Note: It seems that there is a lot of people angry with the fact that Harry nor Lupin didn't use any magic. For one thing, this isn't their world. It's like dropping Harry into his first year and expecting him to face Voldemort after only a few days in that world. Harry's quick with defensive spells, but he isn't so ready to use useful everyday spells like Hermione might. Harry is also out of school and can't lawfully use magic. This has been defended before because of the circumstances, but when you have a huge amount of nonmagical people handling their own it seems a little conspicuous. Later, Harry and Remus will both be using magic against the forces of darkness but for now, they're getting used to the change in their predicaments.

Chapter 12: Choices and Nightmares

Harry couldn't remember sleeping more deeply in his entire life. He had thought that the horrors of the previous evening would have left him to full of adrenaline to quiet his mind long enough for sleep to catch him. But after returning from the Bronze and tending to his superficial wounds, Harry had dropped off as soon as his head had hit the pillow. Uncle Rupert apparently had not.

When Harry woke, he found himself surrounded by a handful of cardboard boxes. Uncle Rupert was stacking books and the other trinkets that had graced the bookshelves of the living room nicely into the boxes. Harry didn't lift his head from the pillow, but watched his uncle. He'd seen how everyone had gone up against the vampires, but only Uncle Rupert had faced what had come out of the Hellmouth.

There was a round purple bruise just below his left eye where, Harry had been told, Buffy had struck him unconscious. From the deliberate movement of his back, Harry saw that when the Hellmouth monster had thrown Uncle Rupert into the table, it had not left the Watcher unscathed. What did surprise Harry was that for the first time Rupert Giles wasn't dressed in his customary suit of tweed, instead he had donned a pair of jeans and a t-shirt.

His uncle pulled out his desk drawer and started rummaging through some of the contents, humming softly to himself. Above Harry, Professor Lupin snored in a peculiar cadence to Uncle Rupert's vibrations. The sun must have been up for some time for Harry was almost uncomfortably warm under his thin blanket and it wall he could do to keep from wriggling out as he watched his uncle press his living room into the small cardboard boxes.

Reaching back further into his desk drawer, Uncle Rupert took out a folder of papers and Harry caught a glimpse of what looked to be a wizarding picture. It was difficult to keep his curiosity in check, but he had already learned that Uncle Rupert wasn't exactly a sharing person. He told Harry only what he needed to know about himself, only when Harry needed to know it. This unguarded moment was probably the best way for Harry to get to know his father's brother.

Slowly, Uncle Rupert placed the folder onto the desk top and turned so he was under the desk. With gentle hands, he peeled back the cover of the folder and a sad smile graced his rugged features. His fingers caressed something just out of Harry's sight and he tried to crane his head upward without being blindingly obvious.

"Hello," the Watcher said and pulled a sheet of paper from the folder. He leaned back in the chair, studying the paper with avid interest. It was as though he had found something long lost and was unsure if how to receive it.

A soft chuckle emitted from the older man and Harry decided he could no longer contain his curiosity. Feigning a yawn, Harry stretched his arms to the ceiling and pulled the cramped muscles that had been begging him for a stretch since he'd woken. He sat up, rubbing his eyes that were still gummy from sleep and fumbled for his glasses.

"Good morning, Harry," Uncle Rupert greeted him in a whisper, setting down the piece of paper. "Sleep well?"

Harry nodded, climbing out of his covers and to his feet. "Did you sleep at all?" he asked, wondering how it was possible that Uncle Rupert never had dark circles around his eyes. It often appeared that the man never slept.

"Yes, of course," Uncle Rupert replied curiously.

"What's going on?" Harry asked, looking around at the chaotic flat.

Uncle Rupert shrugged. "Well, considering that you're now to live with me and that I've seemed to have taken in a permanent house guest, I thought the sooner we found a bigger flat the better. Besides, I don't think you quite fancy sleeping on the floor for the rest of the summer."

Harry grinned and came closer to the desk, trying to catch a surreptitious glances at whatever Uncle Rupert had been looking at. What he saw caused him to gasp. It was a picture of the Marauders, plus one. Harry's father appearing as though her were fifteen or sixteen. In the middle was an older boy, wearing a white ragged t-shirt and a pair of torn jeans. Rolled into the cuff of the shirt was a package of cigarettes. The older boy's arms were draped over James and Remus, Sirius on the other side of James, with Peter Pettigrew a step away, eyeing the older boy warily though trying his best to smile for the camera.

