Title: First Impressions, Second Chances (7/?)

Author: Sonya

Rating: R

Disclaimer: Anything you recognize, I don't own. Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all associated characters, settings, etc., belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, UPN, etc. Harry Potter and all associated characters, setting, props, etc., belong to J.K. Rowling, Scholastic Inc., etc. No copyright infringement is intended, so please don't sue - all you'll get is a really bratty bird and some really spoiled rats.

Spoilers: Up to 'Wrecked' in the Buffyverse, up to "Goblet of Fire" in the Potterverse.

Pairings: Willow/Snape, Hermione/Viktor Krum, Draco/Ginny, Fred/Angelina. Other 'ships to be decided.

Summary: Willow chats with Dumbledore, we get to know Narcissa Malfoy, Snape gets to know Willow (no, not like that! gutter-brain!)

* * *

"Ah, Mr. Weasley!" called a resonant voice from down the center hall of the hospital wing. Both Willow and the redheaded boy turned.

Willow blinked. And blinked again.

Nope, don't think I'm hallucinating.

Which means there's really a man in a pointed wizard's hat and long red robes with a long silver beard walking towards me. I think the wizards-and-witches dressing-like-they-stepped-out-of-children's-books thing is gonna take some more getting used to . .

"And I see our guest has awoken," the elderly wizard turned to Willow, giving her a very grandfatherly smile, before turning back to the boy. "I thought I might find you here. And how is Miss Johnson?"

"I think she's the same, Sir," the boy's eyes kept darting towards the exits.

"Yes, well, I suppose that's better than being worse," Dumbledore said philosophically. "Professor McGonagall has asked me to convey to you that the next time you wish to visit Miss Johnson, it might be more practical for you to simply ask her for a pass than to have your brother blow up the common room fireplace. It's far less messy and would save you both the trouble of having to attend detention."

There was a hint of humor in the old man's eyes, and the boy grinned in a very unapologetic way.

"Yes, Headmaster, sir," he agreed. "Very sorry about the mess, sir." He didn't look the least bit sorry.

"Yes, well, it's been a messy sort of weekend," the older wizard said dismissively. "Now, if I could ask you a favor, before you return to your common room to join your brother in scrubbing the walls down?" The teenager made a face.

"Sure thing, Headmaster," he answered. "Don't suppose it'd take a while, would it?"

"If you could fetch Professor Snape here, it would be most helpful."

The boy's face screwed up in obvious horror and turned an interesting shade of green.

"Couldn't I just have another detention?" he asked, and Willow thought he was only half-joking.

"No," the older wizard said flatly.

"Alright," the boy said. The old man raised an eyebrow. "I mean, yes Sir." The boy slouched off towards a doorway.

"Oh, and Mr. Weasley?" the Headmaster called after him. "Please do come and visit Miss Johnson again as soon as you can." The boy's grim expression lightened a little, and he nodded before leaving.

"And now," the eldlerly wizard turned to Willow, "I must ask you to forgive me for not introducing myself. Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry." He held out a slender, wrinkled hand; despite its appearance of extreme age, it did not shake even slightly.

"Pleased to meet you," Willow responded pleasantly, trying not to sound too dazed. Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry? There are schools that teach magic? Like, real schools with Headmasters and stuff? "Willow Rosenberg, ah, of Sunnydale. No particular title." She shimmed up into a sitting position as Dumbledore took out his wand and - she tried not to gape - literally *drew* a plush armchair next to her bed.

"Sunnydale!" he exclaimed, settling down into the apparently very sold, well-cushioned chair.

"You've heard of it?" Willow asked.

"La Boca del Infierno," Dumbledore answered. "Or in English, the Hellmouth. Fascinating place. I haven't been there in .. oh, it must be 70 years now."

Something about that frame of time was tickling Willow's memory, but she let it go.

"I wonder if it's changed," Dumbledore said in an almost fond way. His tone gave her a slight pang of homesickness, and she found herself instinctually liking the old man.

"Probably not," Willow shrugged. "Lots of vampires, demons, various evil forces trying to end the world. Lots of clueless people living there. Oh, there's a Slayer - was there a Slayer when you were there?"

