Someone, most likely Tara, had a roaring fire lit in Willow's fireplace. The blonde witch sat in one of the high-backed chairs in front of it, her hands folded neatly in her lap and her eyes watching the redheaded figure on the bed. Both of them were silent.

            Grey drifted quietly to Tara's side and laid a hand on her shoulder. She looked up, nodded, and stood slowly.

            "She hasn't s-said anything in awhile," Tara whispered to him. "She's crying, but the sobbing and w-wailing just kinda stopped."

            He nodded. "I'll take over for a bit. You need some food and some rest."

            "A-are you sure? After before…"

            "I'll break the wall down if I need to, but she won't throw me out again."

            "I don't think she meant to before," Tara said. "Sometimes her m-magic just reacts to her feelings on its own."

            He nodded again. He had seen it before, too. "I know. It'll be fine."

            Tara pursed her lips, looking like she wanted to say more, but she didn't. She just gripped his hand briefly and let herself out.

            Finally, he turned and looked at Willow. She was facing the huge windows by her bed, arms folded around her knees, staring out over the dark grounds at nothing. Her gray drawstring pants and dark blue sweatshirt hung limp and wrinkled from sweat and tears. As he crossed the room, he realized the sweatshirt was his. Or it had been, until she had confiscated it.

            Grey plopped himself down on the bed next to her. His eyes followed her gaze out the window.

            "This kind of reminds me of the first time we ever really talked." He kept his voice low, as if he was trying not to disturb somebody sleeping on the other side of the room. "You with the hands over the knees and the sleepwear and the ponytail, upset over losing control of your magic. Remember?"

            She didn't answer. She didn't look at him. She didn't even twitch. Only her tears moved.

            He reached for her hand. She yanked it away in a blink.

            "I think we can safely say your muscle response isn't affected."

            "Don't." The word came out hoarse and sandy, barely with the sound of Willow in it.

            "It is affected?"

            "Don't joke. No jokes. Not now."

            He nodded slowly. "No more jokes."

            A tear dripped down from her right eye. She watched it slide from her chin onto her lap. "Can't seem to get all cried out. I guess that means I feel pretty bad. Yay me."

            "Can I ask you for a favor?"

            Her eyes scrunched the tiniest bit. "What?"

            "Can I ask you for a favor?"

            She shrugged, but her gaze was off the window and on him now.

            "Would you hold me?"

            "Huh?"

            "You know – wrap me up in a really long, soft Willow hug? Please?"

            He sounded so pathetic, she almost had no choice. But she still managed to resist a little.

            "You don't want one. Not after … not now."

            "I really do," he insisted. "I've had a seriously crappy week, and I'm in a fair amount of pain, too."

            Willow stared at him for a few more seconds, then leaned back and gestured stiffly for him to come closer. Grey slid off his shoes, crawled up onto the bed, and leaned back against her chest so that his head rested in the crook of her neck. She tried not to, but her arms involuntarily wrapped around him and pulled him in.

            When they stopped moving, both of them felt themselves relax a little.

            "I love you," he said quietly.

            She hesitated. "Are we okay?"

            "What do you mean?"

            "Well … I mean, I made with the pain, and hurting your lover? Not so much the best way to make a relationship last. When you're not, y'know, a vampire anyway. And so, after …"

            "Will," he said, cutting her ramble off, "I just told you I love you."

            "But … did you mean it in an 'I love you – goodbye' sitcomy way?" He felt her heart speed up and her chest tighten. She was really scared.

            "No. Of course not. I meant it in the 'I love you – as soon as my chest heals we're having really dirty makeup sex-y' way."

            In spite of herself, she chuckled. The vibrations sent a twinge of pain through Grey's injured chest, but he willed himself to be still. They were quiet for a few minutes until Willow finally spoke again.

            "I've known Amy since Junior High. Did you know that?"

            "Uh uh."

            "We used to hang. Her mom was this crazy witch – she was like the second Little Bad the Scooby gang ever beat."

            "Amy didn't seem to have things tied too tightly either, Will."

            "She's not really like that. I mean, she is, but I think it's cause of the magic. She's an addict, too, but she didn't get all twelve-steppy." Way good that worked out for you, huh, Rosenberg, Willow thought.

            "It wasn't your fault," Grey said. "I can hear you thinking."

            "Right. The devil made me do it. Or possibly my dog told me to. Or it was the government – yup, that's it. The CIA. And none of it would've happened if you had let me wear my little tin foil hat." She sighed. "Grey, I know you mean well, and nobody wants your absolvey comments to be true more than me. But – I did this." He could feel her start to cry again, even before the first tear rolled down and hit his shoulder. "I … I can't control my magic. I used it, and I tore Amy's arm off. I beat her within an inch of her life. Maybe less, like a centimeter, or-or possibly a millimeter. Nothing you say is gonna change that."

            "I guess not," he admitted. "They told me that you swore it off, that you won't do any anymore."

            "Uh huh."

            "Is that wise? What'd Dumbledore say?"

            "That he understood. That when I was ready, he would be there to teach me. I told him that I wouldn't, that I was done with it."

            "And?"

            "I dunno. He just gave me this look, like he knew how wrong I was but I was gonna have to find out for myself. But he's the one who's wrong."

            This is going to end well, Grey thought. But he just nodded and burrowed deeper into her arms.