"Is that you?" Harry asked, pointing to the picture and indicating the older boy.

"Bugger off," the older boy in the picture cried to Harry and the wizard's green eyes widened.

Uncle Rupert blushed and stuttered a reply, "Yes, well, things were different then."

The similarities between the two half-brothers were easily identified in their youth. Though Uncle Rupert wasn't wearing glasses, Harry saw how he squinted towards the camera and guessed that the younger Rupert had needed them desperately.

"Your father had just turned fifteen and it was his birthday celebration," came his uncle's narrated. "We first headed to London. James thought it was the strangest place but he found it incredibly interesting. Sirius of course was trying to fake arrogance while figuring how to chat up the nearest girl. Remus felt quite at home, you know his mother is Muggle?" Harry indicated that he did. "I never did like Peter, but he was James' friend and it was his birthday."

Harry watched as his father's eyes looked up at the young Rupert with admiration. "You look so happy," he muttered. "Why didn't you know my father had died? What kept you two apart?"

"That's a long story, Harry. One I had hoped to hold off a little longer, but from the way Remus tells it, once your curiosity is piqued you are tenacious. And I'd rather you hear it from me," Uncle Rupert explained. "As you can see from this moment of moving history, I wasn't exactly gentile. I was in my own private rebellion against my destiny and I didn't care who knew it. When I was twenty-one, I met a man named Ethan Rayne. He practiced what is known as Wiccan. It's the ability to perform magic without having the magic born within you."

"How is that possible?" Harry asked, carefully sitting on the couch arm across from the desk.

"Do you remember the spell I performed when Voldemort entered your mind?" Uncle Rupert asked.

Harry raked his memory. Pain had drowned out a lot of what had been happening around him. Voldemort had become the root of all his pain lately, even though Harry greatly blamed himself for Sirius' death. "It was an incantation of sorts?" Harry questioned, raising his shoulders dubiously.

"It was. I called upon a Goddess and used her power to force Voldemort from you. That's why we needed to keep our blood combined. It's the seal that binds you to me and me to Filla. The spell I performed is a Wiccan spell," Uncle Rupert explained.

"And you learned this type of magic through this Ethan fellow?" Harry asked.

"Not all of it. This type of magic is taught to a Watcher to help him or her protect and guide the Slayer. They call it the Black Arts, but it's not necessarily black. It's rather unsavory name appeared out of the Early Ages, when wizards such as yourself and Remus, became aware of a magic different from their own, they automatically assumed that it had to be black because their's certainly wasn't."

"Which isn't to say that there isn't a dark side to the Black Arts and Ethan was particularly adept in this area," Uncle Rupert informed him gravely. "I was angry, Harry. Angry that I would never get the opportunity to become as I wanted to become and I intended to show the world how much it couldn't control me. I took up with Ethan and his lot."

Harry didn't want to believe his ears. This couldn't be happening. His father had died because of such Dark Arts, how could his uncle be a part of that? Frustrated and clinging to the hope that there was something that he didn't quite comprehend, he shook his head. "You couldn't have. This doesn't make sense."

Uncle Rupert swallowed and ran a hand over his face. "That type of magic is an incredible rush, it gets into your blood and the more you use it, the more you want it. I hardly realized that I was addicted and blatantly denied it when my parents brought it to my attention. I eventually left home, much to my relief now. I also stopped training as a Watcher. At the time I was on self-destruct and I'm glad I didn't take my family with me on that path. For a long time, I stayed with Ethan and the others, fueling my addiction until one of my friends died in result to the magicks we harbored."

A great sigh heaved out of Uncle Rupert. "It was the wake up call I needed. Having hit bottom as they call it, I returned to my training. To say that I had a difficult time would be an understatement. I was fighting an addiction to black magic and returning to the Council that I hated so greatly with my tail between my legs. But I didn't return home."

"Why not?" Harry asked. He had long accepted that people weren't perfect, after seeing so much betrayal, he could hardly think otherwise. But he had the feeling that Uncle Rupert wasn't telling him everything.

"Pride mostly," answered Uncle Rupert with a self-deprecating tone. "I wanted to return to my mother and father with proof that I had changed. I had hoped to be finished working with the Council and to have my potential slayer before returning home. Without knowing that your parents had been murdered I sent them letters, testing the waters before I'd come to Sunnydale. Each was returned. It was then that I determined that they had moved on and that so should I."