"No, no Slayer," Dumbledore said, almost wistfully. "I believe the Slayer of that time was quite busy in Austria, poor girl. I've heard some of the most amazing things about your Slayer, though - that she's come back from the dead? Twice?"

Willow's stomach lurched. Does he know?

"Yep, that'd be Buffy," she said, trying to keep her tone light and conversational. "Can't keep her down even if ya bury her."

"Fascinating," the older man said again, and Willow got the distinct and uncomfortable impression he knew a great deal more than he was saying.

"If you don't mind my asking," Willow tried to carefully steer the conversation towards less perilous ground, "Where exactly am I? I mean, are we? I wasn't real clear on where Hogsmeade was even, and now we're not there, and I don't know if here is near to there, though there's the whole 'Hog' theme -"

"You are in Scotland," Dumbledore cut off her babbling in a gentle tone, "And not more than an hour's walk from Hogsmeade."

"Ah," Willow said. "Okay. This is really a magic school?" she blurted before she thought better of it.

Way to sound like a tourist. Real smooth.

"Oh yes," the old man nodded, looking as if he were fighting a smile. "One of several in Europe - and one of the very best in the world, if you'll forgive me saying so myself. There are two such schools in the United States - in Roswell, New Mexico and Roanoke, Virginia, I believe."

Roswell? Holy crap does that explain a lot of things . .

"You never received a letter from either institution?" Dumbledore inquired, tilting his head.

"No," Willow shook her head. "Should I have?"

"I'd say so, yes," he answered, thoughtfully. "Perhaps something to do with the Hellmouth interferes with the detection of magical potential in its vicinity. Absolutely fascinating thing, the Hellmouth. I've thought of retiring there, you know."

"Uh-okay," Willow answered, in a tone that she hoped didn't convey her doubts as to his sanity.

And, I should have gotten a letter.

I could have gone to a real school to learn real magic. Wow. Oh wow. I don't know that I even want to consider the what-ifs there . . I think my head might explode . .

"I took the liberty of having your belongings transferred here from the Three Broomsticks," Dumbledore went on. "Your suitcase is currently in my office; I felt it was best not to leave such a large quantity of Muggle currency here in the hospital with you unconscious and unable to attend it. Of course, many of the students wouldn't even recognize Muggle bills, never mind American dollars, but .. a few might, and while I trust my children in the larger things, I've found over the years that in the smaller things . . it is sometimes best not to offer too much temptation."

"Oh," Willow responded to this rambling speech. "Wait .. how'd you know -"

"Your suitcase was laying open, back at your room at the inn," Dumbledore supplied.

"Ah," Willow responded, and blushed. "Sorry, I didn't mean to imply -"

"Oh, feel free to imply," he waved away her apology. "After all, you are a stranger in a strange place, and I confess I'd think a little less of you if you weren't a just a bit suspicious."

Willow found she had nothing to say to that.

"Of course, your belongings will be returned to you instantly upon request, now that you've awoken," Dumbledore assured her. "Or, if you decide to stay with us, I can have them transferred to your rooms."

"Stay with you?" Willow repeated, feeling as if she must have missed something. Or a few somethings.

"Oh dear," the kindly-looking old wizard frowned. "Haven't I mentioned? I'd like to offer you a job."

And to that a resounding *huh*?

"A job," Willow mimicked tonelessly, and silently congratulated herself that she'd managed to keep her voice from squeaking.

"Yes, a teaching position," Dumbledore affirmed. "And perhaps some supervision of students outside the classrooms, if that's not too much trouble."

Willow blinked.

"What would I teach?" she asked incredulously after a moment's stunned pause. "And - you do know I don't have any kind of degree, don't you? Or certification? Or clue about formalized teaching of magic?"

"Severus tells me you were quite competent back at the Three Broomsticks, not withstanding your lack of formal education," Dumbledore argued gently. "And you did survive life on a Hellmouth for many years. I'm sure there's something in your experiences that would be of benefit to our students."

"Severus?"

"A tallish, dark-haired gentleman with a rather prominent nose."

"Oh, him!" Willow nodded in recognition. "Didn't really get names, with all the panicking and people having fits and trying to die."

"That is most distracting," Dumbledore agreed calmly, and Willow thought she saw a slight twinkle in his eye.

"But anyway," Willow went on, reluctantly but firmly. "Even if you're more of a skills-orientated kinda place than a fancy-degrees-on-the-wall sort of institution . . I still couldn't. I really shouldn't . . I shouldn't be teaching anybody. Especially not children. And, not magic. Me and magic and impressionable young minds is just a really huge bad idea. On the potential disaster scale of one to ten, it's about a twelve."

And I think that was nicely clear and concise without divulging too much information of the personal and humiliating sort.

"Ah," Dumbledore said in a knowing way. "You would be referring to your previous magic abuse."

Willow gaped. Okay, so much for the lack of humiliation.

But how . . huh . . okay, this is gonna call for whimpering very shortly . . annoying omniscient British guys . .

"You know . . " she let it trail off, unable to think of a non-incriminating way to end the question. After all, I don't really know WHAT he knows. He could be talking about the whole no-wand thing. He might know nothing. And I'm so onto him and his leading comments! Been around the block a few times, thank you, not going to be giving myself away that easy!

Except, don't you want to give yourself away? There's the whole matter of declining a teaching job.

Which sucks, big time. I get offered a job teaching magic in Scotland, and I have to turn it down.

I believe this would be the law of three-fold returns taking a nice big bite out of my ass . .

"I know none of the particulars," Dumbledore said placatingly. "What I do know, I know because you collapsed showing clear signs of magic .. I believe the Muggle phrase is 'overdose'. It's not uncommon when one tries to use magic properly after having had a great deal of magical energy circulated pointlessly through their body. Fortunately, the effect is as temporary as it is unpleasant - assuming one does not show the poor judgement to repeat the ill use of magic that started the whole mess."

He said all of this in a carefully neutral tone, but Willow felt herself flushing despite the lack of judgement from the older wizard.

Ah. Yeah, that'd make sense. Explains Rack's need to 'take a little tour'. Summoning of excess magic, check. Lack of any direction for the magic, check. Hallucinations and other sundry symptoms of having chicken fried brain cells, check. Yeah, that sounds pretty much like what I had done to me.

One rank, arrogant amateur, check.

I really thought I was smarter than to let some street hustler do things to me that I didn't even understand . . of course, I also thought I was a better person than would alter Tara's mind . . or break Dawnie's arm . .

"That's not all. I've done worse," Willow confessed miserably. "Really, you don't want me around kids. I don't want me around kids."

"Then why are you here?" Dumbledore asked.

"What?" Willow frowned, confused again.

"I had, as you know, a brief glance at your luggage," the older wizard explained, "and I know you'd taken your room at the Three Broomsticks just that morning, at rather an odd hour. You'll have to forgive an intrusive observation, but by all accounts, it appears you've been running away."

"Well, okay, yeah," Willow admitted. "But I wasn't running to here. I mean, I didn't think last night 'gee, I'm a danger to myself and others, so I ought to get out of here and go teach magic at a fancy prep school.'"

"So where were you running to?" Dumbledore pressed, his tone polite but with a hint of a challenge.

"I hadn't really gotten to that part yet," Willow answered defensively. I was going to the place where people wear pointy witches' hats.

I was going somewhere that I could be somebody else.

"So how do you know you weren't running here?" he asked, quirking a wizened eyebrow at her speculatively.

"Because I wasn't," Willow insisted. "I didn't mean to be here, or in the middle of all this .. whatever this is, which incidentally, I'd really like to know at some point. Because so far as I know, there's just the one Hellmouth, and I just left it way back across an ocean - and that whole snake incident was totally Hellmouth stuff. But that wasn't really the point I was making -"

"Life rarely puts us where we mean to be," Dumbledore interrupted, "but it does tend to put us where we're meant to be."

"I wasn't meant to be here," Willow argued, growing more than a little irate. Not in the mood for philosophical mumbo-jumbo just now. "I'm here because I did a really crappy thing to my friend's little sister, okay? I hurt a kid. Well, teenager, but still. I did bad stuff. No meant-to-be involved; just me screwing up big-time and needing to get gone."

"Mr. and Mrs. Creevey disagree with you," Dumbledore commented mildly.

"Mr. and Mrs. who?" Willow demanded in exasperation.