"I was young and foolish, with the pressure of a destiny that I felt I couldn't bare. But I loved my family, Harry, and I still miss them." Uncle Rupert's hand rose up to cup Harry's cheek. "I think, perhaps, you're my second chance to make things right. That is if you can forgive this old fool."

It seemed to Harry that the boy in the picture and the man that sat before him were two different entities. Young Rupert had just wanted to escape his destiny in anyway he thought possible and that was something Harry wished he didn't quite so well understand. In his uncle's eyes he saw a reflection of past pain and future hope with the desire to watch and care for Harry. How could he refuse someone who wanted to love him?

Harry nodded his forgiveness, looking at the hand that still rested on the side of his face. "It's not my place to forgive," Harry mumbled, taking a step back away from his uncle and taking in the mess that had been the result of packing. "Do you need a hand?"

"That would be appreciated," Uncle Rupert said, slapping his hands to his knees and pushing himself to his feet. "Then perhaps we can have lunch at one of those detestable fast food franchises that claim to be restaurants."

"Lunch?" Harry asked, now searching the flat for a clock.

"It's 12:00 in the afternoon," Uncle Rupert informed him teasingly. "You and Remus aren't used to this sort of life. After a while you learn to subsist off of very little sleep."

"How is everyone?" Harry asked. It had been a fight that had amounted to very little, in trying to get Buffy to see a doctor. Uncle Rupert had suggested that they even take her to the hospital, but she glared at him as though he had suddenly become a vampire. The group had finally gotten the revived Buffy to agree to rest today, though Harry had sensed a certain rebellion behind her quick acquiescence.

"Ah, I called Mrs. Summers this morning before Buffy had woken and expressed my concerns of several flu bug symptoms that Buffy had been displaying," the Watcher answered, gazing over a few books before pulling them off the shelf. Apparently, the older man hadn't been fooled by Buffy's performance either. "Willow and Xander called around 10:00, we're going to bury the Master's bones tonight. There is a certain ritual that must be performed." Uncle Rupert smiled like a cat ready to pounce. "And I don't suspect to hear from Cordelia."

Harry rolled his eyes as he snatched up one of the cardboard boxes. "What about Ms. Calendar?" he shot back vengefully. "Did she ring?"

"Heavens no. I can't stand the aggravating woman," Uncle Rupert replied heatedly, his cheeks warming.

Smiling, Harry started to grab several stone statues from one of the book shelf. He'd seen several of them sitting in Professor Trelawny's classroom and fleetingly wondered if Uncle Rupert believed in some of that claptrap that Trelawny spouted. Prophecies were real, he knew that now, with one being given to himself and having seen one come to fruition, but he had a hard time believing that in the stars or the ground bits of tea leaves could foretell what the future would bring.

"That's not how it looked when you two were dancing last night," Harry teased.

If possible, Uncle Rupert's blush only seemed to deepen further. "There was no need to be rude; she asked, so I agreed. You and Cordelia seemed to dance most of the night."

"American girls ," Harry explained. He was certainly attracted to Cordelia, anyone with eyes couldn't help be, but he couldn't possibly see them having anything in common. In a way she reminded him of a female version of Malfoy, especially when she talked down to Willow, Xander, and Buffy. "Girls in general are complicated," Harry amended, thinking of Cho Chang. "I think it's best just to stay clear of them completely."

Nodding as though he were a sage, Uncle Rupert said, "Always sound advice."

"Would you two stop gabbing," Professor Lupin growled as he turned in the sofa bed, wrapping the blankets tightly around him. "There are people trying to sleep."

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Giles had found several two or three bedroom apartments available in the morning paper and had arranged meetings with a relator to inspect them later that evening. It was nice to spend time with Harry and not worry about the impending apocalypse. He still wasn't sure how he was going to keep Harry's mind blockaded from Voldemort and refused Remus' suggestion of asking Snape to once again take up teaching Harry Occlumency. He'd rather have to call upon Filla's graces a thousand times a night then to leave Harry with that utter git.

He certainly wasn't going to play by these wizard games and he worried that Harry would eventually get to wizard-sappy as he'd once called it. Pointing your wand at things only got you so far in life and he suspected that the opposite mentality had gotten James and Lily killed. But how long could the binding spell keep Harry safe and the boy certainly would have enjoyed taking a shower this morning.