"Creevey," Dumbledore repeated. "Very pleasant people. Muggles. They were here earlier to visit their sons, and I'm pleased to say they decided to allow them to remain at school. I believe you've met Colin, their eldest. You're also the reason they still have their youngest, Dennis. They asked me specifically to relay to you, when you woke, that they're convinced God sent you here for just that purpose, and that they feel you must be a greatly blessed sort of person."

"But - I'm not -" Willow protested.

"I have similar well-wishes from a Ms. Clearwater, who's daughter Cassandra you treated - though her extolling of your virtues has a more Neo-Pagan than Anglican flare to it. Also from Mrs. Weasley, who's son Fred you met just now - none of her children were injured, but apparently they were all quite enthusiastic about you, and she has a rather understandable tendency towards warm feelings for young people with red hair. I wouldn't be at all surprised if you receive a monogrammed sweater this holiday."

"But -" Willow tried to interject, feeling something very like panic creeping over her. But these people can't think that about me . . I'm not this big deal special person . . I did -

"But you have done some very dreadful things," Dumbledore nodded, speaking her thoughts aloud. "Do not think, Miss Rosenberg, that I cannot or do not appreciate the severity of your past errors." His tone darkened considerably, and eyes that had twinkled took on the hard gleam of steel. "I may not know precisely what you've done, nor am I asking, but rest assured I have an excellent imagination."

Willow swallowed as the older wizard let her appreciate the full force of his gaze.

He's screwing with my head. I know that. Knowing isn't helping.

This guy's got power. And not my kinda maybe-it-works-maybe-it-blows-up power.

It feels like he's looking right through my skin. Like he just knows things.

"You would not be here, now, Miss Rosenberg, if I felt you were in any way a threat to the students of this school," Dumbledore went on, in that same steely, measured tone. "If I have made an error in judgement, and you become at some later time a threat to this school or its children, you will not remain here. If you cannot trust your own self-control, Miss Rosenberg, perhaps it would be a comfort to you to know that there are others here who are quite capable of preventing you from losing control too badly."

'Cause that's *so* comforting.

What's that hissing sound? Oh yeah, I think that's the air escaping as my ego deflates.

"Okay," Willow squeaked meekly.

"You have a great deal of raw power," Dumbledore said, and there was only the faintest hint of a compliment in his voice; it was simply the statement of a fact. "Also an astonishing degree of natural skill for one so little trained. I am eternally grateful for both, as you have prevented -" he paused a moment, and his tone softened ever so slightly - "you have prevented an error of mine from proving tragic. Put simply, I am in your debt, Miss Rosenburg."

"Is that why the job-offer?" Willow asked cautiously, feeling almost dizzy at all the twists and bends the conversation was taking.

"Not at all," Dumbledore shook his head. "I have been speaking of why you are here and why you will be permitted to remain here. Severus believes you can be trusted, which is a rare thing. I trust him, and I happen to also agree with him. And if we have both been hoodwinked -" here he gave her a level stare that said clearly it would be best for her if he never had reasons to suspect that - "well, power and a certain aptitude aren't everything."

I think I miss Cordy's version of bluntness. At least she was just rude. Being politely told that you're being trusted because the one doing the trusting could kick your ass if need be .. it's just weird.

And also, note to self; do not ever mention that you took on a god.

"I've offered you a teaching position because, as I've said," Dumbledore answered, "I believe you have useful things to teach."

"But if I've just got power and beginner's luck -"

"I never said that was *all* you had," Dumbledore interrupted, arching an eyebrow.

"So what *do* you want me to teach?" she asked.

"Are you agreeing to take the position?" he pressed.

"I don't even know if I'm qualified, if you won't tell me what it is!" Willow exclaimed impatiently, and then felt immediately guilty. The guy's giving you a chance, for no good reason whatsoever, and you're snapping at him; way to be a bitch.

"I expect you'll need to create your own curriculum," he said, with a shrug. "I'd advise you to begin by attending the other professors' classes, getting an idea for how things are done here. Something's bound to occur to you."

"So . . you want me to teach here . . but you don't know what you want me to teach?" Willow asked incredulously.

"Would you accept the position on those terms?" Dumbledore asked, and she got the distinct impression the question was a test. "It's an offer many of my professors would give a great deal for; the chance to teach what you think is worth learning."

"A very great deal," said a dry, faintly amused-sounding voice.

* * *

A rush of air that fluttered the pages of her magazine - The Sophisticated Sorceress - told Narcissa Malfoy that something had been flung down on the desk in front of her. She'd recognized Lucius' footsteps coming into the room, but he hadn't acknowledged her, and so she hadn't acknowledged him either. It was one of her small rebellions, made somewhat less satisfying by the suspicion that her husband had no idea he was being snubbed. He'd commented more than once on her air-headedness, her apparent inability to take in what was going on around her.

Very slowly and deliberately, she closed her magazine, picked up her glass of wine and sipped, replaced the glass on the desk. Then she glanced up at the publication that he been tossed down before her.

It was the Daily Prophet, and the cover story blared 'DEATH EATERS ATTACK HOGWARTS STUDENTS!" in letters that blinked from black-on-white to white-on-black and back again. And who came up with *that* idea? I'm glad I have no interest in the article, I'd give myself a migraine trying to read with the stupid paper *blinking* at me.

The photo above the headache-inducing headline showed the Dark Mark above the Hogsmeade skyline, made slightly hazy by falling snow.

"The Dark Lord approves of all this press?" she commented neutrally. "Such a public thing to do."

Lucius made a disgusted noise over her shoulder.

"You *would* miss the point completely," he sneered, reaching around her to jab a finger at the picture. "Look at that! Draco did that!"

"Ah," Narcissa nodded, accepting his correction without comment. She peered more closely at the picture, using the page to hide the angry flush on her pale cheeks. Insufferable bastard. "It looks well-cast. Very distinct, even through the snow."

"Very impressive for a boy who's a 'mere child' and 'much too young', wouldn't you say?" Lucius snapped at her, and then turned to stalk out of the room, leaving her alone again.

She let out a tense breath.

The Dark Mark sneered at her; she had the absurd temptation to up-end her glass of wine over it. Instead she swallowed the blood-red liquid in one long gulp. It burnt faintly at the back of her throat, but not nearly enough to be satisfying.

She hadn't felt the need for something *much* stronger than wine so keenly in years. Not since I knew I was carrying Draco, I think.

My boy. My precious, fair-haired boy.

My one and only good reason not to let it just go a little too far one night . . crank up just a little too much, let it melt my brain and just float away . .

With pale, elegant fingers she carefully turned the Daily Prophet over, hiding the picture. It was much easier to remember that Lucius was devilishly observant, and likely to notice if she shredded the printed evidence of their son's 'triumph', without the Dark Mark leering up at her.

Leering at me. All any of them ever did, wasn't it? Leer at me.

Oh, not ever after I married Lucius, certainly. Couldn't leer at Malfoy's wife, could you? Very bad form, even if you've been banging her since 5th year. You and everybody else.

And I thought I'd caught such a prize . . wealthy, powerful, spine-tinglingly handsome, the Dark Lord's favored fair-haired boy . .

Of course, I also thought they all actually liked me. Didn't do anything every man there didn't do, at all the revels.

But it's not the same. Can't ever be the same. Gods, but what an idiot I was.

The back page of the paper advertised All-New, Improved Temperature-Stabilizing Cauldrons. Never Ruin a Potion Again Because of Uneven Heating! Every House Needs One!

The temptation to set the damned thing ablaze was growing again. She tucked the paper into a drawer.

A subtle scurrying sound caught her attention, and she turned quickly to the door.

A tiny gray mouse was creeping across the room. It stopped in the middle of the plush carpet, stood on its hind legs, and made a movement that was very like a bow.

Heart in her throat, Narcissa retrieved her wand from the desk and murmured a ward for the door, the very subtlest ward she knew. Just walk past. Don't notice me, don't look at me, there's nothing you care about in here.

"Yes?" she inquired of the mouse.

It straightened, and then seemed to grow taller. It rippled, form shifting. In moments a small, slender, very plain young woman stood where the mouse had been. Her hair was the same indistinct gray-brown as the mouse's fur, her eyes as narrow and shrewd.

"Lady," she said in a high, whispery voice, and bowed. Narcissa nodded, at her most regal.

"I trust you managed to follow him?" Narcissa asked.

"Yes, Lady," the woman answered in that same twitchy, breathy voice.