As it so happened they found their new apartment almost right away. It wasn't overly large but compared to Giles current flat it was palatial. It had three bedrooms, one each for Harry and himself, with a spare bedroom for the guests Giles was sure would come. Off from the living room there was a sitting room large enough to house Giles' books and his desk. The kitchen was large enough for both of them since Harry also enjoyed cooking and a little terrace stood outside the kitchen and through a pair of french doors.

Giles' filled out the financial papers and was thankful that the Council paid for his living arrangements. If only that were true for his travel, the ride between apartments had left Harry rather white faced and white knuckled, the boy vowing that he was never going to get into that car again. The Watcher had rebutted with the fact that broom travel was hardly any safer and much more conspicuous outside of a wizarding village.

"We'll have to see about getting Ron and Hermione to the new place," Giles was saying as the drove home that evening. "Maybe spend a few days."

"That would be great," Harry said cheerfully, looking happier then Giles' had ever seen him. Out of the corner of his eye he watched his nephew while trying to pay attention to the road and Harry caught his scrutiny. "What?"

"You seem different," Giles answered simply. "What brought about this change in attitude?"

"Buffy dying," Harry answered succinctly.

"Oh," Giles said with a wince. He was deeply worried that Buffy was not taking her near death more seriously. From what little he'd been able to pry out of her from the previous night it had been quite a harrowing experience and he was sure there had to be some trauma buried deep down. Buffy was only brushing it off in her usual blasé fashion.

"It's just....well, it's just that she had this terrible prophecy of death and she beat it," Harry tried to explain. "After hearing you tell Angel that they were practically sealed in stone, I thought that there was no hope."

"Prophecies are sketchy things," Giles agreed. "They only give you the synopsis of what's going to happen. Buffy did......die, but then she was revived. Once the prophecy is met there is nothing to say what will happen afterwards."

Now it was Harry's turn to study Giles. "Is that why you left training to be Watcher? Because you detested the thought of sending someone to die?"

"That was part of it," Giles replied tightly. "You see Harry, I never knew my biological father, he'd been killed by a Zygoth demon and so it was left to Edward, your grandfather to raise me as his own. When I was ten years old, he sat me down and explained my birthright. Well, to a ten-year-old it seemed frightfully fascinating and heroic. It was only later when I began my studies and started to work with the Council that I realized how horrid it truly was. I met girls, not that much younger then myself, who knew that their life span was on par with certain species of bugs. Weakly, I wanted nothing to do with it."

"And when your friend died," Harry deduced.

"There's a point in this sort of life, Harry, when you must realize that people are going to die, whether you are apart of it or not," Giles elucidated. "I decided that I'd rather be an influence that might help the Slayer survive then to allow her with another Watcher who did not see things the same way I do."

"You care a lot for Buffy, don't you?" Harry asked, pretending to be focused on a pair of teenage girls, seemingly on their way to the beach.

Giles shrugged, as he turned his clunking car into the drive. "She's an extraordinary girl."

Not like anything I expected, though I had read her previous Watcher's diary. Merrick had neglected to mention a lot about the girl. Of course, Buffy's previous Watcher had been known to be a rather hard man. Merrick had trained several Slayer's before Buffy was called and had long since been hardened by his own experiences and had been one of the few who had insisted in Buffy being trained once they had learned who the new Slayer had become.

"She's certainly not ordinary," Harry agreed emphatically.

"I also care a lot about you," Giles assured his nephew.

Harry turned from Giles imploring glance. "You don't know me."

"I'd like that opportunity," Giles persisted. He knew how difficult it was to be outside of what you knew, to fear that the person who was your guardian may only find you as extra baggage. He'd tricked himself into believing this when he'd been about Harry's age. If only he'd known then how much Edward Potter had given him.

"Maybe you won't like what you discover," Harry muttered.

"Harry," Giles said, wondering where this conversation was going. The boy's previous brightness a dimmed faster then an exploding sun. "Is this about Voldemort?"

"No, this is about me. Who I am. When Sirius died, I used an Unforgivable Curse on the Death Eater who killed him. I hated her more then anything in my life and I wanted to kill her," Harry spoke this as though he were narrating from a distance, his voice was low. "I'm no better then Voldemort."

"Did you kill her?" Giles asked, surprised by this new development.