"And?" Narcissa demanded, her voice taking on an impatient edge. Her pulse was still hammering unpleasantly, and she had to clench her fists so hard her elegant nails dug into her palms to keep herself from fidgeting. It wouldn't do to fidget before her inferiors, those in whom she needed to instill absolute respect.

Gods, just a little . . just a few moments, just to take the edge off . . what I wouldn't give . .

But not Draco. I wouldn't give my son. Must stay calm. Must stay in control.

"Young Master Malfoy did indeed produce the Dark Mark, Lady," the mousy woman reported, and her voice sounded even more anxious than usual. "He avoided detection while . . while doing so. Of course, it was appropriately timed. It caused qu-quite a good bit of panic in the streets, Lady."

"So he will have passed," Narcissa said neutrally. Her hands clenched so hard she felt the sting of breaking skin, the warm trickle of blood down her wrist. That's good then, good, good, he won't be in danger . . they'll be pleased with him . . oh gods he's too young, it's all too uncertain now, he won't understand it's not a game, he won't understand, like I didn't understand . . but at least for now he's safe . . But then she saw how the plain woman's face was twitching, her lips pressed together as if she seemed on the verge of speech, but uncertain what the consequences might be.

"There's something else," she said flatly.

"Yes, Lady," the woman squeaked. And then was silent once more.

"*Well*?" Narcissa snapped, and winced internally at the petulant whine in her voice.

"You know I hold you and the young Master in utmost respect, Lady," the animagus all but whimpered.

"Then answer my question!"

"H-he was sick, Lady," the woman said quietly.

"Draco's ill?" Narcissa repeated, puzzled. Not that I want him to be ill, but if he's caught cold, I'm sure it's nothing they can't handle at Hogwarts.

"N-no, Lady," the woman said almost inaudibly, seeming to shrink in on herself; the woman, like the creature who's form she took, seemed almost able to contract her body down to non-existence. "H-he sicked up, Lady. After he shot up the Mark. He looked r-right pleased with himself, a moment, and t-then all the sc-screaming started, and he l-looked like somebody kicked him r-right in the gut, L-lady, went all p-pale and was sick. And t-then -" The woman paused, swallowing hard.

"Go on," Narcissa whispered harshly, feeling like she wouldn't be able to breath until the tale was finished. All the pieces. Must have all the pieces, must think, must be calm.

"S-someone found him, Lady," the woman squeaked out. "A g-girl. N-no one of your acquaintance, L-lady, r-ratty old r-robe, and r-red hair. S-she kicked h-him -" Narcissa drew in a swift breath, and the woman flinched, but continued - "a-and he l-laughed, L-lady. Like h-he'd gone m-m-mad, L-lady."

"What then?" Narcissa hissed, wracking her brain for remembrance of red-haired girls, but the only red-heads who came to mind were the Weasleys, personal bane of her husband's existence.

Do they have a daughter?

Can't remember.

Must think, must know these things, must pay fucking attention you stupid little whore how can you not know if the Weasleys have a girl?

"T-they talked, L-lady. I d-didn't hear everyt-thing, L-lady, but he seemed f-familiar w-with her. S-she grabbed his w-wand, but then she g-gave it b-back."

"A lover?" Narcissa asked. Could Draco have a lover? He's so young . . older than I was, but it's different, very different for a boy.

"I c-couldn't s-say, Lady," the mousy woman answered. Narcissa nodded, mind buzzing with a thousand possibilities, and each of them with a sting in the tail.

He got sick. Sick at people screaming.

And the girl - a Weasley? A lover? Good lord, a lover who's a Weasley? No, he wouldn't be so foolish . . I don't think . . but he's so young, and Merlin knows I was stupid about things like that . . so stupid, so very stupid and weak and I never liked the screaming and the blood either, always made sure I was gone by then, far gone, drunk or cranked up or something and just there for the banging afterwards, for the jubilation on their faces, you're such a sport Cissy, wish they'd made ten of you, 'spose you're gonna go get yourself hitched on us one of these days, aren't you, girl like you? Won't you miss this, Cissy, won't you miss me?

But they didn't miss me. Not one. Well, maybe Severus, but that hardly counts, does it?

Can't go missing Malfoy's wife, probably best he forgets what things were like before, probably best not to even look at her . .

Don't look, don't see the bruises, and if she's twitching, well, you know Cissy, likes to get cranked up, such a sport Cissy was, and not likely Malfoy'd use the Crutiatus on his own wife, is it?

"L-lady?" said a hesitant, twitchy, breathy voice, interrupting the downward spiral of her thoughts.

"Go," she waved dismissively with the hand that wasn't bleeding. "You did well. Keep following him. Report anything interesting."

"Yes, Lady," the woman said in obvious relief. There was a faint whooshing noise of displaced air, and then she was a mouse again, scurrying back out the door, leaving Narcissa to her memories.

And the only thing, the one, single, solitary thing that came of it that was worth anything at all was my boy. Draco, my little dragon. My fair-haired baby boy.

Who gets sick when people scream.

I was always so happy he wasn't like his father .. oh, he had a mean streak, like any little boy, they all live for pulling wings off flies . . but he wasn't Lucius. He never really thrived on it.

They'll eat him alive.

Hands still fisted, palm still bleeding, fighting the nearly desperate need for a fix, for something, anything to still the clambering of her pulse and the screaming panic in her brain, Narcissa felt something somewhere in her gut clench.

It was a strange feeling. A bit terrifying. It made her rather painfully aware that she wasn't young anymore. But it wouldn't be denied, this feeling that was a tightening of every muscle in her body and a dropping feeling in her stomach and an image in her mind of a bright-haired boy tugging her sleeve and begging her to watch him on his new broomstick, look at me Mum, look, I can fly - and the feeling coalesced into the single most coherent, clearest, sharpest thought of her adult life.

Well, they can't have him.

* * *

" - and then Buffy says, 'It's in about nine hours, moron!'" And stakes him." This statement was accompanied by a rather vicious-looking stabbing motion with one hand. The little redheaded witch grinned up at him, doing some disconcertingly adorable thing that pressed her tongue against her teeth as she smiled. "So, no escaped Master, no open Hellmouth. Score one for the Scoobies, Hellmouth, zero. Okay, so the next time, it was the Master again - that vamp was one uber-pain-in-the-ass. And you know, 'uber' is all appropriate 'cause he was originally German, I think. Maybe he read too much Nietzsche, and that's where the whole delusions of grandeur thing came from. Though," and she frowned, pursing her lips, "I think he kinda pre-dated Nietzsche."

She babbles.

Sweet Merlin, she babbles about Hellmouths and Nietzsche.

And she's going to be here indefinitely. Teaching .. something.

I could happily strangle Dumbledore for just casually handing her an opportunity I'd kill for . . of course, I don't suppose she would kill for it, or for much else, and that's likely why she got it.

And he gave her rooms right next to the Slytherin dormitories. Odd. I would have expected him to store her somewhere near Gryffindor.

"So anyway," and her American accent drew the word out in a way that Severus Snape was positive he would have found most irritating coming from any other set of lips, "Next time, there was this whole big prophecy, though me and Xander didn't know about that until after, because Giles and Angel are both big buttheads about stuff like that. I don't blame Buffy for not telling 'cause she was, you know, all traumatized. Oh, 'cause the prophecy said she'd die! I didn't say that yet. So, hence, the traumatized Slayer - so she knew she was gonna die and she just marched right down there anyway, which I think may have been sorta a little my fault because there was a vampire attack at the school and I found bodies and I wigged out just a little. I think me wigging got her all kinds of pissed off. So she just marched on down there, and there was supposed to be this school dance so she had this really cool white dress on, and - you're sure I'm not so boring you wanna die?"

With some effort he beat down the impulse to laugh out loud at her choice of words.

"Not at all," he assured her, gesturing for her to precede him down a staircase. She had paused, attention fixed to the opposite wall, gaping. He followed her gaze, and saw that the subjects of one of the foxhunting scenes had spotted their favorite prey in a wooded landscape and were now chasing the hapless creature across several very old portraits, much to the very vocal annoyance of their subjects. The faint bellowing of horns, yelping of hounds and clomping of hooves, underscored by cursing in medieval French and Old English, was echoing down the stairwell.

A moment later he spotted the likely instigator; Peeves the Poltergeist was flying alongside the hunting party as it galloped from painting to painting, cheering them on.