"No, I used Crucio a few times but it stopped working after a while," Harry answered. "She said that my hatred wasn't good enough."

Giles put the car and neutral and lifted the parking brake into place before shifting in his seat and facing his nephew. "Do you think she was right?"

Harry shrugged, avoiding Giles gaze. "Does it matter? I still wanted to do it."

"Did you never wonder how magic works inside of you?" Giles asked, knowing already that Harry did not.

"Not really," Harry answered, folding his arms and leaning back against the decrepit seat.

Giles sighed. "It's attuned to you. Everything that you create with magic is a reflection of you. There is a difference from wishing someone harm and wanting it enough to cause it, especially repeatedly. Voldemort, I'm sure, can utter an Unforgivable any number of times and never bat an eye. Guilt is part of being human, Harry, but you should not dwell on it. Learn from it so that such an occurrence need not happen again."

"So what are you saying? I'm not capable of doing what Voldemort has done?" Harry asked and Giles recognized his nephew's fear.

"Everyone has a little darkness inside of them, Harry. It's whether they allow that darkness to rule them that causes humans to become monsters. Right now, I see a young man who has a choice before him. You have a taste of Voldemort's power, you two were bound when he attempted to kill you, there is no reason, except one, that you shouldn't become as he did."

Harry leaned forward and inched closer to Giles. "What is it?"

"You. It comes down to you, Harry. A weaker person, may decide to step to Voldemort's side, even overpower him, in his attempt to control the future. Do you want that? Or do you choose another path, a more difficult path?" Giles explained. "Right now, you've always chosen with the goodness in your heart. That's what stopped you from destroying Sirius' killer. You allow that goodness to continue and you have nothing to fear."

Harry finally locked glances with him and Giles was relieved to see the type of determination in his eyes that he'd seen in Buffy's before she'd face the Master. He was scared, but he would do what was necessary. "I don't ever want to become like him."

"Good," Giles said, with a lightened smile. "Let's get inside. I've got a lot of work to do before we bury the Master's bones."

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Buffy lay in her bed, reading the newest teen magazine. Her mother had absolutely refused to let her do anything strenuous and had been forcing chicken soup down her all day. At first the Slayer had protested but after her pleas to visit Xander and Willow had fallen upon deaf ears, she'd given up. If she were to be honest with herself she was actually thankful for the respite and exploited her mother's hovering attitude to its fullest extent.

If only her mind could find the same sort of relief that her body was experiencing. Since waking up she had jumped at the slightest sound, her eyes examining every corner. One she had ventured to take a nap at let herself wind down, behind darkened eyelids all she could see was the Master's bat face leering at her. Needless to say, she hadn't gotten the sleep.

She was reading the latest on Brad Pitt when a noise at her window caused her to jump from her bed, pulling the short knife that she kept under her pillow in one fluid motion. A hand grabbed her wrist as it came down and she was comforted by the cold fleshy touch.

"Angel," she breathed. "God, did you ever hear of coming through the front door?"

A sly smile graced his beautiful features. "I thought it be a little odd for your history tutor to show up asking to see you during the summer."

"Good point," Buffy said, running a hand through her hair to make sure it hadn't gotten too ratty in her long day of lounging. "So what brings you by? I thought you working through Giles now."

"I just wanted to make sure that you were okay," Angel muttered. "You know, after the other night."

Buffy forced a smile. "We won, the bad guy died, remember. Life is a bunch of roses."

"Roses can have thorns," Angel countered, leaning against the window pane. Did he have to look so protective and...gorgeous?

"I'm thornless," Buffy said with a happy shrug. "It's good to see you Angel, but I'm really tired and you really shouldn't be here." But she wanted him to stay, wanted him to chase away the memory of that triumphant, ugly face.

Angel looked down at his hands. "No, I guess I shouldn't." He hunched down as though to go back through the window, but then paused. "I've missed you, missed seeing you."

Buffy turned around, unable to look at his face and continue with the stoic facade she'd been wearing like a costume mask. She had missed him too. It had felt good, knowing that there was someone watching her back, someone other then Giles to guide her to the bad guys. And what would it cost her to admit that? They had both agreed that they couldn't see each other, but did that mean they couldn't tell each other anything? Of course, that's exactly what it meant, but Buffy had never been one to follow the rules.

Rolling around she said, "I missed you too." But there was no one there to hear it any longer.