"Peeves!" Snape bellowed. The poltergeist turned in midair, the canvas-bound commotion he'd caused instantly forgotten as he snapped to mock attention. Then he noticed Willow, and shot right at her.

She gave a small yelp, but stood her ground, and Peeves stopped with his ethereal face a bare inch from her nose. Then he rotated in midair so he was staring at her upside-down.

"Uh, hi," Willow squeaked.

"Oooh, it's an ickle American girl!" the poltergeist exclaimed, and then he shot down through the staircase just under Willow's feet, blaring out a rather obscene version of "Yankee Doodle Dandy", including a reference to brightly-colored knickers that had the redheaded witch squeaking and jerking her skirt tightly around her legs. Snape wondered idly how on earth the blasted thing had learned an American song than post-dated his earthly existence by several centuries.

"I'll be informing the Bloody Baron of this, Peeves!" Snape leaned over the railing and hollered after the swiftly retreating apparition; he vanished into a dungeon wall several floors below them, leaving only the dissipating echo of his off-key serenade.

"In my day -" began one of the more recent portraits, an aristocratic lady with a rather shrill voice, - "a *poltergeist* would *never* -"

"Oh, shut up!" Snape snapped at the oil painting.

"Well, I *never*!" the shrill aristocrat huffed, grabbed up her wide skirts, and stalked off, leaving behind a canvas showing an empty sitting room.

"That was interesting," Willow commented in slightly faint voice.

"He's harmless," Snape reassured her, and then wondered uncomfortably when he'd last reassured anyone about anything. "Just -" ignore him, he'd been about the finish, but was interrupted.

"Was that Peeves?!" demanded an irate voice from a staircase above them; the rather unpleasant face of Argus Filch leaned over the railing, eyes alight with fanatical zeal.

"He went that way," Snape said shortly, pointing downward.

"Dumbledore'll hear of this," the old groundskeeper muttered as he clattered noisily past them, nodding brief thanks to Snape. "Some of the paintings very upset about this, complaining to the old Headmasters they'll be, he'll have to do something about it, this time he'll just have to -" The muttering faded into incomprehensibility as Filch hurried further down towards the dungeons and out of their hearing.

A moment later Mrs. Norris streaked past them with an irate yowl.

"Okay," Willow commented, in a tone that suggested she was having some difficulty processing the situation. "Okay, that was also interesting."

"The amusement of it wears off quickly, I assure you," Snape commented dryly.

"I could see that," she nodded agreement. "The - ghost thing - went through the wall - can he get into, uh, private rooms?"

"Your rooms will be warded against unwelcome intrusions," he answered.

"Oh good," she sighed in relief. "He was kinda squicky. Did I look like I thought he was kinda squicky?" she gave him a concerned frown. "'Cause he seemed like the type who'd take that as an open invitation to tease and torment. I wasn't obviously squicked, was I?"

"Not particularly," he answered. *Squicked*?

Babbles about Nietzsche and Hellmouths. Psychoanalyzes poltergeists. Uses words not actually part of any spoken language. Has obvious difficulties with self-confidence.

Catches fascinating pale lower lip between teeth when nervous, he observed, riveted by her doing that very thing.

"Do I have something on my face?" she asked, reaching up to rub at her obnoxiously pert little nose.

"No," he snapped, irritated at himself. Wanting to understand her is one thing. Staring at her lips . . no. "Your rooms are still several floors down." He gestured again, rather curtly, for her to precede him. If she noticed his lack of courtesy, she didn't comment.

"Okay, so getting back to the Hellmouth - so Buffy marches on down there to face the Master and -" with a rumbling, grinding sound of stone on stone, the staircase began to shift beneath their feet "- and he grabs her and holy crap the stairs are moving!" she finished in a squeal. She lurched slightly forward, and he reached out a hand to steady her.

Her shoulder was warm, muscles tense beneath the practically non-existent film of her muggle shirt. The ends of her hair brushed the tops of his fingers as she swayed, trying to get her balance. He snatched his hand back as if burned the moment she caught hold of the railing.

"They do that," he commented tonelessly.

"That's . . interesting," she squeaked.

He couldn't help it. He laughed.

TBC . . .